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. 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 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 Churchyard, 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, man 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 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
weathercocks 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. Skyrme 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 funeral 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 whole 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 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 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.*
* 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 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 taproom 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 pikestaff. 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 fungous 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 gypsy 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 blindman’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 letter 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 blindman’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 in miserable horses, and the rattling
and 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 Portsoken Ward, 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 everything 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’s
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 counsels 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.