dressed,
and, as I was given to understand, in very prosperous circumstances. She
kept an Italian Warehouse by the Sign of The two Olive Posts, in the
broad part of the Strand, almost opposite to Exeter Change, and sold all
sorts of Italian Silks, Lustrings, Satins, Paduasoys, Velvets, Damasks,
Fans, Leghorn Hats, Flowers, Violin Strings, Books of Essences, Venice
Treacle, Balsams, Florence Cordials, Oil, Olives, Anchovies, Capers,
Vermicelli, Bologna Sausages, Parmesan Cheese, Naples Soap, and similar
delicate cates from foreign parts. All her friends put her down as a
forty-thousand-pounder. In Brief, she professed to be satisfied with my
gentility and Ancient Lineage, though worldly goods I had none to offer
her. All congratulated me on my Good Fortune; and not wanting to make
any unnecessary bustle about the affair, we took coach one fine Monday
morning down to Fleet Market, and were married by a Fleet parson--none
other, indeed, than my old friend Chaplain Hodge, who had taken to this
way of life and found it very profitable, marrying his twenty or thirty
couple a week, when Business was brisk, at fees varying from five
guineas to seven-and-sixpence, and from a dozen of Burgundy to half a
pint of Geneva. But 'twas a rascally business, the venerable man said,
and he sorely longed for the good old days when he, and I, and Squire
Pinchin, made the Grand Tour together. Alas, for that poor little man!
His Reverence told me that he had gone from bad to worse; that his Mamma
had married a knavish lawyer, who so bewildered Mr. Pinchin with
Mortgages, and Deeds of Gift, and Loans at usurious interest, that he
got at last the whole of his property from him, brought him in many
thousands in debt besides, and, after keeping him for three years locked
up and half-starved in the Compter, was only forced to consent to his
enlargement when the unhappy little man--whose head was never of the
strongest, and his wits always going a wool-gathering--went
stark-staring mad, and was, by the City charity, removed to Bedlam
Hospital in Moorfields. There he raved for a time, imagining himself to
be the Pope of Rome, with a paper-cap for a tiara, an ell-wand for a
crosier, a blanket for a rochet, and bestowing his blessings on the
other Maniacs with much force and vehemence; and there, poor demented
creature, he died in the year 1740.

Much better would it have been for me, had I gone straight off my Head
and had been sent to howl in Bedlam