On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. "At my first being acquainted with the place," says this writer, in the 'Miseries of a Prison,' "the prisoners, methought, walking up and down the Stone Hall, looked like so many wrecks upon the sea. ’ ‘No, I wouldn’t have believed you. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper.
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