Little Britain | Page 6

of his
ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This, however, is considered
as a rather dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord.
The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by the name of
"The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound in old catches, glees,
and choice stories, that are traditional in the place, and not to be met
with in any other part of the metropolis. There is a madcap undertaker
who is inimitable at a merry song; but the life of the club, and indeed
the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors
were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large
stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to
generation as heirlooms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs
and pot belly, a red face, with a moist, merry eye, and a little shock of
gray hair behind. At the opening of every club night he is called in to
sing his "Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl
from "Gammer Gurton's Needle." He sings it, to be sure, with many
variations, as he received it from his father's lips; for it has been a
standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it
was written; nay, he affirms that his predecessors have often had the
honor of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas
mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory.
It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the shouts of
merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts of
half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial mansion.

At such times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight
equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up the
steams of a cookshop.
There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation in
Little Britain; these are St. Bartholomew's Fair, and the Lord Mayor's
Day. During the time of the fair, which is held in the adjoining regions
of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding
about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an
irruption of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of rout
and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap-room,
morning, noon, and night; and at each window may be seen some group
of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in
mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and singing maudlin
songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families,
which I must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors,
is no proof against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping
maid-servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding
with Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior Polito; the
Fire-Eater; the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. The children,
too, lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill
the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny
whistles.
But the Lord mayor's Day is the great anniversary. The Lord Mayor is
looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest potentate
upon earth; his gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human
splendor; and his procession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his
train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea
that the King himself dare not enter the city without first knocking at
the gate of Temple Bar, and asking permission of the Lord Mayor: for
if he did, heaven and earth! there is no knowing what might be the
consequence. The man in armor, who rides before the Lord mayor, and
is the city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that offends
against the dignity of the city; and then there is the little man with a
velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of the state-coach,
and holds the city sword, as long as a pike-staff--Odd's blood! If he

once draws that sword, Majesty itself is not safe!
Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good
people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual
barrier against all interior foes; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord
Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower, call in the trainbands,
and put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid
defiance to the world!
Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own
opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart