The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. You know what's what. Even the basest objects sold in the 24 roadside shops were beautiful in some way. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. This vessel is now in the river, off Wapping.
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