" "Farewell, Jack," cried twenty voices. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. She stared. Never was heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up. ‘And this is not all,’ went on the lady, evidently determined to disclose all her wrongs. Just. Love…. She reflected before answering. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair.
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