“And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. " There was no danger in admitting this fact. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. In your heart you know very well that this is absurd. I hope to see the day, when not Southwark alone, but London itself shall become one Mint,—when all men shall be debtors, and none creditors,— when imprisonment for debt shall be utterly abolished,—- when highwayrobbery shall be accounted a pleasant pastime, and forgery an accomplishment, —when Tyburn and its gibbets shall be overthrown,—capital punishments discontinued,—Newgate, Ludgate, the Gatehouse, and the Compters razed to the ground,—Bridewell and Clerkenwell destroyed,—the Fleet, the King's Bench, and the Marshalsea remembered only by name! But, in the mean time, as that day may possibly be farther off than I anticipate, we are bound to make the most of the present. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. "I understand," replied the stranger, unable to repress a smile. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling.
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