The True History of Tom & Jerry: or, Life in London, by Charles Hindley

THE EFFECTS OF THE NEW POLICE.

At the Guildhall, on Monday, October 12th, 1829, after Sir Peter Laurie had admonished and discharged a disorderly woman, who had been accused of being noisy in the street, he asked her accuser, a watchman, named Livingstone, where his beat was? The watchman said it was from St. Dunstan’s Church to Temple Bar. Do you find any increase of bad characters on your beat? Watchman (smilingly): Yes, I believe I do; the New Policemen drives ’em into the City. Sir Peter: Then you should drive them back again; it would be better than taking them up. Watchman: When there was a quarrel among them the other night, a policeman came up and drove them through the Bar, saying, “Ye shan’t stand here; go into the City with your rows.” Sir Peter Laurie said that he had heard that a police magistrate had directed the policemen to drive all bad characters into the City. If there was any truth in this, it was an imprudent—an improper observation. He desired the watchman present to drive all the bad characters out of the City. The thing must be put down. Subsequently, some vagrants were brought up, and Sir Peter told them to drive them out of the City instead of apprehending them in future. “We can play at tennis-ball,” said the Alderman, in an under tone.

“Who stole the Mutton?” together with many other words and phrases in reference to the supposed partiality of the police to The Cook! The Kitchen!! and The Cold Mutton!!! have clung to the service from the day of its formation to the present time, while comic writers of all degrees, in farces, burlesques, songs, and pantomimes, have never failed to make capital out of the New Police, Peel’s Raw-Lobsters, Peeler’s, Blue Bottles, &c., &c.

Polito’s Beasts.—Polito, the Italian successor to Pidcock’s Zoological Collection, and very famous in his day. Attracted many thousands of spectators every year at Bartholomew Fair.

Pony.—Money. To post the pony, to pay down the money, also the sum of twenty-five pounds.

Poundage Cove.—A fellow who receives poundage for procuring a customer for damaged goods—also a puffer at auction sales.

Press-Gang.—Reporters, better known, perhaps, as gentlemen connected with the Press!

Prigs.—Pickpockets, and snappers-up of unconsidered trifles in general—from a needle to an anchor!

Punch.—From the Indian word punj (five); so called from its five ingredients, viz., spirit, water, lemon, sugar and spice. It was introduced into England from Spain, where it is called ponche. It is said to be a great “contradiction,” because it is composed of spirits to make it strong, and water to make it weak, of lemon juice to make it sour, and sugar to make it sweet.

Qui-tam.—A ╳ species of lawyer, whose dealings are seldom or never on the ◻.

Rag.—Bank notes, money in general. The cove has no Rag; the fellow has no money. Rag-carrier, an ensign.

Randall, Jack.—Jack Randall, the Nonpareil of the ring, died at his house, the Hole-in-the-Wall, Chancery Lane, March 12th, 1828, aged 34. Jack was an Anglo-Irishman, and first drew his breath in the Hibernian colony of St. Giles. He was the hero of sixteen prize battles, and left the ring undefeated. At this period it was considered he had received not less than £1,200 by his good fortune, but “easy got, easy gone”—as fast as it was got it was spent, until prudence suggested the expediency of laying the foundation of something substantial for his family, and he accordingly closed his bargain for the Hole-in-the-Wall, under the patronage of General Barton, his friends giving him a pipe of wine, instead of a piece of plate, to commence operations. From henceforth he pursued the business of a publican, and was highly respected by all ranks of the Fancy. Tom Moore, the Irish poet, was a frequenter of his house, and it was there that he picked up most of his material for his “Tom Cribb’s Memorial to Congress,” &c. The liberality of his friends, however, added to his own predilection for daffey, gradually paved the way to the “break-up” of his constitution, and for the last few months of his life he was but the shadow of his former self.

Alas! poor Jack lies on his back,
As flat as any flounder:
Although he died of a bad inside,
No heart was ever sounder.

The Hole-in-the-Wall was once his stall,
His crib the Fancy name it:
A hole in the ground he now has found,
And no one else will claim it.

But too much lush man’s strength will crush,
And so found poor Jack Randall:
His fame once bright as morning light,
Now’s out, like farthing candle.

Rattler.—A Hackney coach. Rattler and Prad, a coach and horses. Rattling-cove, a coachman.

Rhino.—Money.—May there always be plenty rhino betwixt the chaps that you and I know.

Russell, Samuel.—Otherwise “Jerry Sneak Russell,” from the very admirable manner in which he played the character of the henpecked cockney lout in Foote’s farce of “The Mayor of Garratt.” Mr. Russell was for some years manager of the Theatre Royal, Brighton, where he produced “Tom and Jerry” in 1822. After a long life of toil and trouble as a manager, actor, and—the father of a large family, a charitable benefit was got up for him at the Haymarket Theatre, July 1st, 1841, when “Macbeth” was performed, with Charles Kean as Macbeth; Mr. S. Phelps, Macduff; Lady Macbeth, Miss Ellen Tree. After which Mr. Russell spoke an address thanking his kind friends and patrons for their support and patronage; explaining that he deemed it necessary to address them before his final appearance on the stage, least he should not have the nerve power to do so afterwards. Then followed The Mayor of Garratt, Jerry Sneak (for the last time), Mr. Russell; Major Sturgeon, Mr. Robert Strickland. Unfortunately the money realized by the Benefit, and the private subscription list, was injudiciously invested in a very risky security; and a year or two afterwards the house of business failing the whole of it was irretrievably lost. Mr. Russell died at his daughter’s residence, Gravesend, February 25, 1845, aged 79.

