Читать книгу Palace and Hovel; Or, Phases of London Life - Daniel Joseph Kirwan - Страница 6

SLAP-UP-PETER'S SONG.

"No, that's no use at all; you see he doesn't go hall the way down. He is afraid, is the snake, and if you cough he'll come up and draw himself up and coil in a bunch in your mouth. But the duffers who pay their money think that the snake is in your stomach. It stands to reason that he'd get sick. It makes a man retch, and the first snake I swallowed I threw up and had awful vomits, but the next one I rather relished it, and it did me a sight o' good, like an oyster does after ye 'ave been drinkin at night and take's tuppence worth of natives in the morning. Well, when I began snake-swallowing it was rather new, and I had it all my own way for a long time, but finally, lots of men began to swallow snakes, and coal swallowing was not as good as it used to be; so I took to ballad singing, Judy and I. By this time we had sixty pounds saved, and we were doing well, but I made the acquaintance of a lot of Doncaster men, who knew I had the money, and before I could say 'Jack Robinson,' the money was all gone. Judy was in her confinement then, and she took on so bad about it that she died in child-bed, and the kid as well, and I've been on the tramp ever since, and now I do an odd turn at anything that turns up, but mostly I sing ballads, and make sometimes a shilling a day, and sometimes eightpence and ninepence a day. Times have changed for me. Worse luck."

Here the snake-swallower's story ended.

"Slap-Up Peter, will you give us a song? and I'll give you a drink, me oul wiper," said the crippled Kicking Billy to the snake-swallower.

"Well, Billy, I don't mind if I do," said Slap-Up Peter, draining the tin skillet to the last greasy drop.

The thieves, loafers, and women gathered around the fire in a half circle, and Purty Bill heaped logs very liberally, while Slap-Up Peter chanted in a hoarse voice the song, an extract of which I give below, as near as I remember it with my recollections of the scene, the choking smoke, the blazing fire, and the band of outcasts and outlaws in the den in Whitechapel:

'Twas down in Whitechapel that once I used to dwell,

And of all the coves that knocked about, I was the greatest swell,

My highlows were the cheese, with breeches to the knees,

Oh, my toggery was quite correct—my coat was Irish frieze,

My togs from Bond street came, it's a nobby slap-up street,

In a fashionable locality—the swells the girls there meet;

Nicol's my man for shirts, with his I cut a shine,

His shop's in far famed Regent street, he's a pal-o'-mine.

Rum too-rul-um, Happy-go-Bill,

Inyuns and greens who'll buy,

Rum too-rul-um, Happy-go-Bill,

Inyuns and greens who'll buy.

"That's a fine melojous voice of yours," said Purty Bill to the singer.

"He's used to it," said one of the women.

Here's Spuds at Thrums a pound, they're prime 'uns as I've found,

Oh, I've Reds and Dukes and Flukes and Blues, I sells in going my round.

My greens are superfine, full blown and hearty are mine,

Oh, come make a deal with me, my dear; don't wait, you'll find 'em prime.

My inyuns now are new, you'll find what I says is true,

In fact, the Queen, since these she's seen has cartloads just a few;

My carrots are long and red, you'll find they're well bred,

My vegetables are the cheese, bunch for you—penny-a-head.

Rum too-rul-um, &c.

"Now give us the last werse with all the 'armony," said Teddy the Kinchin, in a piping voice.

"I vill, vith moosh plesh-yar, as the Frenchman said," returned Slap-Up Peter.

Jerry, my moke's a bird, of him perhaps you've heard,

He knows his way about, he does, to match him's quite absurd;

Just see him cock his eye when grub time's getting nigh,

He likes his feed, he does indeed, he lives on cabbage-pie.

Now any girl that's kind, and a husband wants to find,

I'm ready made and so's my trade, that's if I'm to her mind;

So down to Whitechapel we'll trudge again to dwell,

And of all the coves that knock about I'll be the greatest swell.

Rum too-rul-um, &c.

