se of young ones, who frequent the
Quadrant and Regent-street in the day-time: the theatres (especially
theatres under lady management) at night; and who assume all the
foppishness and levity of boys, without the excuse of youth or
inexperience. The steady old boys are certain stout old gentlemen of
clean appearance, who are always to be seen in the same taverns, at the
same hours every evening, smoking and drinking in the same company.

There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the
circular table at Offley's every night, between the hours of half-past
eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for some time.
There were, and may be still, for aught we know, two splendid specimens
in full blossom at the Rainbow Tavern in Fleet-street, who always used to
sit in the box nearest the fireplace, and smoked long cherry-stick pipes
which went under the table, with the bowls resting on the floor. Grand
old boys they were--fat, red-faced, white-headed old fellows--always
there--one on one side the table, and the other opposite--puffing and
drinking away in great state. Everybody knew them, and it was supposed
by some people that they were both immortal.

Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don't mean
immortal, but steady), a retired glove and braces maker, a widower,
resident with three daughters--all grown up, and all unmarried--in
Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. He was a short, round, large-faced,
tubbish sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square coat; and had
that grave, but confident, kind of roll, peculiar to old boys in general.
Regular as clockwork--breakfast at nine--dress and tittivate a
little--down to the Sir Somebody's Head--a glass of ale and the
paper--come back again, and take daughters out for a walk--dinner at
three--glass of grog and pipe--nap--tea--little walk--Sir Somebody's Head
again--capital house--delightful evenings. There were Mr. Harris, the
law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young fellows
like himself), and Jones, the barrister's clerk--rum fellow that
Jones--capital company--full of anecdote!--and there they sat every night
till just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy-and-water, and
smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying themselves with a
kind of solemn joviality particularly edifying.

Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or Covent
Garden, to see two act