Sadler’s Wells.—The oldest theatre in London, and named in part from a mineral spring, which was superstitiously dispensed by the monks of the Priory of St. John of Jerusalem, from an early date. In the reign of Charles II. a Mr. Sadler, built here a music-house, and in 1683, re-discovered while digging gravel for his garden the Holy Well of “excellent steel water” which in 1684 was visited and drunk by hundreds of persons of every degree in their morning’s walk. In 1765, Mr. Rosoman converted Sadler’s Wells garden into a theatre. Mr. King, of Drury Lane Theatre, was long a partner and stage-manager, and Charles Dibdin and his sons Thomas and Charles were proprietors. Grimaldi, father, son and grandson, were famous clowns. The season of 1803 is memorable for the appearance of the celebrated Italian traveller Signor Benzoni, as the Patagonian Samson, in which character he performed prodigious feats of strength. Wine was sold and drunk on the premises until 1807, under the old regulation,—“for an additional sixpence, every spectator was allowed a pint of either port, Lisbon, mountain, or punch.” On the 15th of October, 1807, twenty three persons, male and female, were killed, and many dangerously injured by reason of a false alarm of “Fire!” New River water was introduced in a tank under the stage, and plays were written and arranged so as to display “Real Water” in some of the scenes, and the place advertised as the Aquatic Theatre Sadler’s Wells. In some cases the “good young man” and rightful heir to the estate, was basely and unmercifully hurled from some rock-work into the angry and surging billows below; by the hired myrmidons of the “Cruel Squire” of the Castle: then it was that the real dog would plunge into the real water, and rescue the real Count De Montfordiano from perdition. At other times the Lord of —— “the star-breasted villain,” was set upon by the highly virtuous villagers, for having disgraced the “Village-born Beauty,” who chased him in and out, and all round about the huge mountain-pass which overhung the “Perilous Pool,” until his noble Lordship! was captured, and then hurled into the “depths below,” and while his dummy! body was descending, it was shot—in two places, by Robin the Ploughman and Virtuous Villager—“under whose calf-skin waistcoat beat a heart truer than all the Lords, Dukes and Squires in wide England and Foreign parts.” Pierce Egan’s own version of “Tom and Jerry”—the “Author’s Piece” was performed for the first time on Monday, April 8, 1822; Tom, Mr. Elliott; Jerry, Mr. Keeley; Logic, Mr. Vale. But the more honourable distinction of Sadler’s Wells Theatre is the admirable representation of Elizabethan plays under the able management of Mrs. Warner and Messrs. Phelps and Greenwood, by whom it was made “the popular retreat of the regular drama”—1844-59 and 1861.

Sam—To Stand Sam.—To pay for the whole of the reckoning. Sammy is he who is fool enough to do it.

Sanders, John.—“Old Jack of the Adelphi”—and original Black Sal, died December 9, 1865, aged 66.

Schneider.—A tailor. Scholars will perceive this “cognomen is german to the matter.”

“Yonder, sir, is Mr. Goosequill, one of the ‘Seven Bards of the Seven Dials,’ a clever man, who came to town with half-a-crown in his pocket, and his tragedy, called the ‘Mines of Peru,’ by which he of course expected to make his fortune. For five years he danced attendance on the manager, in order to hear tidings of its being ‘cast,’ and put into rehearsal, and four years more in trying to get it back again. During the process he was groaned, laughed, whistled, guyed, and nearly kicked out of the secretary’s room, who swore—which well he might do, considering the exhausted treasury of the concern—that he knew nothing about, or ever heard of the ‘Mines of Peru.’ At last Mr. Goosequill, being shown into the manager’s kitchen, to wait till he was at leisure, had the singular pleasure of seeing two acts of the ‘Mines of Peru’ daintily fastened round a savory capon on the spit, to preserve it from the scorching influence of the fire.

“‘This was foul treatment,’ I observed, and I ventured to ask how he had subsisted during the meanwhile? ‘Why he first made an agreement with a printer of Ballads, Last Dying Speeches and Confessions, &c., living in the Seven Dials, who finding his inclinations led to poetry, expressed his satisfaction, telling him that one of his poets had lost his senses, and was confined in Bedlam, and another was dazed with drinking drams. An agreement was made, and he earned five shillings and two-pence-three-farthings per week as his share of this speculation with the muses. But his profits were not always certain. He had often the pleasure of dining with Duke Humphrey, and for this reason he turned his thoughts to prose; and in this walk he was eminently successful, for during a week of gloomy weather he published an apparition, on the substance of which he subsisted very comfortably for a month. He often makes a good meal upon a monster. A rape has often afforded him great satisfaction, but a murder—an out-and-out murder—if well timed, is board, lodging, and washing, with a feast of nectared sweets for many a day.’”

Shaking the Shallow.—Tossing in a hat. Three or more coins are shaken together in the hat, then cast out on the table, most heads or most tails being the winner or loser, according to the calling of the players.

Six and Eight-pence.—A lawyer of the first order of Sharks, whose whole object in commencing an action is to make a “bill of costs.”

