them to enjoy Vauxhall? Vauxhall is gone, but the wines which
could occasion such a delightful perversion of the intellect as
to enable it to enjoy ample pleasures there, what were they?

So the game of life proceeds, until Jerry Hawthorn, the rustic,
is fairly knocked up by all this excitement and is forced to go
home, and the last picture represents him getting into the coach
at the "White Horse Cellar," he being one of six inside; whilst
his friends shake him by the hand; whilst the sailor mounts on
the roof; whilst the Jews hang round with oranges, knives, and
sealing-wax: whilst the guard is closing the door. Where are
they now, those sealing-wax vendors? where are the guards? where
are the jolly teams? where are the coaches? and where the youth
that climbed inside and out of them; that heard the merry horn
which sounds no more; that saw the sun rise over Stonehenge;
that rubbed away the bitter tears at night after parting as the
coach sped on the journey to school and London; that looked out
with beating heart as the milestones flew by, for the welcome
corner where began home and holidays.

It is night now: and here is home. Gathered under the quiet
roof elders and children lie alike at rest. In the midst of a
great peace and calm, the stars look out from the heavens. The
silence is peopled with the past; sorrowful remorses for sins
and shortcomings -- memories of passionate joys and griefs rise
out of their graves, both now alike calm and sad. Eyes, as I
shut mine, look at me, that have long ceased to shine. The town
and the fair landscape sleep under the starlight, wreathed in the
autumn mists. Twinkling among the houses a light keeps watch
here and there, in what may be a sick chamber or two. The clock