"That afternoon," he relates, "was the first time I had the honour and pleasure of speaking to your father. A few of us at Deptford, where I then resided, had had printed a quantity of handbills announcing the debate with the Rev. W. Barker, then appearing in the _National Reformer_. I gave your father one, for which he thanked me. I should like, with your permission, to add a few words as to what took place on that exciting afternoon. The Irish Catholics had been well whipped up for the occasion, and were there in force; most of them dock and bricklayers' labourers, and in the mass totally uneducated. There were three mounds of earth and stones intended to repair or make roads, each about four feet high, and, so far as I can recollect after thirty years have gone by, about thirty yards long by eight deep. These were about fifty yards apart, and on the middle one were gathered the men and two women--one of the latter in a red 'jumper,' that was afterwards known in fashion as a 'Garibaldi.' The Irish were massed on and around the two other mounds, and during the early part of the proceedings contented themselves with singing a refrain for 'God and Rome.' It was about ten minutes after your father had begun to speak that a signal was given, on which a sudden rush was made upon the meeting. There had not been up to this moment any indication whatever that the Irish were armed, but every man and woman (and there were many women and girls with them) was possessed of a bludgeon of some sort. Their onslaught was furious and brutal, and for a time successful. They carried the mound in a few minutes, but the blood upon many of our friends aroused such a feeling of indignation, that in a time less than it takes me to write it the mound was stormed from the Piccadilly side, and again captured by us. There were in the crowd about a dozen Grenadier Guardsmen, who were ardent admirers of Garibaldi, and there were quite fifty others, possibly passive spectators. The former formed two deep, and with their walking-sticks rushed down the mound into the mass of the yelling Irish. The effect was electrical. Their comrades in the crowd raised a sudden shout, and in ten minutes the Irish were in full retreat, throwing away their sticks to escape the indignation of the people they had so wantonly and brutally attacked. Many were captured by the police, and I clearly remember the constables gathering up their bludgeons, and making bundles of them with their belts. It must be confessed that no quarter was given, and scores of them got severely mauled. Cardinal Wiseman referred to the brutality of the infidel mob in a pastoral a few days after, in which he used the term 'lambs' to describe these religious ruffians. _Punch_, the next week, 'caught on' to this word, and in its weekly cartoon depicted this mob of Irish assailing a public meeting over the heading of 'Cardinal Wiseman's Lambs.'"]