Sketch-Room.—The—in Corinthian House which was principally dedicated to the productions of the late George Morland, Jerry was rather more if not quite at home, almost skipping with rapture as his eye ran over the subjects of that unrivalled genius of the pencil. Nature was seen so strongly at every touch that Jerry nearly fancied himself again at Hawthorn Hall, looking at his dogs, pigs, and horses.

“It was the opinion of Corinthian Tom, in his remarks to Jerry, when the latter first entered this apartment, that if Morland had only painted half the number of subjects which are now before the public, their value might have been enhanced twice as much; and finished pictures, instead of sketches, most likely would have been the result. This was the reason Tom assigned to Jerry for having it called the Sketch-Room. ‘Nine times out of ten,’ said Tom, ‘dull matter-of-fact calculation is not allied with genius.’ Money, to George Morland, was a colour that he did not paint with; and, therefore, respecting its value, he seemed to know nothing. Embarrassment and the Catchpoles first drew up the curtain and showed him the iron bars which stopped his thoughtless career. They also explained to him, in the most feeling manner, the uses of a strong lock. They likewise pointed out to George the difference in his prospects,—not in an artist-like manner to his ‘mind’s eye,’ but in a clear distinct way of business, that twenty shillings make a Pound. For the moment, he keenly felt the disgusting cramped situation of Carey Street,[40] which compelled him to peep at his objects, through the rails of his apartment: for the moment, also, he felt the immediate necessity of procuring the gold talismanic key to give him once more liberty, again to wander amidst the beauties of nature: it was then that Morland painted for money: it was then that Genius was in fetters: it was then that rapid exertions got the better of his taste. ‘The sooner you paint me a picture, Mr. Morland,’ said the leary Bum-trap, ‘the sooner the door will be open to you. Freedom is in view,—and I’ll discharge your debt.’ No skilful angler ever threw his line into waters with more coaxing bait to hook the poor fish, than Mr. Screw ‘tried it on’ with his prisoner. It was plausible: it was better,—it gave no trouble to his acquaintance: it also prevented shyness or Refusal from his friends. The lock-up-house, by such means lost its terror. Employment was found for the mind and pencil of Morland. He experienced no shiverings of the body—no feverish parched-up tongue, waiting with the most anxious suspense for the return of the messenger to bring the No, which ultimately sent him to jail, or the delightful Yes, that set the prisoner once more at liberty. On the contrary, George was quite at home. He did as his inclinations prompted him. Jolly fellows called on him in abundance; and the song and the glass went round with the freedom of a tavern. All his wants were supplied, and the misery of a spunging-house was not seen in Morland’s apartments. In fact, he was better attended than when out of it. From the top screw to the stamper cleaner, all of them felt an interest in waiting upon the ‘Great Genius,’ as he was termed, in order to take a sly peep at his paintings. Here George set no price to his pictures, but when he was tired of his companions, and his confined situation, he then industriously, and in a short time, painted himself out of the lock-up house. Lumbering him, never afterwards gave Morland any horrors: and, whenever he was in trouble, the same kind of judgment was repeated, time and often, till Mr. Screw had realized a tolerable collection of valuable paintings. This officer was rather fond of paintings himself; but when any gentleman took a fancy to purchase any of them, Mr. Screw never betrayed a want of knowledge of their value—by the prices he affixed to them. Morland died at the premature age of 41, in October 29, 1804—dissipated habits proved his quietus.”

Slang.—St. Giles’s Greek—a conversational expression of an irregular, more or less vulgar, type, familiar to and in vogue among a certain class.

Slavey.—Servants of all work, in allusion to their laborious employment and hard work.

Smell a Rat.—To suspect or discover any concealed thing, a la Hamlet. Vide Old Polonius behind the arras: “A rat, a rat; dead, for a ducat, dead.”

Snip.—Mr. Snip a tailor.—Come in, taylor, here you may warm your goose.—Macbeth.

Soho Bazaar, The.—The first of its kind in England, was established by John Trotter, Esq., to whose family it still belongs. The building covers a space of 300 feet by 150, and extends from the Square to Dean Street on the one hand, and to Oxford Street on the other. The bazaar occupies two floors, and has counter accommodation for upwards of 160 tenants. The two principal rooms in the building are about ninety feet long, and in them the visitor may find almost every trade represented. One large room is set apart for the sale of books, another for furniture, and another for birds, cages, &c.; and at one end of the latter room is a large recess, occupied with a rustic aviary, through which runs a stream of water. Connected with the bazaar are offices for the registration of governesses and the hire of servants, &c.; and the scene that here presents itself during business hours is one well worthy of a visit. The bazaar has been frequently patronised by royalty.

The Soho Bazaar.
Ladies in furs, and gemmen in spurs,
Who lollop and lounge about all day:
The Bazaar in Soho is completely the go—
Walk into the shop of Grimaldi!
Come from afar, here’s the Bazaar!—
But if you won’t deal with us, stay where you are.

Here’s rouge to give grace to an old woman’s face,
Trowsers of check for a sailor;
Here’s a cold ice, if you pay for it twice,
And here’s a hot goose for a tailor.
Soho Bazaar, come from afar:
Sing ri fal de riddle, and tal de ral la.

Here’s a cock’d hat, or an opera flat—
Here’s a broad brim for a Quaker;
Here’s a white wig for a Chancery prig,
And here’s a light weight for a baker.
Soho Bazaar, &c.