"That's wot I call a topper of a song. It's so werry sentimental that it makes a gal peep. The lines are werry touchin'," said a young gal of sixteen or seventeen years of age, who was not badly dressed nor bad-looking, and who went by the name of "Bilking Bet." She was a favorite, and several of them called upon her to sing. She had just the same mock modesty, this young woman with the brassy face, as if she had been a fashionable lady at the West End, with a jointure and a coach and six.

"Wot's that young gal's name, Bill," said the detective to the boss of the thieves.

He did not seem inclined to tell at first, but said sullenly, "you don't want her do you? No? Well then that's 'Bilking Bet,' she used to be a 'coster gal but now she's on the cross."

"Oho!" said Serjeant Moss, "that's the gal as was hup before Mr. Knox at Marlboro street the other morning for snatching a lady's purse in a push."

"Yes," said Purty Bill, "but there was no proof aginst the gal. She was brought out has hinnocent as the new-born baby. She wor."

THE COSTER GAL.

"Of course, Bill, you had that done and cooked. One of those nice little halybi's as you halways 'ave ready just to suit your customers. 'Bilking Bet' was down in Wales a waitin upon her poor sick mother, who was down with the scarlet fever, and not expected to live. My Heye? Eh, Bill, one of your old tricks? But, I say, Bill, don't you get ketched, cos its over the water to Charly with ye hif I ketch ye."

This conversation was carried on in the corner of the room, from which we could see that the group around the fire were preparing to hear a song from "Bilking Bet," who cleared her throat twice with a pull at a gin bottle—no glasses here to annoy a person—and began, in a mellow and not unpleasing voice, the following slang song which is common among the London costermongers, but is seldom heard among the thieves. The song, no doubt, she owed to her early costermonger associations, before she became a pickpocket. She was now one of the most expert in London, and was the kept mistress of a well known burglar, who had, two days before I saw her, broken open a tea shop in the Old Bailey, near Ludgate Hill.

The song was as follows:

"THE COSTER' GAL."

Some chaps they talk of damsels fine,

Being angels bright and fair,

But they should only see my girl,

She is beyond compare,

She is the finest girl that's out,

Her name is Dinah Denny,

When you are out you'll hear her shout

"New Walnuts, twelve a penny!"

Chorus.—S'help me never none so clever,

As my Dinah Denny,

Can shout about, all round about

"New Walnuts, twelve a penny."

Her voice is like a dove,

And bright is her black eye,

I think she does me truly love,

She looks at me so sly.

She sports the smartest side spring boots,

Eclipse her cannot many,

And shows feet small, while she does call

"New Walnuts, twelve a penny."

Chorus, &c.

Rich noblemen may dress their wives

In silk or satin dress,

But Dinah I like quite as well

In her Manchester print, "Express,"

We're going to be wed, and then

If offspring we have many,

We'll be nuts on, and christen them

"New Walnuts, twelve a penny."

Chorus, &c.

"BILKING BET TAKES THE CHAIR."

"Now I think that's werry neat and happropriate to the hoccasion," said a cockney lodger who had successfully begged two-pence from the detective to pay for his lodging, which he handed over to "Purty Bill" as soon as he got the pennies.

"I moves we put Bilking Bet in the cheer? Wot dye say, gentlemen and ladies hall, to the proposition?"

"Hall right. Bet take the cheer and give us some of yer 'Ouse of Commons."

"Bilking Bet" was escorted to the middle of the group, placed standing on a three-legged stool without any visible back, and assuming as stately an air as she was capable of, the young girl, with the most perfect sang froid, began:

"Me lords and gentlemen, and likewise the ladies. Me noble pickpockets, gonoffs, blokes, and pinchers. I am with you this hevening, for what purpose, I hask? FOR WOT PURPOSE I HASK? Why, to be present at the feast which takes place hannerally among the members of our noble purfession—shall I say dignified purfession? No; I won't."

"But ye have said it, Bet," said Kicking Billy.

"Hear! hear! Shut up, will ye, and let the gal tork," said Slap-Up Peter.

"Well," said Bet, broken down in her attempt at a speech, "I move that we have a song from 'Teddy the Kinchin.' Will he hoblige?"

"He will! he will!" said a dozen voices.

