gaping spectator in it.  The guests assembled about seven.  In those little temporary parlours three tables were spread with napery, not so fine as substantial, and at every board a comely hostess presided with her pan of hissing sausages.  The nostrils of the young rogues dilated at the savour.  JAMES WHITE, as head waiter, had charge of the first table; and myself, with our trusty companion BIGOD, ordinarily ministered to the other two.  There was clambering and jostling, you may be sure, who should get at the first table—­for Rochester in his maddest days could not have done the humours of the scene with more spirit than my friend.  After some general expression of thanks for the honour the company had done him, his inaugural ceremony was to clasp the greasy waist of old dame Ursula (the fattest of the three), that stood frying and fretting, half-blessing, half-cursing “the gentleman,” and imprint upon her chaste lips a tender salute, whereat the universal host would set up a shout that tore the concave, while hundreds of grinning teeth startled the night with their brightness.  O it was a pleasure to see the sable younkers lick in the unctuous meat, with his more unctuous sayings—­how he would fit the tit bits to the puny mouths, reserving the lengthier links for the seniors—­how he would intercept a morsel even in the jaws of some young desperado, declaring it “must to the pan again to be browned, for it was not fit for a gentleman’s eating”—­how he would recommend this slice of white bread, or that piece of kissing-crust, to a tender juvenile, advising them all to have a care of cracking their teeth, which were their best patrimony,—­how genteelly he would deal about the small ale, as if it were wine, naming the brewer, and protesting, if it were not good, he should lose their custom; with a special recommendation to wipe the lip before drinking.  Then we had our toasts—­“The King,”—­the “Cloth,”—­which, whether they understood or not, was equally diverting and flattering;—­and for a crowning sentiment, which never failed, “May the Brush supersede the Laurel!” All these, and fifty other fancies, which were rather felt than comprehended by his guests, would he utter, standing upon tables, and prefacing every sentiment with a “Gentlemen, give me leave to propose so and so,” which was a prodigious comfort to those young orphans; every now and then stuffing into his mouth (for it did not do to be squeamish on these occasions) indiscriminate pieces of those reeking sausages, which pleased them mightily, and was the savouriest part, you may believe, of the entertainment.

  Golden lads and lasses must. 
  As chimney-sweepers, come to dust—­

JAMES WHITE is extinct, and with him these suppers have long ceased.  He carried away with him half the fun of the world when he died—­of my world at least.  His old clients look for him among the pens; and, missing him, reproach the altered feast of St. Bartholomew, and the glory of Smithfield departed for ever.