I have
known a Pall Mall lounger and Rotten Row buck, of no inconsiderable
fashion, vanish from among his comrades of the Clubs and the Park, and
be discovered, very happy and affable, at an eighteenpenny ordinary in
Billingsgate: another gentleman, of great learning and wit, when out
running the constables (were I to say he was a literary man, some
critics would vow that I intended to insult the literary profession),
once sent me his address at a little public-house called the "Fox
under the Hill," down a most darksome and cavernous archway in the
Strand. Such a man, under such misfortunes, may have a house, but he
is never in his house; and has an address where letters may be left;
but only simpletons go with the hopes of seeing him. Only a few of the
faithful know where he is to be found, and have the clew to his
hiding-place. So, after the disputes with his wife, and the
misfortunes consequent thereon, to find Sir Francis Clavering at home
was impossible. "Ever since I hast him for my book, which is fourteen
pound, he don't come home till three o'clock, and purtends to be
asleep when I bring his water of a mornin', and dodges hout when I'm
down stairs," Mr.
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