an escutcheon party per pale

From another point of view, it was a place without a soul. The well-to-do had hearts of stone; the rich were brutally bumptious; the Press, the Municipality, all the public men, were ridiculously, vaingloriously self-satisfied.

One stone in particular attracts me. It bears a beautiful ‘foul anchor’ and the simple inscription: Dummy 1879-1918.

Her former sorrow into suddein wrath, / Both coosen passions of distroubled spright, / Conuerting, forth she beates the dustie path […]