And Mr. "More than three hundred weight, Sir," replied the man. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones. . Shotbolt?" rejoined the executioner. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash cold water on my head. 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.
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