And for me there is only one treasure-house. Purney, the present ordinary of Newgate. She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters. From first to last, on this occasion, her aunt expostulated for about two hours. 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. “Mr. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. .
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