These were deposited in the parish club-room, which
had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient
establishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood.
A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles
Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by
Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rock" of the establishment.
It is one of those little taverns which abound in the heart of
the city and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the
neighborhood. We entered the barroom, which was narrow and
darkling, for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected
light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose
broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was
partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread with a
clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests
were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it
was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room was a
clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A
row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along
the mantelpiece, and an old fashioned clock ticked in one corner.
There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor,
and hall that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me.
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