"He seems infatuated about the lad," observed Wild. She will tell you all the story while I am gone. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. How dreary it all looks. She had viewed them askance, and without exchanging ideas with any one else in the world about them. Here the ribs of a thousand pounds beating against the Needles— those dangerous rocks, credulity here floated, to and fro, silks, stuffs, camlets, and velvet, without giving place to each other, according to their dignity; here rolled so many pipes of canary, whose bungholes lying open, were so damaged that the merchant may go hoop for his money," A less picturesque, but more truthful, and, therefore, more melancholy description of the same scene, is furnished by the shrewd and satirical Ned Ward, who informs us, in the "Delectable History of Whittington's College," that "When the prisoners are disposed to recreate themselves with walking, they go up into a spacious room, called the Stone Hall; where, when you see them taking a turn together, it would puzzle one to know which is the gentleman, which the mechanic, and which the beggar, for they are all suited in the same garb of squalid poverty, making a spectacle of more pity than executions; only to be out at the elbows is in fashion here, and a great indecorum not to be threadbare. It's public opinion. It was a huge stone placed there by some workmen occupied in repairing the structure. “How?” 106 “The other person makes the mistake of going to sleep. "Ah!" exclaimed Wild, looking angrily towards his supposed attendant. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. “The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true.
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