SAMUEL PEPYS
Special to the Lampoon
Shamed though I am to admit it, I must confess to having found myself possessed of a terrible thirst for wine and revelry this last Thursday. I tightly gathered my woolen cloak about my shoulders and ventured out into the publick streets of Fredonia in search of musique and women. But, Lord! To see the absurd nature of these Fredonians — as such they are called — that cannot but imbibe to excess at every opportunity.
Much against my will, compelled as I was by the frigid winds which do at all hours blow most harshly, I found myself taking for a moment shelter at the doorsill of one ale-house, from the door of which issued the most alarming combination of sounds I have ever in my time heard.
Though my intent had been only to warm my hands and gather again my wits about me, I found myself quickly ushered into the ale-house by a swarthy and considerably muscled gentleman, uttering as he did so the words “In or out, buddy.” Once inside I found myself bustled roughly along into the midst of a roiling mass of bodies.
Lord! What debauchery, what baseness did I encounter there; what uncouth writhings and gyrations! Overcome as I was by this assault on the senses, I sought to comfort my shaken soul with a glass of ale.
That which passes for ale was presented to me in a cup of dishearteningly miniscule proportions; I swallowed it at a gulp, and forthright requested another. In this fashion I carried on for some hours, until, having requested yet another mug of ale, I found myself devoid of even another penny more. I did at this juncture deem it wise to retire to my chambers for the evening, and, thanking profusely the barkeep, I ventured once more out into the cold, which I did find most invigorating, insensate with ale as I was.