‘Dear me. I’m a little tired. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. But I can't submit to hear the wellearned reputation of my friend termed an 'infamous notoriety. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. He was a philosopher. The gate was opened; the coffin brought into the churchyard; and Jack, whose eyes were filled with tears, saw Mr. Here, might be seen a poor fellow whose teeth were knocked down his throat, spluttering out the most tremendous menaces, and gesticulating like a madman: there, another, whose nose was partially slit, vented imprecations and lamentations in the same breath. It was locked.
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