A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. “It is not possible,” he exclaimed. I found him lying like this, the bleeding partly stopped by this scarf, else he had been dead by now. A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the wellknown lines:— "Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand. Sometimes we had the Illustrated London News and Tit-Bits. She opened it and imbibed. " Ten minutes' walk brought them to the hotel. How much Mary knew is a mystery.
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