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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 Eight, 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 clubnight he is called in to sing his "Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinkingtrowl 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 had 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,

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 Little Britain; these are St. Bartholomew's fair, and the Lord

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.

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 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 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 fellows 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."