. . The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. “Those young men startled me at first, because they knew my name. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. At least I rather hoped I might spend my time chasing smugglers, which would have afforded some excitement. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. Why should WE hoard? We aren’t going out presently, like Japanese lanterns in a gale. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress.
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