Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. Engines were brought to play upon Wild's premises, and upon the adjoining houses. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. Grasping it firmly with both hands, he quickly wrenched if from the stones in which it was mortised, and leapt to the ground. This won’t do. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time.
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