On our first arrival I had observed a
place of entertainment not far off, in a street behind the Register
House. Thither we found our way, and sat down to a late dinner
alone. But we had scarce given our orders before the door opened,
and a tall young fellow entered with something of a lurch, looked
about him, and approached the same table.
'Give you good evening, most grave and reverend seniors!' said he.
'Will you permit a wanderer, a pilgrim--the pilgrim of love, in
short--to come to temporary anchor under your lee? I care not who
knows it, but I have a passionate aversion from the bestial
practice of solitary feeding!'
'You are welcome, sir,' said I, 'if I may take upon me so far to
play the host in a public place.'
He looked startled, and fixed a hazy eye on me, as he sat down.
'Sir,' said he, 'you are a man not without some tincture of
letters, I perceive! What shall we drink, sir?'
I mentioned I had already called for a pot of porter.
'A modest pot--the seasonable quencher?' said he. 'Well, I do not
know but what I could look at a modest pot myself! I am, for the
moment, in precarious health. Much study hath heated my brain,
much walking wearied my--well, it seems to be more my eyes!'
'You have walked far, I dare say?' I suggested.
'Not so much far as often,' he replied.
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