A Description of a Company of Sea Commanders Drink­ing in a Tavern Kitchen. The Character of a Ma­ster of a Vessel, in Verse. An Account of the pleasant Conversation, in a Private-House, of two Country Par­sons and a sharp Town Quaker. A Description in Verse of a Merry Levite in his Cups. Reflections up­on Grays-Inn Walks, and the Persons that frequent them. The Characters of an Irishman. Of a Beau. Of a Modish-Lady, in Verse. Reflections upon the Stock-Jobbers at Jonathan’s Coffee-House. The Character of a Stock-Jobber.

MY Companion having given me the common Ci­vility of a London Inhabitant to a Country Friend or Acquaintance, (i.e.) shewed me the Tombs at Westminster, the Lyons in the Tower, the Rogues in Newgate, the Mad-People in Bedlam, and the Mer­chants upon the Change, with the rest of the Town Ra­rities, worth a Country Fools admiring; began about a Month since, I suppose, to be tir’d of his Office: Upon which, like a City Sophister to a Country Cou­sin, he Apologiz’d for his Departure, and so left me, saving he would wait upon me as often as the pre­sent Urgency of Affairs would permit; and if any thing worth Notice occur’d to his Knowledge, he


would Communicate the same, or if he could not spare time to give me his Company, he would dispatch In­telligence by Letter; so that being Arm’d with good Instru­ctions, and all necessary Cautions, I shifted off my Rural Bashfulness, and began to so Enbolden my self in a little time by strange Conversation, that I could call a Careless Drawer Blockhead, Kick a Saucy Tapster on the Breech, Swear Z—ds at a Hackney Coach­man, or sit down amongst Aldermen in a Coffee-House without plucking off my Hat. When I first left my Mate I thought my self in as Disconsolate a Condition as a Widow for the first Month after the Loss of her Husband; but I, like the Mourning Dame, found such new Diversion, as quickly obliterated my old Friend, and soon made me as easie without his Conversation, as the Good Woman is without her old Bed-Fellow.

Being thus left to range the Town by my self, like a Man-hater that lov’d no Company, or like a Hang-man that could get none, I happen’d near the Change to step into a Tavern-Kitchen, where I found seated at a Corner-Table, a Knot of Jolly, Rough-hewn Ratling Topers, who look’d not as if they were Born into the World, but Hammer’d into an uncooth Shape upon Vulcan’s Anvil; whose Iron-sides, and Metal-colour’d Faces seem’d to dare all Weathers, spit Fire at the Frigid Zone, and bid Death Defiance: Bumpers of Canary went round as fast as one could Drink, and his Neighbour fill; that a Stander-by might have easily guest by their strekable Measure, that every Glass had been a Health to an Emperor. I soon found by their Dialect, they were Masters of Ships: Chear up my Lads, pull away, save Tide, come Boys, a Health to Moll Bischet, the Bakers Daughter, that swore a Sea Chest was as soft as a Feather-bed. Then handling the Quart, being empty, What is she light? You Sir, that’s