There was a feeling in the people then--we would ha' died for things in those days.

I'm eighty-four," and he held his shaking hand up to his breast, "but the spirit's alive here yet! God send the Radical gets in!" There was wafted from him a scent as of potatoes.
Far behind, at the very edge of the vast dark throng, some voices began singing: "Way down upon the Swanee ribber." The tune floated forth, ceased, spurted up once more, and died.
Then, in the very centre of the square a stentorian baritone roared forth: "Should auld acquaintance be forgot!" The song swelled, till every kind of voice, from treble to the old Chartist's quavering bass, was chanting it; here and there the crowd heaved with the movement of linked arms.

Courtier found the soft fingers of a young woman in his right hand, the old Chartist's dry trembling paw in his left.

He himself sang loudly.

The grave and fearful music sprang straight up into they air, rolled out right and left, and was lost among the hills.