Sir John N****tt and his son, who are here called the
inseparables, finish the picture upon this spot, with the exception of
my old friend the jack of trumps, R*l*y, whose arch-looking visage I
perceive peeping out like the first glance of a court card in the rear
of a bad hand; but let him pass: the mirror of the English Spy reflects
good qualities as well as bad ones, and I should not do him justice if
I denied him a fair proportion of both. Descending to observe the
eccentrics in a more humble sphere, who can pass by the dandy candy
man with his box of sweetmeats, clean in person as a new penny, and
his sturdy figure most religiously decorated with lawn sleeves, and
a churchman's _tablier_ in front; while his ruddy weather-beaten
countenance, and hairy foraging cap, give him the appearance of a Scotch
presbyterian militant in the days of the covenanters. Then, too, his
wares cure all diseases, from a ravaging consumption to a frame-shaking
hooping cough; and not unlikely are as efficacious as the nostrums of
the less Mundivagant professors of patent empiricism. Of all men in the
world your coach _cad_ has the quickest eye for detecting a stranger;
and who but Sam Spring, the box-book keeper of Drury Lane, whose eternal
bow has grown proverbial, could ask an impudent question with more
politeness than Mr.
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