Amused
with the recollection of these facts, and others of the same kind,
some idle hours were given by the writer to the following view of this
mania of the day.]
The month of November of the year sixteen hundred and -- was
cheerless and dark, as November has never failed to be within the
foggy, smoky bounds of the great city of London. It was one of the
worst days of the season; what light there was seemed an
emanation from the dull earth, the heavens would scarce have owned
it, veiled as they were, by an opaque canopy of fog which weighed
heavily upon the breathing multitude below. Gloom penetrated every
where; no barriers so strong, no good influences so potent, as wholly
to ward off the spell thrown over that mighty town by the spirits of
chill and damp; they clung to the silken draperies of luxury, they
were felt within the busy circle of industry, they crept about the
family hearth, but abroad in the public ways, and in the wretched
haunts of misery, they held undisputed sway.
Among the throng which choked the passage of Temple-Bar toward
evening, an individual, shabbily clad, was dragging his steps wearily
along, his pallid countenance bearing an expression of misery beyond
the more common cares of his fellow-passengers. Turning from the
great thoroughfare he passed into a narrow lane, and reaching the
door of a mean dwelling he entered, ascended a dirty stairway four
stories high, and stood in his garret lodging.
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