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 funereal 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 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 ha
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 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 "