Five-and-twenty years ago is a hundred years off--so
much has our social life changed in those five lustres. James Boswell
himself, were he to revisit London, would scarce venture to enter a
tavern. He would find scarce a respectable companion to enter its doors
with him. It is an institution as extinct as a hackney-coach. Many a
grown man who peruses this historic page has never seen such a vehicle,
and only heard of rum-punch as a drink which his ancestors used to
tipple.
Cheery old Tom Sarjent is surrounded at the Haunt by a dozen of kind boon
companions. They toil all day at their avocations of art, or letters, or
law, and here meet for a harmless night's recreation and converse. They
talk of literature, or politics, or pictures, or plays; socially banter
one another over their cheap cups: sing brave old songs sometimes when
they are especially jolly kindly ballads in praise of love and wine;
famous maritime ditties in honour of Old England. I fancy I hear Jack
Brent's noble voice rolling out the sad, generous refrain of "The
Deserter," "Then for that reason and for a season we will be merry before
we go," or Michael Percy's clear tenor carolling the Irish chorus of
"What's that to any one, whether or no!" or Mark Wilder shouting his
bottle-song of "Garryowen na gloria.
Pages:
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593