"We never suffer him to mention Mr. . ” “Did you say,” Sir John asked, “that the man’s name was Hill?” “Yes,” she answered. 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. ‘You’re only making things worse, you little idiot. "Swear that you will do this," she cried. " "Ay, but it is strange how much it resembles somebody for whom it's not intended. Well, I'd no idea," she continued, pursuing her ruminations as she left the room, "that people of quality laughed so.
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