“He is one of those loose spirits,” replied Mr. Seymour, “who live upon expedients; and measuring their consciences by their wants, derive a revenue from sources, of which those who jog on quietly through the beaten paths of life have not the most remote conception. He commenced his career under the tutelage of the first fire-eater of the day, but having clumsily scalded his mouth, he lost his reputation, and found it advisable to seek some other stage for the display of his abilities. Possessed of a very considerable degree of native humour and caustic shrewdness, he engaged himself as a ‘mercenary,’ or literary drudge, to a popular publisher of comic song books, sanguinary murders, magical magazines, amorous valentines, oracles of health, and plans for the liquidation of the national debt; which occupations have, as I have been credibly informed, produced for him during a successful season, some twenty or thirty pounds in the lawful coin of the realm: but Ned, like many a great genius, was better pleased with an hour of idleness than a week of study; and, strange to say, would at any time have preferred a cup of wine to a bucketful of the finest water from Helicon; no sooner, therefore, had he collected a few pounds, than he descended from his high literary station, a lofty garret; and, taking up his abode at some hedge alehouse, would enjoy a life of happy leisure, until every particle of that worldly substance which he had gained by inspiration from above, was gratefully returned to the skies in the form of tobacco fumes. For some months past,” added Mr. Seymour, “he has been a constant resident at the Bag of Nails, where, as I am led to believe, he pays for nothing but his tobacco; the worthy hostess having found him a very profitable bait for customers, is too willing to barter the drippings of the kitchen for his wit, and the leakage of the tap-room for his songs.” “I am very curious to become acquainted with this comical being,” said the major. “Suppose we walk into the village,” said Mr. Seymour; “we shall be certain of finding him smoking his pipe on a bench before the alehouse door; where he is as regularly stationed by his patroness, to catch customers, as the saucer of treacle is placed in the window of a pastry-cook to attract flies.” “You will excuse my accompanying you,” cried Mr. Twaddleton; “I cannot relish his stale jokes and potted stories.” The gentlemen accordingly directed their route through Forest Lane, and took leave of the vicar at the entrance of the church-yard. On arriving within twenty yards of the public-house, Mr. Seymour noticed a column of smoke which curled in wreaths about its porch. “There sits Ned,” cried he; “I knew we should find him at his post.” “Hopkins! Hopkins!” cried Mr. Seymour, “I fear you have not taken the worthy vicar’s advice.” “An old dog cannot alter its way of barking, sir; nor is it easy to straight in the oak the crook that grew in the sapling.”