A fringed parasol, or a toad-in-the-hole.
A box of japan to hold backy;
Here’s a relief for a widow in grief—
A quartern of Hodge’s jacky.
Soho Bazaar, &c.

Here, long enough, is a lottery puff
(I was half-drunk when it caught me);
It promised, my eyes! what a capital prize:
And here’s all the rhino it brought me.
Soho Bazaar, &c.

“Put it down to the bill,” is the fountain of ill
This has the shopkeepers undone;
Bazaars never trust—so down with your dust,
And help us to diddle all London.
Soho Bazaar, &c.

Something Short.—A drop of summat short. A glass of spirits, neat, unmixed—straight!

Spellken.—A playhouse:—Lord Byron in his Don Juan, Canto xi., stanza 19, uses the word in that sense, and then by way of a foot note, adds—

The advance of science and of language has rendered it unnecessary to translate the above good and true English, spoken in its original purity by the select nobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza of a song which was very popular, at least in my early days:—

On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle,
In spite of each gallows old scout:
If you at the spellken can’t hustle,
You’ll be hobbled in making a clout.

Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty
When she hears of your scaly mistake,
She’ll surely turn snitch for the forty,
That her Jack may be regular weight.

If there be any gem’men so ignorant as to require a translation, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of Pugilism; who, I trust, still retains the strength and symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good humour, and athletic as well as mental accomplishments.

Stand.—To treat. Stand the nonsense, to pay the reckoning, very great nonsense when there’s no occasion for it. Stand Sammy, to pay for other people.

Street Solicitors.—Mendicity Societies’ clients, a class of beings that, as before mentioned, Bodkin makes it a point to take care of, in other words—beggars.

Stunning Joe Banks.—Who was in all that’s flash, “bang-up to the knocker,” and for many years a very popular and much respected London character. He kept a renowned lush-crib called the “Hare and Hounds,” formerly the “Beggar in the Bush;” in No. 1, Buckeridge Street, within the classic region the “Holy Land,” or more frequently termed the Rookery in the heart of St. Giles’. Joe Banks, “mine host” of this boosing-ken; was a civil, rough, good natured, and very elaborate specimen of the genus homo, possessing a flow of spirits as extensive as his person. Good nature and conviviality were his leading characteristics, although his regular customers were composed of the veriest cadgers both male and female. The girls without shoes or stockings, clad in rags and jags. The male cadgers seldom or never used a comb or a pocket handkerchief:—

No small tooth-trap their locks disposes
No ’kerchiefs white attack their noses.

It was the fashion of the day for all the lively spirits—flash kiddies and country cousins curious in such matters to visit Stunning Joe Banks’ “City of the Cadgers” on such occasions, the persons and property of all were sacred while under his roof, and escorted through the intricacies of the “Rookery,” by Joe himself—or in his temporary absence by a well and truly trusted aide-de-camp! in order that they might not be in any way molested after leaving his house.

In conclusion we may add that “Stunning Joe Banks’s” drum was the resort of all classes, from the aristocratic marquis—especially he, who before he mizzled, hailed from Waterford!—to the downy vagabond, whose way of living was a puzzle to himself.

Swag.—Money, from its appetency to make its possessor swagger. Bag the Swag, to collect money.

