There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. You'll be wasting his time. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. "Don't go, I beg of you!" she implored. Nevertheless, Ann Veronica found it a difficult matter not to think of these things. But it is no longer necessary.
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