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The gate was a rattle-boned affair, hanging feebly between two grandfatherly old posts, which hypocritically tried to maintain an air of solidity, though perfectly aware that they were wellnigh rotted away at the base. The action of this gate was assisted or more correctly encumbered by the contrivance of a sliding ball and chain, creating a most dismal clatter and flap as often as it was opened.
Have pity upon thy foot! Spit rather on the gate of the city, and turn back! Here is the hell for anchorites' thoughts: here are great thoughts seethed alive and boiled small. Here do all great sentiments decay: here may only rattle-boned sensations rattle! Smellest thou not already the shambles and cookshops of the spirit? Steameth not this city with the fumes of slaughtered spirit?
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