Apart from its eloquent and consoling philosophy, the picture is pleasant.  You see two rows of shoulders resolutely set for action:  heads in divers degrees of proximity to their plates:  eyes variously twinkling, or hypocritically composed:  chaps in vigorous exercise.  Now leans a fellow right back with his whole face to the firmament:  Ale is his adoration.  He sighs not till he sees the end of the mug.  Now from one a laugh is sprung; but, as if too early tapped, he turns off the cock, and primes himself anew.  Occupied by their own requirements, these Britons allow that their neighbours have rights:  no cursing at waste of time is heard when plates have to be passed:  disagreeable, it is still duty.  Field-Marshal Duty, the Briton’s chief star, shines here.  If one usurps more than his allowance of elbow-room, bring your charge against them that fashioned him:  work away to arrive at some compass yourself.

Now the mustard ceases to travel, and the salt:  the guests have leisure to contemplate their achievements.  Laughs are more prolonged, and come from the depths.

Now Ale, which is to Beef what Eve was to Adam, threatens to take possession of the field.  Happy they who, following Nature’s direction, admitted not bright ale into their Paradise till their manhood was strengthened with beef.  Some, impatient, had thirsted; had satisfied their thirst; and the ale, the light though lovely spirit, with nothing to hold it down, had mounted to their heads; just as Eve will do when Adam is not mature:  just as she did—­Alas!

Now, the ruins of the feast being removed, and a clear course left for the flow of ale, Farmer Broadmead, facing the chairman, rises.  He stands in an attitude of midway.  He speaks: 

’Gentlemen!  ’Taint fust time you and I be met here, to salbrate this here occasion.  I say, not fust time, not by many a time, ’taint.  Well, gentlemen, I ain’t much of a speaker, gentlemen, as you know.  Howsever, here I be.  No denyin’ that.  I’m on my legs.  This here’s a strange enough world, and a man ’s a gentleman, I say, we ought for to be glad when we got ’m.  You know:  I’m coming to it shortly.  I ain’t much of a speaker, and if you wants somethin’ new, you must ax elsewhere:  but what I say is—­Bang it! here’s good health and long life to Mr. Tom, up there!’

‘No names!’ shouts the chairman, in the midst of a tremendous clatter.

Farmer Broadmead moderately disengages his breadth from the seat.  He humbly axes pardon, which is accorded him with a blunt nod.

Ale (to Beef what Eve was to Adam) circulates beneath a dazzling foam, fair as the first woman.

Mr. Tom (for the breach of the rules in mentioning whose name on a night when identities are merged, we offer sincere apologies every other minute), Mr. Tom is toasted.  His parents, who selected that day sixty years ago, for his bow to be made to the world, are alluded to with encomiums, and float down to posterity on floods of liquid amber.