There is very seldom any thing extraordinary in the
appearance and address of a good writer; whereas a dull author
generally distinguishes himself by some oddity or extravagance.
For this reason, I fancy, that an assembly of Grubs must be very
diverting.'
My curiosity being excited by this hint, I consulted my friend
Dick Ivy, who undertook to gratify it the very next day, which
was Sunday last. He carried me to dine with S--, whom you and I
have long known by his writings. -- He lives in the skirts of the
town, and every Sunday his house is opened to all unfortunate
brothers of the quill, whom he treats with beef, pudding, and
potatoes, port, punch, and Calvert's entire butt beer. He has
fixed upon the first day of the week for the exercise of his
hospitality, because some of his guests could not enjoy it on any
other, for reasons that I need not explain. I was civilly
received in a plain, yet decent habitation, which opened
backwards into a very pleasant garden, kept in excellent order;
and, indeed, I saw none of the outward signs of authorship,
either in the house or the landlord, who is one of those few
writers of the age that stand upon their own foundation, without
patronage, and above dependence.
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