[Illustration: W]Whilst Mr. Muff follows the beadle from the funking-room
to the Council Chamber, he scarcely knows whether he is walking upon his
head or his heels; if anything, he believes that he is adopting the former
mode of locomotion; nor does he recover a sense of his true position until
he finds himself seated at one end of a square table, the other three
sides whereof are occupied by the same number of gentlemen of grave and
austere bearing, with all the candles in the room apparently endeavouring
to imitate that species of eccentric dance which he has only seen the
gas-lamps attempt occasionally as he has returned home from his harmonic
society. The table before him is invitingly spread with pharmacopoeias,
books of prescriptions, trays of drugs, and half-dead plants; and upon
these subjects, for an hour and a half, he is compelled to answer
questions.
We will not follow his examination: nobody was ever able to see the least
joke in it; and therefore it is unfitted for our columns. We can but state
that after having been puzzled, bullied, "caught," quibbled with, and
abused, for the above space of time, his good genius prevails, and he is
told he may retire. Oh! the pleasure with which he re-enters the
funking-room--that nice, long, pleasant room, with its cheerful fireplace
and good substantial book-cases, and valuable books, and excellent
old-fashioned furniture; and the capital tea which the worshipful company
allows him--never was meal so exquisitely relished. He has passed the
Hall! won't he have a flare-up to-night!--that's all.
As soon as all the candidates have passed, their certificates are given
them, upon payment of various sovereigns, and they are let out. The first
great rush takes place to the "retail establishment" over the way, where
all their friends are assembled--Messrs. Jones, Rapp, Manhug, &c. A pot of
"Hospital Medoc" is consumed by each of the thirsty candidates, and off
they go, jumping Jim Crow down Union-street, and swaggering along the
pavement six abreast, as they sing several extempore variations of their
own upon a glee which details divers peculiarities in the economy of
certain small pigs, pleasantly enlivened by grunts and whistles, and the
occasional asseveration of the singers that their paternal parent was a
man of less than ordinary stature. This insensibly changes into "Willy
brewed a Peck of Malt," and finally settles down into "Nix my Dolly,"
appropriately danced and chorussed, until a policeman, who has no music in
his soul, stops their harmony, but threatens to take them into charge if
they do not bring their promenade concert to a close.
Arrived at their lodgings, the party throw off all restraint. The table is
soon covered with beer, spirits, screws, hot water, and pipes; and the
company take off their coats, unbutton their stocks, and proceed to
conviviality. Mr. Muff, who is in the chair, sings the first song, which
informs his friends that the glasses sparkle on the board and the wine is
ruby bright, in allusion to the pewter-pots and half-and half. Having
finished, Mr. Muff calls upon Mr. Jones, who sings a ballad, not
altogether perhaps of the same class you would hear at an evening party in
Belgrave-square, but still of infinite humour, which is applauded upon the
table to a degree that flirps all the beer out of the pots, with which Mr.
Rapp draws portraits and humorous conceits upon the table with his finger.
Mr. Manhug is then called upon, and sings