holds it in the light; and over which Smith
smacks his contented lips. But

        "In yonder BIN a Druid lies!"

a rare and venerable wine, worthy of the palate
of the most accomplished of existing judges.
There is some pleasure in giving such a wine to
him; a pleasure such as an artist feels in the
applause of a master. I ask, with humble
awe, who might claim the distinction of being
the best judge of port? I learn the name. It is
a good name,—a name as good as bank notes;
for, scrawled at the foot of oblong little documents,
it commands the payment of thousands
of pounds, and the awe of hundreds of citizens.
I cherish that name in my memory; and if I
ever meet the bearer (may it be at a feast!) I
rather think I shall be very civil to him.

But "whither draggest thou me, O
Bacchus? " as Horace exclaims. Still we glide
through rivers of sawdust, between genial
embankments of wine. There are twelve
hundred dozen bottles of champagne down
here; there are between six and seven
hundred dozen of claret. Corked up in those
bins is a capital of from eleven to twelve
thousand pounds: those bottles absorb, in
simple interest at five per cent., an income
amounting to some five or six hundred pounds
per annum. " Your committee " are naturally
puzzled with this embarrassment of vinous
riches. They are too much awed to choose.
Despairing, they ascend from the vault. As
they take leave till dinner time, they speak
confidentially to mine host;—"As to the
wine," says Jones, " we leave all that to you."
—A wise resolution, Jones.

I gain the hall. Bless me, what a bustle!
Men of business-aspect hurry in. A hasty
scrape of the feet, and—

"Which to the Mexican Bondholders?"

"Second floor, sir," says the porter.

"Which to the Railway-Smash Assurance?"

"Up-stairs, and first to the left."

"Has the Bereaved Baby Asylum met
yet?"

"Yes, sir.  End of the passage."

"Which way to the Gibbleton Junction?"

I prick up my ears. A worthy relative of
mine had speculated considerably in the
Gibbleton. A more beautiful line was never
devised; it was to join Gibbleton to the Great
Trunk Due Eastern Junction: the only thing
objectionable was, that Gibbleton had no need
of the union in question.

"First floor to the right, sir," replies the
porter.

The Gibbleton meeting seems attractive:
dozens of gentlemen hurry to it with a
certain air of determination. They clench their
teeth as if they had to take particularly good
care of bank-notes between them.

I follow. As I ascend the stairs, I reflect
that this especial tavern fulfils its etymology
to the very letter. Understand that the root
of the word tavern is—Tabula, a table; and
we have already seen that no solitary hutches,
ranged Inn-wise, are here permitted; nothing
but the social and expanded " table." The
ancients, when they ceased to dine in the open
air, covered in their tables, and called the building
taberna— hence, from Tabernacle, Tavern:
not only a table-house, but a meeting-house.
The London Tavern, therefore, is, in the purest
sense of the term, a tavern. The division of
its day is less into morning, noon, and night,
than into Meetings and Dinners. The
facetious etymologist, Lemon, hath it that——

My philology is interrupted; a lovely face
presents itself on the landing. Its smile is
bewitching: and when, in a voice of music, it
sings, rather than says, " Pray give me your
vote, sir," I hate myself for not being
a subscriber to the Bereaved Baby establishment.
The banisters all the way up are
fluttering with bills—Vote for Ann Mitt, the
youngest of eight!—Vote for Mary Broggs,
afflicted with teething convulsions; and a few
laconic placards, bearing simply, Globbs's
Orphan. My present sympathies are, however,
enlisted for the Gibbleton shareholders. The
Gibbleton is to be " wound up " this day;
a return of three-and-sixpence is expected out
of the thirty shillings paid. Could a Gibbleton
shareholder be courteous under the
circumstances, even to the lovely canvasser for
Bereaved Babies?

The room is arranged with benches, and
sumptuously Turkey-carpeted. At the end
is a long table for the Directors, with an
imposing array of paper and pens. The benches
are fully occupied. Stamping on the carpet
being found inefficacious, rattling of sticks
and umbrellas against the chair-rails begins.
A side-door opens, and in sail the Directors,
bowing modestly; several of them are elderly
gentlemen, spotlessly respectable in dress. The
Secretary reads the advertisement. Then the
Chairman, JACOB BALDER, ESQ., rises—the
paper in his hand fluttering with nervousness.
Had the railway been an Irish one, Mr. O'Crater
of the Castle Hoo, would have got up and
made a flourish about Canute and the ocean;
and if any shareholder was violent, another
Director would say that " men of family were
not to have personal imputations cast on
them," and all that. But Mr. Balder, though
enormously wealthy, is painfully timid. He
makes a quiet preamble about the " unfortunate
tide of railway affairs;" (a low demoniac
murmur of laughter succeeds); and " the
propriety of an amicable arrangement," (ironical
titters from a flashily dressed youth who had
risked the pocket-money of years), whereupon
the embossed ceiling reverberates with a wild
cry for " The accounts!"

The Secretary rises with a clean, trim,
beautiful document in his hand—the
balance-sheet. I observe that the Directors look
with some industry at the table all the time.
The Chairman casts his eyes up to the ceiling
in a very anxious state of absence of mind.
The only member of the Board betraying no
uneasiness is Captain Gunnersly; who leans