Little Britain | Page 5

had been radical meetings in all parts
of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the great plot of Cato
Street; and above all, the queen had returned to England! All these
sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme, with a mysterious look,
and a dismal shake of the head; and being taken with his drugs, and
associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters,
bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of tribulation,
they have spread great gloom through the minds of the people of Little
Britain. They shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and
observe, that they never expected any good to come of taking down that
steeple, which in old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history
of Whittington and his Cat bears witness.
The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemonger, who
lives in a fragment of one of the old family mansions, and is as
magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his
own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of no little standing and importance;
and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even
unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs of state,
having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, together with
the "Gentleman's Magazine," Rapin's "History of England," and the
"Naval Chronicle." His head is stored with invaluable maxims which

have borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion
that "it is a moral impossible," so long as England is true to herself, that
anything can shake her; and he has much to say on the subject of the
national debt, which, somehow or other, he proves to be a great
national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in
the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become
rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his
pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several excursions to
Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has
passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a
telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's.
Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as
he passes; and he is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the
Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's churchyard. His family have been very
urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has great
doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks
himself too advanced in life to undertake sea-voyages.
Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and party spirit
ran very high at one time in consequence of two rival "Burial Societies"
being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse
Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger; the other at the Cock
and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary; it is needless to say
that the latter was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two
at each, and have acquired much valuable information, as to the best
mode of being buried, the comparative merits of churchyards, together
with divers hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard the
question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the
latter on account of their durability. The feuds occasioned by these
societies have happily died of late; but they were for a long time
prevailing themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being
extremely solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in
their graves.
Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a different
cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good- humor over the whole
neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept

by a jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a
resplendent half- moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The old
edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty
wayfarer, such as "Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Rum,
and Brandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This
indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time
immemorial. It ha always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that
its history is tolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much
frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and
was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day.
But what Wagstaff principally prides himself upon is, that Henry the
Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one