Tattersall in the Rostrum.—“Gentlemen, what can you hesitate about? Only look at her! She is one of the most beautiful creatures that I have ever had the honour of submitting to your notice! So gentle in her paces; indeed, so safe a goer, that a child might ride her. Her pedigree is excellent—she is thorough-bred from her ear to her hoof; and the Herald’s College could not produce a more sound and satisfactory one—she comes from a good house, I pledge, my word, gentlemen. My Lord Duke, will you allow me to say £250 for your Grace? She will, notwithstanding the excellence of your Grace’s stud, be an ornament to it. She is a picture—complete to a shade; in fact, I could gaze upon her for ever, and always be struck with some new beauty she possesses. Thank you, My Lord Duke, I was certain your Grace would not let such an opportunity pass. There is not a horse-dealer in the kingdom who can show such a fine creature! She is above competition—I may say, she is matchless! The Regent’s Park might be betted to a mole-hill with safety that she has no parallel. Sir Henry, let me call your attention to Cleopatra! She is like her namesake in the olden times—but beautiful without paint! She is pure Nature, and no vice! Her action, Sir Henry—yes, her action—I could dilate upon it for a quarter of an hour—but puffing is out of the question—you shall judge for yourself. Run her down, John—The Graces, I am sure, Sir Harry, were they to behold her movements, would be out of temper with her captivating excellence! Taglioni, I must admit, can perform wonders with her pretty feet, but Cleopatra, my Lord Duke, can distance the whole of them put together; and positively leave the Opera House with all its talent, in the back ground. In fact, I am deficient in words to display her immense capabilities—£300, Going! £300. Thank you, my Lord Duke, she must be yours. For the last time, going at £310; but I will do the handsome thing, I will allow you five minutes to compose your mind—I am well aware that such unparalleled beauty is very dazzling—therefore, before you lose sight of this handsome creature, I do impress upon you, to remember that the opportunity once lost—£320; Sir Harry, I am obliged to you—the world has always acknowledged you as a man of great taste in matters of this kind; and without flattery, you have never shown it more than in the present instance—according to the poet, ‘Beauty; or, Loveliness, needs not the foreign aid of ornament, but is, when unadorned, adorned the most!’ Going—Cleopatra, my Lord Duke, will be in other hands if your Grace does not make up your mind in your usual princely style of doing things—a good bidding will make Cleopatra your own for ever, therefore, now’s the time to put on the distancing power, and your Grace will win the race in a canter! £340, my Lord Duke, I can only express my gratitude to say, that you have done me honour—Going!—Going!!—Going!!!—in fact, gentlemen, I am like an artist in this case, I do not like to leave such a delightful picture and I could dwell upon the qualities of Cleopatra to the very echo that applauds again and again! But most certainly I have given you all a fair chance—Cleopatra is on the go—are you all silent—going for £340, after all, what is that sum for one of the greatest English beauties ever submitted to the inspection of the public! £350, thank you, Sir Charles—worth your money at any price. I have witnessed your notice of Cleopatra for some time past—she will bear looking at, again and again! Charming Cleopatra! I am glad to see she has so many suitors for her hand—I beg pardon, gentlemen—a slip will happen to the best of us—her feet I should have said, but nevertheless, I am happy to see she has a host of admirers. I cannot bid myself, or else I would ‘make play’ and Cleopatra should become a noble prize—£370. Bravo! my Lord Duke! for £370 positively, yes, positively, ’pon my honour, positively the last time—or else the beautiful Cleopatra goes into the keeping of my Lord Duke. You are sure, gentlemen, that you have all done? Don’t blame me, but blame yourselves! Going once! Going twice! Going three times—Going—Gone!!! Cleopatra belongs to the Duke. ‘Jerry expressed himself so much pleased with his visit to Tattersall’s, that he observed to Logic, during his stay in London he should often frequent it.’ ‘I delight,’ said Hawthorn, ‘to be in the company of sportsmen; and no objects afford me greater satisfaction than the sight of a fine hunter,—the view of a high-mettled racer,—and the look of a perfect greyhound.’ ‘I admire them also,’ replied the Corinthian; ‘and Tattersall’s will always prove an agreeable lounge, if no direct purpose call a person thither. If nothing more than Information be acquired, that alone, Jerry, to a man of the world, is valuable at all times. Besides, Tattersall’s gives a tone to the sporting world, in the same way that the transactions on the Royal Exchange influence the mercantile part of society. It has likewise its ‘settling days,’ after the great races at Newmarket, Doncaster, Epsom, Ascot, &c. I do not know about the bulls and bears;[41] but if it has no lame ducks to waddle out, it has sometimes Levanters that will not show for a time, and others that will brush off altogether. But this does not happen very often; and Tattersall’s has its ‘good MEN’ as well as the ’Change, and whose ‘word,’ will be taken for any amount. It has also its Subscription-room, which is extremely convenient for gentlemen and other persons who feel any inclination to become acquainted with the events of the sporting world, at the moderate charge of one guinea a year. Indeed,’ continued Tom, ‘there is an air of sporting about this place altogether; elegance, cleanliness, and style, being its prominent features. The company, I admit, is a mixture of persons of nearly all ranks in life; but, nevertheless, it is that sort of mixture which is pleasingly interesting; there is no intimacy or association about it. A man may be well known here; he may also in his turn know almost everybody that visits Tattersall’s; and yet be quite a stranger to their habits and connections with society. It is no matter who sells or who purchases at this repository. A bet stands as good with a Leg, and is thought as much of, as with a Peer,—Money being the touchstone of the circumstance. The ‘best judge’ respecting sporting events is acknowledged the ‘best man’ here; every person being on the ‘look out’ to see how he lays his blunt. The Duke and the Parliamentary Orator, if they do not know the properties of a horse, are little more than cyphers; it is true they may be stared at, if pointed out as great characters, but nothing more. The nod from a stable-keeper is quite as important, if not more so, to the Auctioneer, as the wink of a Right Honourable. Numbers of persons who visit Tattersall’s are, or wish to, appear knowing: from which ‘self’ importance they are often most egregiously duped. In short, if you are not as familiar with the odds upon all events as Chitty in quoting precedents—show as intimate an acquaintance with the pedigree and speed of race-horses as a Gulley—and also display as correct a knowledge of the various capabilities of the prize pugilists as a Jackson—if Gain is your immediate object, you are ‘of no use’ at Tattersall’s,’ ‘Yes,’ said Logic, with a grin, interrupting Tom; ‘there are to be found here as many flats and sharps as would furnish the score of a musical composer; and several of these instruments have been so much played upon, and are so wretchedly out of tune, that the most skilful musician in the world cannot restore them to perfect harmony.’ ‘It is,’ resumed the Corinthian, ‘an excellent mart for the disposal of carriages, horses, dogs, &c., and many a fine fellow’s stud has been floored by the hammer of Tattersall. There is a capacious Tap attached to the premises, for the convenience of servants of gentlemen in attendance upon their masters, or for any person who stands in need of refreshment. Tattersall’s, for the purposes intended, is the most complete place in the Metropolis; and if you have any desire to witness ‘real life’—to observe character—and to view the favourite hobbies of mankind, it is the resort of the pinks of the Swells,—the tulips of the Goes,—the dashing heroes of the military,—the fox hunting clericals,—sprigs of nobility,—stylish coachmen,—smart guards,—saucy butchers,—natty grooms,—tidy helpers,—knowing horse-dealers,—betting publicans,—neat jockeys,—sporting men of all descriptions,—and the picture is finished by numbers of real gentlemen. It is the tip-top sporting feature in London.’ ‘It must have been the work of some time,’ said Jerry, ‘to have formed such a famous connection.’ ‘Yes,’ replied Tom; ‘you are quite right. It is not the work of a day. The name of Tattersall is not only high, but of long standing in the sporting world; and everything connected with this splendid establishment is conducted in the most gentlemanly manner. The founder of these premises was during his time, viewed as one of the best judges of horse-flesh in the kingdom; and, as a proof of it, he made his fortune by a horse called Highflyer.’”

