Micro R&D 1/MicroRD-CD-ROM-Vol1-1994.iso/books/irving/britain

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                                    1819-20
                                THE SKETCH BOOK
                                 LITTLE BRITAIN
                              by Washington Irving

  What I write is most true * * * * I have a whole booke of
cases lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave
auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of
charity with me.
                                                  NASHE.

  IN THE centre of the great city of London lies a small neighborhood,
consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very
venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of LITTLE
BRITAIN. Christ Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound
it on the west; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate
Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of
the city; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates
it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little
territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St.
Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen
Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly
protection.
  This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient
times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased,
however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade creeping
on at their heels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For
some time Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and was
peopled by the busy and prolific race of booksellers; these also
gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great strait of
Newgate Street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's
Church-Yard, where they continue to increase and multiply even at
the present day.
  But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears
traces of its former splendor. There are several houses ready to
tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old
oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes:
and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to
classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of
what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but which have
in latter days been subdivided into several tenements. Here may
often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery
furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated finery, in great
rambling time-stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded
cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also
contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your
small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal
antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street; great bow
windows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and
low-arched doorways.*

  * It is evident that the author of this interesting communication
has included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those
little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair.

  In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed
several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second
floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is
an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a
miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect for
three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished
brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, and have
doubtless figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They
seem to me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign
contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors; as I have seen
decayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society with which
they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room
is taken up with a bow window; on the panes of which are recorded
the names of previous occupants for many generations, mingled with
scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in
characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms
of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long since
bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no
apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked
upon as the only independent gentleman of the neighborhood; and, being
curious to learn the internal state of a community so apparently
shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into all the
concerns and secrets of the place.
  Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; the
stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it
was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here
flourish in great preservation many of the holiday games and customs
of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove
Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas;
they send love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the
fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at
Christmas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in
superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds
as the only true English wines; all others being considered vile
outlandish beverages.
  Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its
inhabitants consider the wonders of the world; such as the great
bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls; the
figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock; the Monument;
the lions in the Tower: and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still
believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman that lives
in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting
stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to
be rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses; and if a dog howls
dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the
place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly
concerning the old mansion-houses; in several of which it is said
strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in
full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in
lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down
the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights; and are supposed to
be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses.
  Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the most
important of the former is a tall, dry old gentleman, of the name of
Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous
countenance, full of cavities and projections; with a brown circle
round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought
of by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjurer, because
he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and
several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and
newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots,
conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions; which last
phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always some
dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with their
doses; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an
uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predictions; and has the
prophecies of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can
make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day; and
he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his customers
and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their wits.
He has lately got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he
has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among the
ancient sibyls, who treasure up these things, that when the
grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon
on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place.
This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The
same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of
the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful to relate,
the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the
yard of his workshop.
  "Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go star-gazing,
and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on
the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which surpasses all
the signs and calculations of astrologers." Since these portentous
weather-cocks have thus laid their heads together, wonderful events
had already occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had
lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost; another
king had mounted the throne; a royal duke had died suddenly-
another, in France, had been murdered; there had been radical meetings
in all parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the
great plot in 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 any thing 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 church-yards, 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 has 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 of his ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This
however is considered as rather a 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
mad-cap 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.*

  * As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be
familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the
current songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original
orthography. I would observe, that the whole club always join in the
chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter
pots.

               I cannot eate but lytle meate,
                 My stomacke is not good,
               But sure I thinke that I can drinke
                 With him that weares a hood.
               Though I go bare, take ye no care,
                 I nothing am a colde,
               I stuff my skyn so full within,
                 Of joly good ale and olde.

     Chorus.   Backe and syde go bare, go bare,
                 Booth foote and hand go colde,
               But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe
                 Whether it be new or olde.

               I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste,
                 And a crab laid in the fyre;
               A little breade shall do me steade,
                 Much breade I not desyre.
               No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe,
                 Can hurte mee, if I wolde,
               I am so wrapt and throwly lapt
                 Of joly good ale and olde.

     Chorus.   Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

               And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe,
                 Loveth well good ale to seeke,
               Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see,
                 The teares run downe her cheeke.
               Then doth she trowle to me the bowle,
                 Even as a mault-worme sholde,
               And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte
                 Of this joly good ale and olde.

     Chorus.   Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

               Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke,
                 Even as goode fellowes sholde doe,
               They shall not mysse to have the blisse,
                 Good ale doth bring men to;
               And all poore soules that have scowred bowles,
                 Or have them lustily trolde,
               God save the lyves of them and their wives,
                 Whether they be yonge or olde.

