Day of the month and year, November the thirtieth, one thousand eight hundred andthirty-five. London Time by the great clock of Saint Paul's, ten at night. All the lesserLondon churches strain their metallic throats. Some, flippantly begin before the heavy bellof the great cathedral; some, tardily begin three, four, half a dozen, strokes behind it; all arein sufficiently near accord, to leave a resonance in the air, as if the winged father whodevours his children, had made a sounding sweep with his gigantic scythe in flying over thecity.What is this clock lower than most of the rest, and nearer to the ear, that lags so far behindto-night as to strike into the vibration alone? This is the clock of the Hospital for FoundlingChildren. Time was, when the Foundlings were received without question in a cradle at thegate. Time is, when inquiries are made respecting them, and they are taken as by favourfrom the mothers who relinquish all natural knowledge of them and claim to them forevermore.
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