Thames.—“He’ll never set the Thames on fire,” i.e., He will never make any figure in the world. This popular phrase is as to the word “Thames” altogether a misapplication. The temse was a corn sieve which was worked in former times over the receiver of the sifted flour. A hard-working active man would not unfrequently ply the temse so quickly as to set fire to the wooden hoop at the bottom; but a lazy fellow would never—no never set the temse on fire! The play on the word temse has engendered many stupid imitations as “He will never set the Mersey—or the Humber, &c., on fire,” which has no meaning. Dutch, teme; French, tamis; Italian, tamiso, a sieve.

Thigh of Mutton and Smash.—A boiled leg of mutton, with turnips and caper sauce, &c. A prominent article among pot-house gamblers.

Tip.—Money. To be in Tip-street, to have plenty of money, “a consummation devoutly to be wished.”

Tom King.—The Jolly Dog—“When did Tom King ever fail when the object was to serve a friend and promote mirth?” Zounds! for a quiz, a hoax, a joke, a jest, a song, a dance, a catch, a tale, a race, or a row. Tom King would not turn his back on any man in England. A’n’t I the choice spirit of the day, the jolly dog, the roaring boy, the knowing lad, the rare blood, the prime buck, the rum soul, the funny fellow? Emperor of the Cockonians! Chairman of the Jacks! General of the Lumber Troop! Master of the Mugs! Chief of the Eccentrics! Member of Daffy’s! President of the Flounder Club! Chairman of the Owls! Chancellor of the Two o’Clock Club! Vice-Chairman of the Hard-up Club! Captain of the Rag and Famish! Chairman of the Never Sinks! Founder of the Snugs! Member of the Beef-steak Club! Past Primo of all the Buffaloes Lodges held within the precincts of the City of Lushington! Noble Grand of the Oddfellows! Past-Arch of the Druids! And Vice of half the Freemasons’ Lodges in the United Kingdom! And though last, not least, in love, Founder of the Moral Philosophers’ Club! Oh, d——n! Tom King is the Jolly Dog! of the day.

Tothill Fields.—Situate between Pimlico and the Thames, formerly a great rendezvous for beggars, thieves, &c.

Translator of Soles.—A cobbler that can vamp up old shoes to look like new. A prime piece of deception; and those persons who purchase second-hand shoes soon find it out on a wet day.

Trotters.—The feet. Walk your trotters, to be off. Trotter-cases, shoes. Trotter shakers, dancers.

Turf—The.—The race course; the profession of horse racing, which is done on turf or grass. One who lives by the turf, or one on the turf, is one whose chief occupation or means of living is derived from running horses or betting on races. All men are equal on the turf and under it.—Lord George Bentinck.

Umbrella.—Otherwise mush, spread, summer cabbage, water-plant, gingham, &c. The first person who used an umbrella in the streets of London was Jonas Hanway, founder of the Magdalene Hospital, who died 1786.

Under a Cloud.—In debt and difficulties. Not able to show out, or come to the front in daylight.

Undergoing a Three Months’ Preparation.—The modern “New way to pay old debts,” or taking the Benefit of the Act! Sometimes resorted to by an honest man overwhelmed by the harpies of the law, but more generally in use among swindlers, scamps, blacklegs, rogues, and vagabonds of every description.

Under the Rose.—Sub rosa.—Secretly, confidentially. Amongst the ancients the rose was an emblem of silence.

Uneasiness.—Trouble. To have the uneasiness, to be vexed, restless. A copy of uneasiness, a copy of a writ.

Upstarts.—Persons lately raised to honours and riches, from mean stations.

Used Up.—Killed; a military saying, originating from a message sent by the late General Guise, on the expedition at Carthagena, where he desired the Commander-in-chief to order him some more grenadiers, for those he had were all used up!

Various Classes of Society.—“‘Now my dear Coz,’ said Tom, ‘as we shall soon have to intermix with the ‘various classes of society;’ and although it is not absolutely necessary that you should be able to dispute the accuracy of a Greek quotation with a Porson—contend with a Mozart upon the fundamental principles of harmony—enter into a dissertation on the properties of light and shade with a Reynolds—quote precedents with a Speaker of the House of Commons—argue law with an Eldon—display a knowledge of tactics with a Wellington—write poetry with a Byron—relate history with a Gibbon—contest grammatical points with a Horne Tooke—wit and eloquence with a Canning—support the Old English Character with a Wyndham—dance with an Oscar Byrne—fence with an O’Shaunessy—set-to with a Belcher—sing with Braham—contest the law of nations with a Liverpool—erudition with a Johnson—philosophy with a Paley—the wealth of nations with a Smith—astronomy with an Herschel—physiognomy with a Lavater—equity with a Romilly—and so on to the end of the Chapter of Talents in the Metropolis;—although it is not necessary, I again repeat, my dear Coz, that you should be able to rival all the traits of excellences possessed by the above characters, yet it is essentially requisite that you should have some knowledge of their respective qualities, and be sensibly alive to their immediate value, and the impression they have made on the minds of mankind.’ ‘Hold, hold!’ said Jerry, smiling, and making a low bow at the same time; ‘there is one person among these distinguished men that you have forgot to mention—who shall dispute taste with Corinthian Tom?’ The latter hero gave rather a graceful nod in return for this unexpected compliment, which, it would seem, augured to Tom a kind of budding of the lively genius of his cousin’s mind.”