"TEDDY THE KINCHIN'S SONG."

"I am sorry, me blokes, that my woice is so werry much out of tune in singing at Her Majesty's Hopera in the Haymarket, but howsumbever, as I have given hup my hengagement at that 'ouse, I'll fake you a few werses to show wot I wonce wos when I wos in woice," said this cheerful young blackguard and thief, who had a pair of eyes like a ferret, and could not have been more than seventeen years of age, as he stood there dressed in the height of his idea of the fashion, with a flashy velvet coat and satin scarf, showing a huge pin. He sang, after clearing his throat with a long drink of gin, as follows:

"TEDDY THE KINCHIN'S SONG."

I am a curious comical cove

Everybody does own O,

Hey ricketty Barlow, Cock-a-doodle-do!

I was born one day when father was out,

And mother she wasn't at home O,

Hey ricketty Barlow, &c.

I went to school and played the fool,

At learning was a shy man.

Hey ricketty Barlow, &c.

The boys they used to hollo out,

"There goes a Simple Simon!"

Hey ricketty Barlow, &c.

Oh lor! oh my! I'm a Simple Simon,

Oh lor! oh my! cock-a-doodle-do!

Where ere I go the folks they know,

And call me "Simple Simon;"

Hey ricketty Barlow, &c.

"Haltogether, please," said the Kinchin.

"TEDDY THE KINCHIN'S SONG."

I used to "kick" the cobbler out,

And rip up people's pockets,

Hey ricketty Barlow, &c.

And I was very fond of throwing stones

And lumps of mud at coppers,

Hey ricketty Barlow, &c.

But now I'm going to settle down,

Won't I cut a shine O,

Hey ricketty Barlow, &c.

I'll marry a gal with lots of Tin,

And won't I spend her rhino,

Hey ricketty Barlow, &c.

Oh lor! oh my! &c.

"Now, once more, and a good haltogether please," and the young pickpocket sat down amid thunders of applause from every one in the cellar belonging to the band of thieves.

TEDDY THE KINCHIN.

The thieves stew was now declared ready for consumption by the chef de cuisine, and as I at least felt no appetite for such a rich dish, we left this underground den of infamy just as a few faint streaks of the coming dawn began to gild the spire of St. Boldolph's ancient church.

"That Purty Bill is one of the greatest scoundrels in London. He is a fence, and we've got him once or twice, but he minds himself now, and we are after his tricks every day. His cellar used to be a brewery, that's why he's got so much room underground, and his game is to let out lodgings, at two pence a night, for a blind, and then they can stay all day at this place until twelve o'clock at night, and if they cannot pay sure for the next night's lodging in advance, unless they are in very good circumstances, he clubs them out, and they have got to pad the hoof until daybreak, and sleep where they can. Good night." And we parted for that twenty-four hours.

CHAPTER VI.

DEBATING CLUBS AND COGERS'S HALL.

SHOE lane hath a very unromantic sound for a locality. It does not smell of the aristocracy. It hath not even a slight favor of the Landed Gentry, and no one could possibly take the trouble to find armorial bearings or hatchments for Shoe lane. Yet is Shoe lane a most eloquent place, and there is a little old public house there deemed second only in point of fame by the admirers of forensic eloquence who frequent it, to the House of Commons.

The way was long and dreary that Saturday night that I strolled from Long Acre, whose carriage-shops and leather manufacturers' stalls were all closed for the day; and the sultry London fog came down, blinding the pedestrians, as I turned from Lincoln's-Inn-fields into the better-lighted High Holborn, with the glare from its brassy gin-shops and dirty-looking old houses, that seemed all of them as if a good scouring would have done them an incalculable service in the way of a fresher appearance. I thought that Shoe lane was in a very suspicious neighborhood.

Turning to the left through Farringdon Market, a huge square seemingly devoted to the worship of highly odorous vegetables, I came into the narrow Shoe lane, which runs down at its bottom to Fleet street, just below where the gray stone arch of Temple bar bisects the Strand and Fleet street. There is nothing particularly noticeable about this part of Shoe lane.

SHOE LANE.

