LITTLE BRITAIN.
What I write is most true..... I have a whole booke of cases lying byme, which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within thehearing of Bow Bell) would be out of charity with me. NASH.
IN the centre of the great City of London lies a small neighborhood,consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerableand debilitated houses, which goes by the name of LITTLE BRITAIN. ChristChurch School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west;Smithfield and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate Street, like an armof the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city; whilst theyawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Laneand the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus bounded anddesignated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the interveninghouses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave-Maria Lane, looks downwith 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 theirheels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For some time LittleBritain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busyand prolific race of booksellers: these also gradually deserted it, and,emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled downin Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they continue toincrease and multiply even at the present day.
But, though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears tracesof its former splendor. There are several houses ready to tumble down,the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvingsof hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes, and fruits andflowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also,in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what were once spacious andlordly family mansions, but which have in latter days been subdividedinto several tenements. Here may often be found the family of a pettytradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics ofantiquated finery in great rambling time-stained apartments with frettedceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes andcourts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but,like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims toequal antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street, great bowwindows with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and lowarched doorways.*
* It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has included, in his general title of Little Britain, man of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair.
In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed severalquiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor ofone of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an oldwainscoted chamber, with small panels and set off with a miscellaneousarray of furniture. I have a particular respect for three or fourhigh-backed, claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, whichbear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless figuredin some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me tokeep together and to look down with sovereign contempt upon theirleathern-bottomed neighbors, as I have seen decayed gentry carry ahigh head among the plebeian society with which they were reduced toassociate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with abow window, on the panes of which are recorded the names of previousoccupants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very indifferentgentleman-like poetry, written in characters which I can scarcelydecipher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britainwho has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am anidle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularlyevery week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman ofthe neighborhood, and, being curious to learn the internal state of acommunity so apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to work myway into all the concerns and secrets of the place.
Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city, thestronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it was inits better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourishin great preservation many of the holiday games and customs of yore.The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hotcross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; they sendlove-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 andplum-pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and port andsherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines, all othersbeing considered vile outlandish beverages.
Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which itsinhabitants consider the wonders of the world, such as the great bellof St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls; the figures thatstrike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock; the Monument; the lions in theTower; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in dreamsand fortune-telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-MouthStreet makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goodsand promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendereduncomfortable by comets and eclipses, and if a dog howls dolefully atnight it is looked upon as a sure sign of death in the place. Thereare even many ghost-stories current, particularly concerning the oldmansion-houses, in several of which it is said strange sights aresometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed wigs,hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, andbrocade, have been seen walking up and down the great waste chamberson moonlight nights, and are supposed to be the shades of the ancientproprietors in their court-dresses.
Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the mostimportant of the former is a tall, dry old gentleman of the nameof Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverouscountenance, full of cavities and projections, with a brown circle roundeach eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by theold women, who consider him as a kind of conjurer because he has two orthree stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop and several snakes inbottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is muchgiven to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires,earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions; which last phenomena he considersas signs of the times. He has always some dismal tale of the kind todeal out to his customers with their doses, and thus at the same timeputs both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in omensand predictions; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and MotherShipton by heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, or evenan unusually dark day; and he shook the tail of the last comet over theheads of his customers and disciples until they were nearly frightenedout of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend orprophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been asaying current among the ancient sibyls, who treasure up these things,that when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands withthe dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would takeplace. This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come topass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of thecupola of the Exchange and the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful torelate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, inthe yard of his workshop.
"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go star-gazing, andlook for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on theearth, near at home and under our own eyes, which surpasses allthe signs and calculations of astrologers." Since these portentousweathercocks have thus laid their heads together, wonderful events hadalready occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had livedeighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost; another king hadmounted the throne; a royal duke had died suddenly; another, in France,had been murdered; there had been radical meetings in all parts of thekingdom; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street;and, above all, the queen had returned to England! All these sinisterevents are
recounted by Mr. Skyrme with a mysterious look and a dismalshake of the head; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in theminds of his auditors with stuffed-sea-monsters, bottled serpents, andhis own visage, which is a title-page of tribulation, they have spreadgreat gloom through the minds of the people of Little Britain. Theyshake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe that theynever expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which inold times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of Whittingtonand 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 asmagnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of hisown Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of no little standing and importance,and his renown extends through Huggin lane and Lad lane, and even untoAldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, havingread the Sunday papers for the last half century, together withthe Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the NavalChronicle. His head is stored with invaluable maxims which have bornethe 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, thatanything can shake her: and he has much to say on the subject of thenational debt, which, somehow or other, he proves to be a great nationalbulwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in thepurlieus of Little Britain until of late years, when, having becomerich and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take hispleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several excursions toHampstead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has passedwhole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a telescopeand endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not astage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as hepasses, and he is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of theGoose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been veryurgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubtsof those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself tooadvanced in life to undertake sea-voyages.
Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and partyspirit ran very high at one time, in consequence of two rival "BurialSocieties" being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swanand Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger; the other at theCock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary: it is needless tosay that the latter was the most flourishing. I have passed an eveningor two at each, and have acquired much valuable information as tothe best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of churchyards,together with divers hints on the subject of patent iron coffins. I haveheard the question discussed in all its bearings as to the legalityof prohibiting the latter on account of their durability. The feudsoccasioned by these societies have happily died of late; but they werefor a long time prevailing themes of controversy, the people of LittleBritain being extremely solicitous of funeral honors and of lyingcomfortably in their graves.
Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite adifferent cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor over thewhole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashionedhouse kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing forinsignia a resplendent half-moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes.The whole edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of thethirsty wayfarer; such as "Truman, Hanbury, and Co's Entire," "Wine,Rum, and Brandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum, and Compounds," etc. This indeedhas been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial. It hasalways been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history istolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much frequented bythe gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was lookedinto now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. But whatWagstaff principally prides himself upon is that Henry the Eighth, inone of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestorswith his famous walking-staff. This, however, is considered as rather adubious and vain-glorious 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 metwith in any other part of the metropolis. There is a madcap undertakerwho is inimitable at a merry song, but the life of the club, andindeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. Hisancestors were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inna large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation togeneration as heirlooms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legsand pot belly, a red face with a moist merry eye, and a little shock ofgray hair behind. At the opening of every club night he is called in tosing his "Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowlfrom "Gammer Gurton's Needle." He sings it, to be sure, with manyvariations, as he received it from his father's lips; for it has been astanding favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it waswritten; nay, he affirms that his predecessors have often had the honorof 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, Both 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 shee trowle to me the bowle, Even as a mault-worme sholde, And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte Of this jolly 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 ofmerriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts ofhalf a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. Atsuch times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equalto that of gazing into a confectioner's window or snuffing up the steamsof a cook-shop.
There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation inLittle Britain: these are St. Bartholomew's Fair and the Lord Mayor'sDay. During the time of the Fair, which is held in the adjoining regionsof Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gaddingabout. The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with anirruption of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of routand revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the taproom morning,noon, and night; and at each window may be seen some group of booncompanions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in
mouth andtankard in hand, fondling and prosing, and singing maudlin songs overtheir liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families, which I mustsay is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proofagainst this saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid-servantswithin doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch andthe Puppet-Show, the Flying Horses, Signior Polito, the Fire-Eater, thecelebrated Mr. Paap, and the Irish Giant. The children too lavish alltheir holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the housewith the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles.
But the Lord Mayor's Day is the great anniversary. The Lord Mayoris looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatestpotentate upon earth, his gilt coach with six horses as the summit ofhuman splendor, and his procession, with all the sheriffs and aldermenin his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult inthe idea that the king himself dare not enter the city without firstknocking at the gate of Temple Bar and asking permission of the LordMayor; for if he did, heaven and earth! there is no knowing what mightbe the consequence. The man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor,and is the city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that offendsagainst the dignity of the city; and then there is the little man with avelvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of the state coachand holds the city sword, as long as a pikestaff. Odd's blood! if heonce draws that sword, Majesty itself is not safe.
Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the goodpeople of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectualbarrier against all interior foes; and as to foreign invasion, the LordMayor 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 biddefiance to the world!
Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its ownopinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to thisgreat fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it asa chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were garneredup, like seed corn, to renew the national character when it had runto waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit ofharmony that prevailed throughout it; for though there might nowand then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of thecheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between theburial societies, yet these were but transient clouds and soon passedaway. 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 Ihave been present, where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan,Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games, and where we sometimeshad a good old English country dance to the tune of Sir Roger deCoverley. Once a year also the neighbors would gather together and go ona gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart goodto see the merriment that took place here as we banqueted on the grassunder the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter atthe songs of little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker! After dinner,too, the young folks would play at blindman's-buff and hide-and-seek,and it was amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear afine romping girl now and then squeak from among the bushes. The elderfolks would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary to hearthem talk politics, for they generally brought out a newspaper in theirpockets to pass away time in the country. They would now and then, tobe sure, get a little warm in argument; but their disputes were alwaysadjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin,who, never exactly comprehending the subject, managed somehow or otherto decide in favor of both parties.
All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are doomed tochanges and revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep in, factions arise,and families now and then spring up whose ambition and intriguesthrow the whole system into confusion. Thus in letter days has thetranquillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed and its goldensimplicity of manners threatened with total subversion by the aspiringfamily of a retired butcher.
