XLIX.

But I digress: of all appeals,--although I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,--no Method's more sure at moments to take hold[fa] Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow More tender, as we every day behold, Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, The Tocsin of the Soul--the dinner-bell.