never left the room till he had quoted ten distiches from "Hudibras" and
told long stories of a certain extinct man about town named Jack Ogle.
Old Reptile was extremely attentive to all that was said, though he had
heard the same stories every night for twenty years, and upon all
occasions winked oracularly to his nephew to particularly mind what
passed. About ten the innocent twaddle closed by a man coming in with a
lantern to light home old Bickerstaff. They were simple and happy times
that Steele describes with such kindly humour; and the London of his
days must have been full of such quiet, homely haunts.

Mr. R. Wells, of Colne Park, Halstead, kindly informs us that as late as
the year 1765 there was a club that still kept up the name of Kit-Kat.
The members in 1765 included, among others, Lord Sandwich (Jemmy
Twitcher, as he was generally called), Mr. Beard, Lord Weymouth, Lord
Bolingbroke, the Duke of Queensbury, Lord Caresford, Mr. Cadogan, the
Marquis of Caracciollo, Mr. Seymour, and Sir George Armytage. One of the
most active managers of the club was Richard Phelps (who, we believe,
afterwards was secretary to Pitt). Among letters and receipts preserved
by Mr. Wells, is one from Thomas Pingo, jeweller, of the "Golden Head,"
on the "Paved Stones," Gray's Inn Lane, for gold medals, probably to be
worn by the members.

Even in the reign of James I. Shire Lane was christened Rogues' Lane,
and, in spite of all the dukes and lords of the Kit-Kat, it never grew
very respectable. In 1724 that incomparable young rascal, Jack Sheppard,
used to frequent the "Bible" public-house--a printers' house of call--at
No. 13. There was a trap in one of the rooms by which Jack could drop
into a subterraneous passage leading to Bell Yard. Tyburn gibbet cured
Jack of this trick. In 1738 the lane went on even worse, for there
Thomas Carr (a low attorney, of Elm Court) and Elizabeth Adams robbed
and murdered a gentleman named Quarrington at the "Angel and Crown"
Tavern, and the miscreants were hung at Tyburn. Hogarth painted a
portrait of the woman. One night, many years ago, a man was robbed,
thrown downstairs, and killed, in one of the dens in Shire Lane. There
was snow on the ground, and about two o'clock, when the watchmen grew
drowsy and were a long while between their rounds, the frightened
murderers carried the stiffened body up the lane and placed it bolt
upright, near a dim oil lamp, at a neighbour's door. There the watchme