Vauxhall Gardens—were sold by auction, 9th September, 1841, for £20,000. The last performance took place 25th July, 1859. The ground has been since sold for building purposes.—In allusion to the thinness and artist-like manner in which the ham was brought to table. Logic offered to bet Jerry “that it was not cut with a knife, but shaved off with a plane: and, if necessary, from its transparent quality, conceived it might answer the purpose of a sky-light!” Vauxhall Slices! or Ham Shavings! are terms well understood to this day.

Lilliput chickens boil’d,
Bucellas warm from Vauxhall ice;
And hams that flit in airy slice,
And salads scarcely soil’d.—London Mag., Sept., 1824.

Velvet.—The tongue. “To be upon velvet,” have the best of a bet or match.

Venus.—Love; the Goddess of Love; courtship. My Venus turns out a whelp, i.e., my swans are changed to geese; my cake is dough. In dice the best cast—three sixes—was called “Venus,” and the worst—three aces—was called “Canis.” My win-all turns out to be a lose-all!

View-Holloa of a fox is “Tally-ho!” or, as Jemmy Green would have it, “Tally-man!” of a hare, “Gone away!” but the “Who-hoop” signifies the death of each.

Viper and File.—The biter bit.—Æsop says a viper found a file, and tried to bite it, under the supposition that it was good food; but the file said that its province was to bite others, and not to be bitten.

Vowel.—“To vowel a debt.” Where the acknowledgment of the debt is expressed by the vowels I.O.U.

Let old I.O.U.’s be forgot,
And never brought to mind,
Let Writs and Judgments be forgot
And the Bills that I have signed

Waifs and Strays.—The juvenile homeless poor. Waifs are goods found but not claimed. Strays are animals that have wandered from their proper enclosures to the grounds of some one not their owner.

Walking Poulterer.—One who steals fowls, and hawks them from door to door.

Walking-up against the Wall.—To run up a score, which in alehouses is commonly recorded with chalk on the walls of the bar.

Wapping Great.—Means astonishingly great. Saxon, Wafian, to be astonished.

Ware Hawk.—An exclamation used by thieves to inform their confederates that some police officers are at hand.

Ways and Means.—To raise the supply of ready money for the current expenses of the day.

Weasel.—“To catch a weasel asleep.” To catch a person nodding; to find he has not his weather-eye open—Nunquam dormio!

Weather-Eye.—“I have my weather-eye open.” I have my wits about me; I know what I am after: I can see the difference between a clock and a cabbage.

Wedge.—Silver plate, because melted by the receivers of stolen goods into wedges.

West-End Tailor—A.—“Corinthian Tom had just ordered his servant to bring him ‘The Weekly Dispatch,’ to see how sporting matters had been going on in the Metropolis during his absence from town, when Mr. Primefit—the West-End Schneider!—Par excellence!—was announced to Mr. Hawthorn to be in waiting to receive his commands.

“Mr. Primefit, according to the ‘counter-talking part of the community,’ had done, all his ‘dirty work;’ and among the needles—otherwise sharps—at the West-end of the Town, who must sport a genteel outside, no matter at whose suit, it was observed, between a grin and a pun, that he had not only got rid of all his ‘bad habits,’ but had likewise outlived his sufferings. It was said of this celebrated ‘apparel furnisher,’ that, if he received the cash for ONE coat out of three, nothing was the matter! In his intercourse with people of fashion, the character that ran before him was a perfectly gentlemanly tradesman. He had one point in view on setting out in life, and he never lost sight of it. To ask his customers for payment was to lose their custom. Though for the first seven years Dickey Primefit was engaged in cutting-up his cloth, he was hurried beyond measure, by those ‘troublesome customers,’ John Doe and Richard Roe, who were continually at his elbow, nudging him to take ‘measure of their suits’ in preference to every other person; his law expenses and ‘Mum tip’—that is rhino to silence, or, shut-up the gab of the bum-traps—in consequence, were frightful; yet Dickey braved the fury of the woollen-draper’s ‘storm’ with the utmost composure. With a placid countenance he never refused credit to any British officer, either in the sea or land service, let the distance or uncertainty be what it might. The reference of one gentleman to another was quite sufficient to Mr. Primefit; and the garments were made and sent home without further enquiry or delay. Of course, in return, the charges of Dickey were never overhauled; indeed, what Gentleman would have behaved so ungentlemanly to a tradesman who was all civility, politeness, and accommodation, from one end of his pattern-card to the other? The business of Mr. Primefit, therefore, became so extensive, that he sent clothes to all parts of the world. In London, no gentleman, who had been once in the books of Dickey, would listen to the name of any other tailor, which rendered Primefit the ‘go for a tasty cut, best materials, and first-rate workmanship.’ Dickey had a ‘soul above buttons,’ he had no narrow ideas belonging to him: and he flattered himself that, ultimately, it would all be right. ‘No gentleman,’ Mr. Primefit would often assert, when he has been blamed for giving such an extensive loose sort of credit, ‘I am convinced, but will act as such, sooner or later, towards me!’ So it proved. Things, at length, took the expected turn. Many long out-standing bills came in. His capital accumulated. His business also increased in so extraordinary a manner that several clerks were necessary to keep it in order, and ensure punctuality. Dickey was almost as true as a clock to his time, in attending to orders. His character for fashion was so emphatic, that numbers of stylish tradesmen, who found it necessary to have a ‘bettermost coat’ by them, for ‘high days and holidays’ regardless of the charge, employed Mr. Primefit. The sunshine of prosperity was now so complete, that not a single bum-trap had crossed the threshold of Dickey’s door, in the way of private business, for many a long day past. In short, Mr. Primefit had realised the climax of his exertions—he had measured his way into a carriage. Dickey was principally distinguished for the cut of his coats. To Corinthian Tom he was peculiarly indebted, as a leader of the fashion. It was owing to this circumstance that Mr. Primefit waited in person at Corinthian House; indeed, the active use of the scissors and parchment had long been removed from the hands of Dickey, and his principal occupation now consisted of talking over the versatility of fashion to his customers, and giving directions to his men. But the slightest idea that might drop from Corinthian Tom respecting the advantages of dress was what Dickey could not resist, and he, therefore, ordered his carriage immediately to attend upon the rustic Jerry at once.

