Seven-and-twenty years ago, and a bleak evening in March. There are
gas-lamps flaring down in Ratcliff Highway, and the sound of squeaking
fiddles and trampling feet in many public-houses tell of festivity
provided for Jack-along-shore. The emporiums of slop-sellers are
illuminated for the better display of tarpaulin coats and hats, so
stiff of build that they look like so many sea-faring suicides, pendent
from the low ceilings. These emporiums are here and there enlivened by
festoons of many-coloured bandana handkerchief's; and on every pane of
glass in shop or tavern window is painted the glowing representation of
Britannia's pride, the immortal Union Jack.
