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. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. ‘Soldier of fortune. “You too sing?” he asked. Refused admittance, they broke open the door. . The affair was thick with sinister suggestions. He was aware of trying to scream because he was paralyzed and his legs would not move. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast.
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