For he who'd make his fellow-creatures wise / Should always gild the philosophic pill!
run like buggery ― run like a bat out of hell
At half-past nine on this Saturday evening, the parlour of the Salutation Inn, High Holborn, contained most of its customary visitors. […] In former days every tavern of repute kept such a room for its own select circle, a club, or society, of habitués, who met every evening, for a pipe and a cheerful glass.
In every large town sham official documents, with crests, seals, and signatures, can be got for half-a-crown. Armed with these, the patterer becomes a ‘lurker,’—that is, an impostor; his papers certify any and every ‘ill that flesh is heir to.’
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