On Friday, Miss Fox comes to bid him farewell, bringing with her, so _The Times_ reports, “two lovely babes, both girls, of the ages of eighteen months and three years, and both also in deep mourning.” Another occasion, indeed, for the modern reader to exclaim--“Cruel, like the grinding of human hearts under millstones.” One of that time thinks so--Edmund Angelini, a crazy teacher of languages, who the same day makes application to the Lord Mayor that he may be allowed to mount the scaffold instead of Fauntleroy. On Saturday, the miserable wife pays her last visit. Previously she has made a desperate attempt to reach implacable Peel--fainting in his hall--which brings from the Home Secretary “a kind message.” Afterwards she strives to speak with Lady Conyngham, who pleads inability to assist, conscious, no doubt, that although she can mould divine right, her charms are powerless against the incorruptible calico-printer. Angelini, still filled with lust for the rope, but whose logic has made no impression on the Lord Mayor, comes hammering at Newgate door, and succeeds in gaining an interview with Ordinary Cotton, whom, perhaps, he regards--judging by appearances--as Jack Ketch’s commanding officer. With the Sabbath comes gala-day and the ‘condemned sermon’ The partners of Jaggers Harmer, by name Forbes and Mayhew, are humane enough to sit with Fauntleroy in the ostentatious sable pew reserved for doomed convicts, and the good Samaritans Baker and Springett, supporting their charge with kind hands, take their seats with the dismal company. Abductor Wakefield has left a graphic picture of an entertainment similar to this. The rude, unsightly chapel, near akin in more than appearance to the dissecting-room in Old Surgeons’ Hall, and with no more semblance of holiness than the court at Bow Street, is packed with prisoners, gay and careless sight-seers, the pomp of sheriffdom and attendant lackeys. Hymns are bellowed, in hideous blasphemy, beseeching divine mercy to show good example to the creatures it has moulded in its own image. Prayers are mumbled, and heeded as little by the gallows-gazing throng as the showman’s horn by children who pant eagerly for the puppet-show. The hangman’s prologue--the sermon--is what all desire, and everything else is of no account. At last the Rev. Cotton, smug and resolute in white gown, mounts the lofty pulpit, and the Sheriffs attempt to screw their courage to face the ordeal. The Ordinary is in his finest form. On the previous Sunday he had shattered the nerves of the boy Harwood, and had sent ‘a female’--condemned to die for a paltry theft--into hysterics a fortnight ago. Scenes like these make the condemned sermon attractive. To-day the discourse is a stupid plagiarism of the Jacobite doctrine of passive resistance, but the bank’s charter, and not divine right, is Cotton’s fetish. While lauding the humanity of “the greatest commercial establishment