There is a ham and beef shop, with its layers of cold meat-pies piled on top of each other in the windows; and across the way there is the inevitable gin-shop, with its polished brass fender outside to keep off the boys who have no money to spend in gin, and there are the enticing signs all over the gin-shop telling of the merits of the brown-stout there vended, and the Burton ale and somebody's "entire" malt liquors which the proprietor assures the public are only genuine at his shop.

The lane is narrow here and not more than three or four men could pass abreast, although there are sidewalks to the lane, or rather apologies for sidewalks. This narrow lane is one of the few remaining relics of old London. Below, at the foot of Shoe lane, runs Fleet street—one of the busiest marts in the world, which is ever jammed and blocked with drays, cabs, and vehicles of all descriptions crowding to and fro, in sight of the mighty dome of St. Paul's; and under the pavement of that street, so famous for its publications and shops, the old River Fleet once ran in a dirty, hideous current, until it emptied its garnered filth into the Thames.

Here, opposite Shoe lane, one of the curious old conduits that formerly supplied old London with water might have been seen about the time of the wars of the Roses, when the English nobles were hard at work cutting each other's throats and making and unmaking kings for the want of something better to do. The cistern erected at the point where Shoe lane intersects Fleet street, was counted one of the handsomest in London. Stow—that quaint, old, musty chronicler—says:

"Upon it was a fair tower of stone, garnished with the image of St. Christopher on the top, and angels lower down, round about, with sweetly sounding bells before them, whereupon, by an engine placed in the tower, they, divers hours of the day and night, with hammers chimed such a hymn as was appointed." Frolicsome Anne Boleyn, the first day that she was queened, rode through Shoe lane on her way to the sacred Abbey of Westminster to receive the gilded toy upon her fair forehead, and pageantry and pomp met her at every step of her palfrey, in Cornhill, Cheapside, Fleet street, and Shoe lane.

In those days the streets and lanes of London were narrow and difficult, and the unfortunate queen that was to be might have touched the over-hanging eaves and gables of the houses in her progress through the city without leaving her saddle. The conduit in Shoe lane was grandly gilded over to do her honor, and ran wine for the whole day. At the base of the conduit a starvling poet sat reciting verses in her honor as she and her newly made ruffian of a husband passed, and no doubt this mediæval Mormon was highly pleased with the conceit. There were towers and turrets erected to do her honor in Shoe lane, and in one of these towers, according to the chronicler, "was such several solemn instruments that seemed to be an heavenly noise, and was much regarded and praised; and, besides this, the conduit ran wine, claret and white, all the afternoon; so she, with all her company, rode forth to Temple Bar, which was newly painted and repaired, where stood also divers singing men and children, till she came to Westminster Hall, which was richly hanged with cloths of Arras."

While Prince Hal was splitting the skulls of fractious Frenchmen at Agincourt and fording the passage of the Somme, Sir Robert Ferras de Chastley held eight cottages in Shoe lane from his king. Here and there was a garden peeping forth in its floral verdure; and here was also the town residence of the Bishops of Bangor, powerful and pious prelates in their day, God wot and odds bodkins; and as early as 1378 they held the tenure by virtue of the patent of the forty-eighth of Edward the Third, which says in most barbarous Latin: "Unum messuag; unam placeam terræ, unam gardinum cum aliis ædificis in Shoe Lane, London."

Times have changed since then in Shoe lane. A bishop of Bangor now, with his train of lances, his men-at-arms, mitre, cross-bearer, and torches, would be a sight indeed in Shoe lane. How that bright-eyed bar-maid at the door of the Blue Pig would stare at his lordship! How the greasy boy in the ham and beef shop would shout at the cope and silks and velvet housings—taking them, perhaps, in an innocent way, for a part of the Lord Mayor's show! And as for the conduit running Claret and Malmsley, the beer-swilling cockneys would not thank headless Anne Boleyn for such washy foreign stuff. Their fancy could only be fed by gin. A man-at-arms would be compelled now-a-days to wash his throat with Bass's bitter beer or brown stout, instead of sack, hippocras, or mead.

SOCIETY OF COGERS.

