"Up Kettleby starts with a horrible stare." A poor maudlin miserable who is addressing him, when sober, must be a fool; but, in this state, it would puzzle Lavater to assign him a proper class. He seems endeavouring to demonstrate to the lawyer that in a poi--poi--point of law he has been most cruelly cheated, and lost a cau--cau--cause that he ought to have got,--and all this was owing to his attorney being an infernal villain. This may very probably be true; for the poor man's tears show that, like the person relieved by the good Samaritan, he has been among thieves. The barrister grins horribly at his misfortunes, and tells him he is properly punished for not employing a gentleman. Next to him sits a gentleman in a black periwig. He politely turns his back to the company, that he may have the pleasure of smoking a _sociable_ pipe. The justice, "in fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,"--the justice, having hung up his hat, wig, and cloak, puts on his nightcap, and with a goblet of superior capacity before him, sits in solemn cogitation. Meditating severe punishments on the dissolute peasant who tipples ale or viler liquors, he resolves for the future to act with magisterial harshness, that he may convince his neighbours of his zeal for the law, and detestation of drunkenness. His left elbow supported by the table and his right by a chair, with a pipe in one hand and a stopper in the other, he puffs out the bland vapour with the dignity of an alderman, and fancies himself as great as Jupiter seated upon the summit of Mount Olympus, enveloped by the thick cloud which his own breath has created. With folded arms and open mouth another leans back in his chair.[117] His wig is dropped from his head, and he is asleep: but though speechless, he is sonorous; for you clearly perceive that where nasal sounds are the music, he is qualified to be leader of the band. The fallen hero, who with his chair and goblet has tumbled to the floor, by the cockade in his hat we suppose to be an officer. His forehead is marked, perhaps with honourable scars. To wash his wounds and cool his head, the staggering apothecary bathes it with brandy. A gentleman in the corner, who, from having the _Craftsman_ and _London Evening_ in his pocket, we determine to be a politician, very unluckily mistakes his ruffle for the bowl of his pipe, and sets fire to it. The person in a bag-wig and solitaire, with his hand upon his head,[118] would not now pass for a fine gentleman, but in the year 1735 was a complete beau. Unaccustomed to such joyous company, he appears to have drank rather more than agrees with him.