“Tom and Jerry, previously to the arrival of the apparel-furnisher, had been discussing the advantages resulting from dress and ADDRESS; and the Corinthian had also been pointing out to his Coz not to skim too lightly over so important a subject, but to peruse with most marked attention that grand living Book of books:—MAN!!!”

Whetstone Park.—A lane between Holborn and Lincoln’s-Inn-Field’s. Formerly famed for being the resort of women of the town.

Whistling Shop.—A place in which spirits are sold without a licence. “Who that has ever visited a Friend undergoing a three months’ purification in the Fleet or King’s Bench, but has been introduced to a Whistling Shop; and who that has been initiated into its sacred rites, would basely betray his knowledge. No one at all ambitious of bearing the character of the real thing. Neither Mr. Brown nor Marshal Jones would thank any Paul Pry for splitting on this point. Any reader that may not have visited a Whistling Shop, cannot do better than put a little of the bustle in his poke; call on the first Friend he has in Limbo, and get introduced to one as quickly as possible; and thus do a double good, furnish himself with a little useful information, and cheer a Pal in distress at the same time.

Whitechapel.—Anything low, mean, or paltry. A Whitechapel portion, a smock, and what nature gave. Whitechapel breed, fat, ragged, and saucy. Whitechapel Beau, one who dresses with a needle and thread, and undresses with a knife. A Whitechapel Brougham, a costermonger’s donkey-barrow.

Wrench, Benjamin.—Comedian; original Corinthian Tom at the Adelphi, died November 24, 1843, aged 67.

Wrekin Tavern.—In Broad Court, Drury Lane, was much frequented by first-rate theatricals, authors, poets, painters, gentlemen of the press, men of the world, and intelligent persons in general, and was a house of entertainment of no common description, kept at the time by a Mr. Williams, a person connected with literary pursuits. It was to the Wrekin Tavern that Edmund Kean was conveyed on the ever-memorable night of the 24th of March, 1833, when he partly played Othello to his son Charles’s Iago, at Covent Garden Theatre. And described thus by his biographer:—

“After making one or two feeble steps towards his son, and attempting the speech of:—

Villian, be sure thou prove my love a whore;
Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof, &c.

“When his head sunk on his son’s shoulder, and the tragedian’s acting was at an end. He was able to groan out a few words in Charles’s ear—‘I am dying—speak to them for me;’ after which (the audience refusing in kindness, to hear any apology) he was borne from the stage. His son, assisted by other persons, carried him to his dressing-room, and laid him on a sofa. He was as cold as ice; his pulse was scarcely perceptible; and he was unconscious of all that was going on around him. In this state he remained some time, when the remedies which were applied having restored him to his senses, he was taken to the ‘Wrekn’ Tavern, near the theatre, and Messrs. Carpue and Duchez, the surgeons, were sent for. From the Wrekin Tavern, he was after a week’s stay, removed to Richmond: where he died on the fifteenth day of May, 1833.”

The Wrekin Tavern—the Times—and the Proprietors underwent many changes from good, bad, and very indifferent; in fact, the character of house and company was entirely altered—O tempora! O mores! Here Johnny Broome, the pugilist, who was born at Birmingham, 1817, and the successful hero of six or seven battles in the P.R., and also the prime mover in “The Great Brighton Card Cheating Case,” committed suicide by cutting his throat, May 31, 1855.

Boxiana; or, Sketches of Ancient and Modern Pugilism; including every Exploit from the Days of Figg and Broughton to the present year (1829); with Biographical Memoirs of all the Boxers, particulars of their age, weight, style of fighting, &c.; and interspersed with a variety of Sporting Anecdotes, never before published. By PIERCE EGAN.