It would be a pity if this outcry should draw no customers. Here they come, scores of them. A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff, and away again! You, my friend, will need another cupfull to wash the dust off your mustaches—the new English invention. I see you have been inhaling the dust of a cotton-mill, and this will wash it all down, not leaving one single particle sticking to the palate, as the “jolly fat ale” does. Come on you, also, Mr. Traveller; you have walked half a score miles to-day, and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns and stopped at the running brooks and well-curbs; otherwise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or melted like a lump of butter in a frying-pan. Drink, friend, and be thankful, and make room for that other fellow who seeks my aid to quench the fever of last night’s potations at the “Pig and Whistle.” Welcome, most rubicund sir, with your rosy gills, round paunch, and pimpled nose; I am very glad to see you here, sir! You and I have been great strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath become a little less potent. Mercy on you, man, the water absolutely _hisses_ down your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite to steam in the miniature “tophet” which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, gin palace, or dram-shop, spend the price of your children’s food for a swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time for a long while, you know the flavour of cold water. Good bye! and remember, whenever you are thirsty, that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. Who next? O, my little friend, just let loose from school; you would clear your throat with a sup of the pure and lovely? Take it, and may your heart and throat be never scorched by a fiercer thirst than now. There, my dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this good-looking gentleman, with a countenance fair and ruddy, and cheerful as the sun in May. It is Stephen Grovely, a friend to water, and to peace, and to vegetable food, and a good friend beside. He takes a sup as if he could make a supper of it, and sleep like moonshine on the placid deep. Who is that coming by, with a sneer and a laugh at Mr. Grovely? He is an oldish kind of gentleman, and treads very lightly on the stones, saving his poor old toes with a stick, and stopping for breath every minute or so. How he pants and wheezes, and what strange winces and contortions are on his face at every movement! How do you find yourself this morning, sir? I hope you had a comfortable night—no nightmares, groanings, fearful dreams, or kickings about in your sleep. “You be hanged!” says the old man. “Thank you, sir, for your good wishes.” I only say:—Go and draw one cork, tip the decanter, pour out the ‘rosy red,’ the ‘golden saffron,’ the ‘purple blue;’ but, when your great toe