Dick Serge was a draper in Cornhill, and passed
eight years in prosperous diligence, without any
care but to keep his books, or any ambition but to
be in time an alderman: but then, by some
unaccountable revolution in his understanding, he
became enamoured of wit and humour, despised the
conversation of pedlars and stock-jobbers, and
rambled every night to the regions of gaiety, in quest
of company suited to his taste. The wits at first
flocked about him for sport, and afterwards for
interest; some found their way into his books, and
some into his pockets; the man of adventure was
equipped from his shop for the pursuit of a fortune;
and he had sometimes the honour to have his
security accepted when his friends were in distress.
Elated with these associations, he soon learned to
neglect his shop; and having drawn his money out
of the funds, to avoid the necessity of teasing men
of honour for trifling debts, he has been forced at
last to retire hither, till his friends can procure him
a post at court.
Another that joins in the same mess is Bob Cornice,
whose life has been spent in fitting up a house.
About ten years ago Bob purchased the country
habitation of a bankrupt: the mere shell of a building
Bob holds no great matter; the inside is the
test of elegance.
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