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When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. And if you mean that he may have reconciled himself with his own father, you waste your breath. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. “I would have given up anything to see you your old self again—as you are this evening. "But, perhaps, he has not got beyond the room above.
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