At last we are in the neighborhood of "Cogers Hall"—the hall of the Ancient and Honorable Society of Cogers. There is a gin-shop at the front, with its low doorway and flaring signs. The windows are well lit, and by the side of the bar is a long, narrow passage conducting the visitor for twenty or thirty feet to a back room, about forty feet long and twenty-five feet wide.

Off the passage are a number of small waiting-rooms, noisy and smoky, with the voices and vile pipes of the occupants. Four rows of tables run along the room, in which are present fifty or sixty persons all of the male sex. They are all decently dressed, for, although the admission is free, yet is the visitor to the Cogers Hall expected to drink or eat something, and the place, with its tariff of prices, though moderate enough to an American, would not suit a costermonger or laborer.

The roof is arched and paneled, done in a feeble imitation of the style of Sir Christopher Wren, who is popularly supposed to have built everything in London after the great fire of 1666. A handsome chandelier depends from an opening in the roof, and is ornamented with a number of glass globes, which serve to light the apartment and dissipate the thick clouds of smoke that constantly arise in the room.

There is a large, gaudy sign in the hall, on which are printed these cabalistic words: "Hot joints are served in this room from one until five." At the farther end of the room, opposite the entrance, is a paneling hollowed back in the wall, the entire room being paneled; and this paneling is shaped like a door, and is gilded. A step from the floor, in the paneling, is placed a chair of honor, which is occupied by the Most Worthy Grand, as he is styled; or, in fact, the chairman of the meeting. Those who are familiar with him go so far in their irreverence as to call this awful personage "Me Grand," and whispers have been heard that his name in reality is Tompkins or Noakes.

Directly opposite this dignitary, at the other end of the room, is a place in the paneling and a chair like to that which I have already described, and this is occupied by a tall, lean man, with side whiskers of a grayish pattern, who has the title of Vice Grand.

But the Vice, or Worthy Wice, is of greatly inferior dignity to the Most Worthy Grand. He is, so to speak, an empty ornament of the feast, and his duties are simple, and confined to calling out in unison with the assemblage, "Hear, hear," or "Good." "You are Right," when the Worthy Grand, in his oracular sentences, is most happy. At other times, in a loud voice he will call the attention of the waiters, who heartily detest him for his interference, to the fact that some customer has drained his beer, or gin and hot water, and needs, therefore, to be served afresh.

Still this man is human, and will listen, when off his seat of duty, to any scandal against the Most Worthy Grand with secret pleasure. In fact, the Worthy Wice, inspired by a generous four-pence worth of gin and hot water, told me aside, in conversation, that the Worthy Grand was unfit for his high position. "He his han hass, sir. He his too Hold. And he 'as no woice watsomever, sir. Bah! that, sir, for Tompkins"—and the Worthy Wice snapped his fingers in an insane manner at the air in which his potent imagination had conjured up the semblance of the Worthy Grand. Sitting down at a table I followed the custom of the place and called for something. On each table were placed a couple of long-shanked clay pipes, and a thin-necked, big-paunched, red-clay jar, which a man sitting near explained to my satisfaction.

"You see," said he in a rather mysterious voice, "we 'aven't much ice to speak of in England; leastways, it is too dear, and this 'ere red clay 'as a peculiar wirtue—it keeps the water as cold as if it was in the waults of Bow Church."

This man was decently dressed, and was, I believe, a drover by profession. He was very fleshy and very red in the face.

AT THE TABLES.

Tissues of fat lay around his eyebrows in layers, and his double chin was dewlapped like one of his own beeves. He had a heavy red hand, and was, as I found out, a true Briton in every sense. I asked him why the place was called Cogers Hall. To this conundrum he confessed himself unable to answer, but after scratching his head the "Beefy One," as I shall call him, made a sign for a waiter to come to the table. "I say," said the Beefy One, "why do you call this place Cogers 'All?" The waiter could not satisfy him, but said that he would call the Master. Well, the Master came, a thin-faced, side-whiskered Englishman, with watery blue eyes and trembling lip. The counterfeit presentment of the Master hung over the Worthy Grand's chair of state, done in oil, and it seemed as if the artist had endeavored, in accordance with the spirit of the Cogers Hall, to give the face an oratorical, Gladstonian expression, and the cloak was folded around the shoulders of the Master as the toga is folded around the shoulders of Tully, in classic pictures. Besides the picture of the Master, several other pictures of Past Worthy Grands were hung as tokens of their former forensic abilities. The Master, in answer to the question why the place was called Cogers Hall, said:

