Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. 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. I am. “I am a fool,” he said. ’ ‘But where? Where has he gone? Always he goes off, and he says no word to anyone. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. The next moment he was by her side. It doesn’t matter. And in that respect they stir up one another. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure.
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