The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving andpopular in the neighborhood: the Miss Lambs were the belles of LittleBritain, and everybody was pleased when Old Lamb had made money enoughto shut up shop and put his name on a brass plate on his door. In anevil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a ladyin attendance on the Lady Mayoress at her grand annual ball, on whichoccasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her head. Thefamily never got over it; they were immediately smitten with a passionfor high life; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace roundthe errand-boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation of thewhole neighborhood ever since. They could no longer be induced toplay at Pope-Joan or blindman's-buff; they could endure no dances butquadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain; and theytook to reading novels, talking bad French, and playing upon the piano.Their brother, too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for adandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts, andhe confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, theOpera, and the "Edinburgh Review."
What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which theyneglected to invite any of their old neighbors; but they had a greatdeal of genteel company from Theobald's Road, Red Lion Square, and otherparts towards the west. There were several beaux of their brother'sacquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden, and not lessthan three aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This was not to beforgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with thesmacking of whips, the lashing of in miserable horses, and the rattlingand jingling of hackney-coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood mightbe seen popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazyvehicles rumble by; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies thatkept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's andscanned and criticised every one that knocked at the door.
This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole neighborhooddeclared they would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. It istrue that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her qualityacquaintance, would give little humdrum tea-junketings to some of herold cronies, "quite," as she would say, "in a friendly way;" and it isequally true that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of allprevious vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and bedelighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend tostrum an Irish melody for them on the piano; and they would listenwith wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket'sfamily, of Portsoken Ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiressesof Crutched Friars but then they relieved their consciences and avertedthe reproaches of their confederates by canvassing at the next gossipingconvocation everything that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and theirrout all to pieces.
The only one of the family that could not be made fashionable was theretired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness of hisname, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a headof black hair like a shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled like his ownbeef. It was in vain that the daughters always spoke of him as "the oldgentleman," addressed him as "papa" in tones of infinite softness,and endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers and othergentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no keeping down thebutcher. His sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. Hehad a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokesmade his sensitive daughters shudder, and he persisted in wearing hisblue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a "bitof sausage with his tea."
He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family. Hefound his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to him, nolonger laughing at his jokes, and now and then throwing out a fling at"some people" and a hint about "quality binding." This both nettledand perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife and daughters, withthe consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of thecircumstance, at
length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon'spipe and tankard at Wagstaff's, to sit after dinner by himself andtake his pint of port--a liquor he detested--and to nod in his chair insolitary and dismal gentility.
The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets in Frenchbonnets with unknown beaux, and talking and laughing so loud that itdistressed the nerves of every good lady within hearing. They even wentso far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a French dancingmaster to set up in the neighborhood; but the worthy folks of LittleBritain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul that hewas fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps and decamp with suchprecipitation that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings.
I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fieryindignation on the part of the community was merely the overflowing oftheir zeal for good old English manners and their horror of innovation,and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous inexpressing for upstart pride, French fashions and the Miss Lambs. ButI grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold,and that my neighbors, after condemning, were beginning to follow theirexample. I overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let theirdaughters have one quarter at French and music, and that they might takea 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 MissLambs, parading about Little Britain.
I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away, thatthe Lambs might move out of the neighborhood, might die, or might runaway with attorneys' apprentices, and that quiet and simplicity might beagain restored to the community. But unluckily a rival power arose. Anopulent oilman died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a familyof buxom daughters. The young ladies had long been repining in secretat the parsimony of a prudent father, which kept down all their elegantaspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer restrained, broke outinto a blaze, and they openly took the field against the family of thebutcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the first start, hadnaturally an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They couldspeak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and hadformed high acquaintances; but the Trotters were not to be distanced.When the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the MissTrotters mounted four and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gavea dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand; and, though theymight not boast of as good company, yet they had double the number andwere twice as merry.
The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionablefactions under the banners of these two families. The old games ofPope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discarded; there is nosuch thing as getting up an honest country dance; and on my attemptingto kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I wasindignantly repulsed, the Miss Lambs having pronounced it "shockingvulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionablepart of Little Britain, the Lambs standing up for the dignityof 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 resultwould puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his talent at prognostics,to determine, though I apprehend that it will terminate in the totaldownfall of genuine John Bullism.
The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Being a singleman, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good-for-nothingpersonage, I have been considered the only gentleman by profession inthe place. I stand therefore in high favor with both parties, and haveto hear all their cabinet counsels and mutual backbitings. As I am toocivil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committedmyself most horribly with both parties by abusing their opponents.I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a trulyaccommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension: if the Lambs andTrotters ever come to a reconciliation and compare notes, I am ruined!
I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am actuallylooking out for some other nest in this great city where old Englishmanners are still kept up, where French is neither eaten, drunk, danced,nor spoken, and where there are no fashionable families of retiredtradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before Ihave an old house about my ears, bid a long, though a sorrowful adieuto my present abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and theTrotters to divide the distracted empire of LITTLE BRITAIN.
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