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. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies. " "You might trust me," said Rachel, in an offended tone; "but never mind. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. ’ Then she frowned.
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