     Chorus.   Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

  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 cook-shop.
  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
train bands, 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 to
this great fungus metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering
it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism
were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character,
when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the
general spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it; for though
there might now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the
adherents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional
feud between the burial societies, yet these were but transient
clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted
with a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind
their backs.
  I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at which
I have been present; where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan,
Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games; and where we sometimes
had a good old English country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de
Coverley. Once a year also the neighbors would gather together, and go
on a gipsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's
heart good to see the merriment that took place here as we banqueted
on the grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts
of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry
undertaker! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at
blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek; and it was amusing to see them
tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and then
squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks would gather round the
cheesemonger and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics; for
they generally brought out a newspaper in their pockets, to pass
away time in the country. They would now and then, to be sure, get a
little warm in argument; but their disputes were always adjusted by
reference to a worthy old umbrella maker in a double chin, who,
never exactly comprehending the subject, managed somehow or other to
decide in favor of both parties.
  All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are doomed
to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep in; factions
arise; and families now and then spring up, whose ambition and
intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter days
has the tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed,
and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subversion,
by the aspiring family of a retired butcher.
  The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving and
popular in the neighborhood: the Miss Lambs were the belles of
Little Britain, and everybody was pleased when Old Lamb had made money
enough to shut up shop, and put his name on a brass plate on his door.
In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being
a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball,
on which occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her
head. The family never got over it; they were immediately smitten with
a passion for high life; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of
gold lace round the errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and
detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could no longer
be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blind-man's-buff; they could endure
no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little
Britain; and they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and
playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled to
an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto
unknown in these parts; and he confounded the worthy folks exceedingly
by talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review.
  What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they
neglected to invite any of their old neighbors; but they had a great
deal of genteel company from Theobald's Road, Red-Lion Square, and
other parts towards the west. There were several beaux of their
brother's acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden; and not
less than three Aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This was not
to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar
with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the
rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the
neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at every
window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by; and there was a knot of
virulent old cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just
opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every one
that knocked at the door.
  This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole
neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to the
Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her
quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some
of her old cronies, "quite," as she would say, "in a friendly way;"
and it is equally true that her invitations were always accepted, in
spite of all previous vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would
sit and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would
condescend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano; and they
would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of
Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes,
the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars; but then they relieved their
consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confederates, by
canvassing at the next gossiping convocation every thing that had
passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to pieces.
  The only one of the family that could not be made fashionable was
the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness
of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion,
a head of black hair like a shoe brush, and a broad face mottled
like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters always spoke of
him as "the old gentleman," addressed him as "papa," in tones of
infinite softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and
slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there
was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would break through
all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was
irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder;
and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning,
dining at two o'clock, and having a "bit of sausage with his tea."
  He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family.
He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to him;
no longer laughing at his jokes; and now and then throwing out a fling
at "some people," and a hint about "quality binding." This both
nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife and
daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking
advantage of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to give up
his afternoon pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's; to sit after dinner by
himself, and take his pint of port- a liquor he detested- and to nod
in his chair in solitary and dismal gentility.
  The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets in
French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and talking and laughing so loud
that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within hearing.
They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced
a French dancing-master to set up in the neighborhood; but the
worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute
the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps,
and decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay
for his lodgings.
  I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the
overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their
horror of innovation; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so
vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and
the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the
infection had taken hold; and that my neighbors, after condemning,
were beginning to follow their example. I overheard my landlady
importuning her husband to let their daughters have one quarter at
French and music, and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille.
I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than five French
bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little
Britain.
  I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away;
that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood; might die, or might
run away with attorneys' apprentices; and that quiet and simplicity
might be again restored to the community. But unluckily a rival
power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a large
jointure and a family of buxom daughters. The young ladies had long
been repining in secret at the parsimony of a prudent father, which
kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no
longer restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the
field against the family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs,
having had the first start, had naturally an advantage of them in
the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad French, play the
piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but the
Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two
feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice
as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure
not to be behindhand: and though they might not boast of as good
company, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry.
  The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable
factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games of
Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discarded; there is no
such thing as getting up an honest country dance; and on my attempting
to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was
indignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it "shocking
vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable
part of Little Britain; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of
Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St.
Bartholomew's.
  Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears; and what
will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his
talent at prognostics, to determine; though I apprehend that it will
terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Bullism.
  The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Being a single
man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good-for-nothing
personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by profession
in the place. I stand therefore in high favor with both parties, and
have to hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As I
am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have
committed myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing their
opponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is
a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension- if the
Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, I
am ruined!
  I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am
actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old
English manners are still kept up; where French is neither eaten,
drunk, danced, nor spoken; and where there are no fashionable families
of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten
away before I have an old house about my ears; bid a long, though a
sorrowful adieu to my present abode, and leave the rival factions of
the Lambs and the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of LITTLE
BRITAIN.


                        THE END