As I recall them the roses bloom again, and the nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer.
Going to the play, then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in those honest days, with some young fellows of my own age, having listened delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of operas, and laughed enthusiastically at the farce, we became naturally hungry at twelve o'clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the "Cave of Harmony," then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, among whose friends we were proud to count.
We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr.Hoskins that he never failed to greet us with a kind nod; and John the waiter made room for us near the President of the convivial meeting.

We knew the three admirable glee-singers, and many a time they partook of brandy-and-water at our expense.

One of us gave his call dinner at Hoskins's, and a merry time we had of it.

Where are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night?
Do you warble your songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black Avernus?
The goes of stout, the "Chough and Crow," the welsh-rabbit, the "Red-Cross Knight," the hot brandy-and-water (the brown, the strong!), the "Bloom is on the Rye" (the bloom isn't on the rye any more!)--the song and the cup, in a word, passed round merrily; and, I daresay, the songs and bumpers were encored.

It happened that there was a very small attendance at the "Cave" that night, and we were all more sociable and friendly because the company was select.