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Chapter 14

Having the Misfortune to treat of none but Common
People, is necessarily of a Mean and Vulgar


In that quarter of London in which Golden Square is situated,
there is a bygone, faded, tumble-down street, with two
irregular rows of tall meagre houses, which seem to have
stared each other out of countenance years ago. The very
chimneys appear to have grown dismal and melancholy, from
having had nothing better to look at than the chimneys over the
way. Their tops are battered, and broken, and blackened with
smoke; and, here and there, some taller stack than the rest,
inclining heavily to one side, and toppling over the roof, seems to
mediate taking revenge for half a centuryís neglect, by crushing
the inhabitants of the garrets beneath.

The fowls who peck about the kennels, jerking their bodies
hither and thither with a gait which none but town fowls are ever
seen to adopt, and which any country cock or hen would be
puzzled to understand, are perfectly in keeping with the crazy
habitations of their owners. Dingy, ill-plumed, drowsy flutterers,
sent, like many of the neighbouring children, to get a livelihood in
the streets, they hop, from stone to stone, in forlorn search of some
hidden eatable in the mud, and can scarcely raise a crow among
them. The only one with anything approaching to a voice, is an
aged bantam at the bakerís; and even he is hoarse, in consequence
of bad living in his last place.

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