with his famous walking-staff. This, however, is considered as a rather
dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord.

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

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the shouts of
merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts of
half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. At
such times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight
equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up the
steams of a cookshop.

There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation in