" And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth. And so sudden and well-directed was the assault, that he completely overthrew his gigantic antagonist. Mr. 9. There would be no moon. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. ‘I don’t want him having an apoplexy in this house. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam.
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