a concert-room and a coal-store, out of what was originally a stable.
On the ground-floor was the small-coal repository, and over that the
concert-room--very long and narrow, badly lighted, and with a ceiling
so low that a tall man could scarcely stand upright in it. The stairs to
this room were far from pleasant to ascend, and the following facetious
lines by Ward, the author of the "London Spy," confirm this:

"Upon Thursdays repair
To my palace, and there
Hobble up stair by stair
But I pray ye take care
That you break not your shins by a stumble;

"And without e'er a souse
Paid to me or my spouse,
Sit as still as a mouse
At the top of the house,
And there you shall hear how we fumble."

Nevertheless beautiful duchesses and the best society in town flocked
to Britton's on Thursdays--not to order coals, but to sit out his
concerts.

Let us follow the short, stout little man on a concert-day. The
customers are all served, or as many as can be. The coal-shed is made
tidy and swept up, and the coal-heaver awaits his company. There he
stands at the door of his stable, dressed in his blue blouse,
dustman's hat, and maroon kerchief tightly fastened round his neck. The
concert-room is almost full, and, pipe in hand, Britton awaits a new
visitor--the beautiful Duchess of B------. She is somewhat late (the