ngs, in
the memory of many of us yet, are gone quite away into the past.
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." These songs were regarded with
affection by the brave old frequenters of the Haunt. A gentleman's
property in a song was considered sacred. It was respectfully asked for:
it was heard with the more pleasure for being old. Honest Tom Sarjent!
how the times have changed since we saw thee! I believe the present
chief of the reporters of the newspaper (which responsible office Tom
filled) goes to Parliament in his brougham, and dines with the Ministers
of the Crown.

Around Tom are seated grave Royal Academicians, rising gay Associates;
writers of other journals besides the Pall Mall Gazette; a barrister
maybe, whose name will be famous some day: a hewer of marble perhaps: a
surgeon whose patients have not come yet; and one or two men about town
who like this queer assembly better than haunts much more splendid.
Captain Shandon has been here, and his jokes are preserved in the
tradition of the place. Owlet, the philosopher, came once and tried, as
his wont is, to lecture; but his metaphysics were beaten down by a
storm of banter. Slatter, who gave himself such airs because he wro