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stigator_ in 1859, and then for the _National
Reformer_. In the latter his writings ultimately extended over a period
of fifteen years, commencing in 1860, and ending in the summer of
1875. His contributions range from the smallest review notice of some
pamphlets written by Frederic Harrison, to his great and remarkable
poem of "The City of Dreadful Night." Those who think most highly of
this wonderful work admit that there was no other publisher in London
who would have published it, but at the same time they give no credit
to my father for discerning genius to which every one else was then
blind; on the contrary, they join in the suggestion that Mr Thomson
was in some way ill-used by Mr Bradlaugh, although _how_ they do not
deign to tell. Most of "B. V.'s" writings to the _National Reformer_
were done in the years 1865, 1866, 1867, the first half of 1868, and
second half of 1869, 1870, 1871, 1874, and the early months of 1875. In
the other years his contributions were more scattered, but no year is
entirely without.

While he lived with us at Sunderland Villa, Mr Thomson was just one
of the family, sharing our home life in every particular. He was a
favourite with us all; my father loved him with a love that had to
bear many a strain, and we children simply adored him. Sometimes in
the evenings he, with my mother for a partner, my father with Miss
Lacey (a frequent inmate of our house), would form a jovial quartet
at whist; and many were the jokes and great the fun on these whist
evenings. On Sundays, if my father were at home, he and Mr Thomson
would take us children and Bruin for a walk over the Tottenham Marshes
to give Bruin a swim in the Lea; or if my father were away lecturing,
as was too frequently the case, then Mr Thomson would take us for a
long ramble to Edmonton to see Charles Lamb's grave, or maybe across
the fields to Chingford. In the winter time, when the exigencies of
the weather kept us indoors, he would devote his Sunday afternoons to
us, and tell us the most enchanting fairy tales it was ever the lot of
children to listen to. One snowy night my father and he came to fetch
my sister and me home from a Christmas party. They had to carry us,
for the snow was deep. They took us out of the house with due regard to
propriety; but they had not got far before they were all too conscious
of the weight of their respective burdens, so they set us down in a
fairly clear spot, and then readjusted us "pick-a-back." There was much
joking over our weight, and we heartily joined in the laugh and enjoyed
the jests at our expense, and over and above all the notion of being
aided and abetted by our elders in doing something so shocking as a
"pick-a-back" ride through the streets. These were delightful, happy
times to us at least, and, in spite of all his cares, not unhappy for
my father. He had youth and health and hope and courage, a friend he
loved, and children he was ever good to. I feel indeed as though my pen
must linger over these small trifles, over these merry moods and happy
moments, and I am loth to put them aside for sadder, weightier matters.

Or the two would sit in my father's little "den" or study, and smoke.
Mr Bradlaugh smoked a great deal at this time, and "B. V." was an
inveterate smoker; the one had his cigar, and the other his pipe; and
while the smoke slowly mounted up and by degrees so filled the room
that they could scarce see each other's faces across the table, they
would talk philosophy, politics, or literature. I can see them now, in
some ways a strangely assorted pair, as they sat in that little room
lined with books; at the far side of the table the poet and dreamer,
with his head thrown back and with the stem of his pipe never far from
his lips, his face almost lost in the blue clouds gently and lazily
curling upwards; and here, near the fireplace, my father, essentially a
man to whom to think, to plan, was to _do_, sitting in careless comfort
in his big uncushioned oaken chair, now taking frequent strong draws at
his cigar, transforming the dull ash into a vigorous point of light,
and again laying it aside to die into dull ash once more, whilst he
argued a point or drew himself up to write. How often and how vividly
that once familiar scene rises before my closed eyes! Of course, whilst
with us, Mr Thomson had the use of my father's little library as his
own, and many of the books still bear the traces of his reading in the
pencilled notes.

During the Carlist War, in 1873, Mr Bradlaugh obtained for his friend
an appointment to go to Spain as special correspondent to a New York
paper; but alas! he was taken "ill" whilst about his duties, wrote
irregularly and infrequently, and as a climax wrote three lines
describing an important event when three columns were expected. He was
consequently recalled, and when he got back my father found, to his
additional vexation, that he (Mr Thomson) had lost the Colt's revolver
which he had lent him. It was an old friend to Mr Bradlaugh; he had had
it for many years, and it had served him well.

My father's anger was, as usual, short lived; and in the next year he
published "B. V.'s" "City of Dreadful Night," and thenceforward gave
him regular work on the _National Reformer_. But he was unhappily one
not to be relied upon; and on a special occasion when he was left with
the responsibility of the paper he disappeared and left it, as far as
he was concerned, to come out as best it could. At length, in 1875,
in spite of all my father's forbearance and affection, Mr Thomson for
some reason felt injured; but whatever might have been his grievances,
they were in fact utterly baseless. Mr Thomson resented his supposed
injury by an open insult, and from that moment the friendship between
these two was dead. On Mr Thomson's side it seemed turned to hatred
and bitter animosity, and he said against my father some of the most
bitter things possible for a man to say. The memory of all past love
and kindness seemed washed out and drowned in a whirl of evil passions.
My father was deeply wounded, and at first, for some year or two,
never voluntarily mentioned his old friend's name; but when the first
soreness had passed he spoke of him, seldom, it is true, but with a
certain tenderness, and always as "poor Thomson." We found amongst
things long put away a silver cup won by Mr Thomson and inscribed with
his name; we asked my father what we should do with it. "Send it to
him, my daughters; I dare say he needs it, poor fellow." And indeed we
heard afterwards that it soon found its way to the pawnshop. It was
characteristic of my father that he said nothing to us, his daughters,
of his quarrel with one to whom he knew we were greatly attached; we
heard of it from others not too friendly to my father. We, naturally
and without a word, although not without great grief, ranged ourselves
on our father's side, and met Mr Thomson as a stranger; we felt that he
was grateful for our sacrifice, but he neither uttered a syllabl

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