"Well, you see, we calls it Cogers Hall from the Latin ko-gee-TO—to cogitate, to think. Oh, yes, sir, we have been a long time established, sir; since 1756, sir; a matter of a hundred years or so, sir. You are han Hamerican, sir. Oh, yes, sir, we've 'ad George Francis Train 'ere, sir, for many a night, sir; and 'e spoke in that chair, sir; and when he was arrested, sir, in Ireland, the Home Secretary as wos, sir, wrote to me to question me if he had spoken treason, sir, or spoke agin the Queen, sir. Cos ye see, sir, the principle of an Englishman, sir, is to allow every man liberty to say wot he likes, sir, so long as he does not speak agin the Queen or speaks treason. That's an Englishman's principle, sir."

And George Francis Train had spoken in this very room! I could fancy the feelings of poor Artemus Ward when he stood at the tomb of Shakespeare at Stratford. These wooden chairs and benches were hallowed in my eyes henceforward. Men had sat upon those chairs who had listened to the fervid eloquence of a Train, and perhaps some of these very men had survived. Civis Americanus sum.

As the night came on apace, the smoky, old-fashioned, paneled room began to fill up, and before long nothing could be seen but rows of men lining the small tables, puffing vigorously from the long clay pipes, and at intervals taking deep draughts from the large, brightly burnished metal pots, holding a pint each, or perhaps sipping fourpenny glasses of hot gin and water. Along with the little jar of hot water which the waiter brought on demand, were little saucers of sugar—these little saucers never containing, by any chance, more than three lumps of sugar, and each of these lumps being equalized in size with a mathematical nicety. Some of the visitors, more hungry than others, satisfied their longings with "Welsh Rabbits," at sixpence apiece; or, when the rabbits had, in addition, two eggs cooked with them, the Welsh rabbit was called a "Golden Buck," and the waiter, in his greasy tail coat, raised his demand to eightpence.

In a few minutes the Worthy Vice, a gray-bearded man with a meek face and in shabby-genteel clothes, took his seat, and all the chairs in the apartment were turned around by those who occupied them in order that they might hear and see better. The Worthy Vice, who is sometimes entered on the bills of the performance as a "Patriot" when he has to take part in a discussion, read the minutes of the last meeting of the Ancient and Honorable Society of Cogers, which were listened to quietly, and then the attention of the audience was turned to the Most Worthy Grand, who occupied the chair at the other end of the apartment. This most noble Briton, in a quavering voice, having adjusted his vest—which had a tendency to leave exposed the lower part of the shirt-bosom at his stomach where his trousers bisected—opened the proceedings with much solemnity, imitating by hems and haws, as well as he could, the manners of the dullest and most common-place orators of the House of Commons. His business as a specialty was to review the events of the week.

NEWS OF THE WEEK.

"I don't think, gentlemen," said he, "that my task will be a very long one this hevening in reviewing the hevents of the week. There, aw, 'asn't been much a-doing in furrin parts, ah, this week. There 'as been 'a row in Turkee again, and in, ah, fact we might say there is halways a row in Turkee, more or less. There's a man in Hegipt whom we call the Viceroy of that, ah, country, and when he, ah, wos here we gave 'im fireworks and sich, and made a blessed time about him, as we might say vulgarly, so to speak. Now, he has been a invitin' of all the sovrins of Europe on his own hook to see him and his ryal family open the Sooz Canal. Well, he has been, ah, spendin' sich a lot of money that the Sultan comes out in a long letter and calls him a Cadivar, which is a word that I can't understand, being neither Latin nor yet Greek.

"Blessed hif I knowed that ye iver understood Greek or Lating, ither, Jimmy," said an old man who sat observant of the reviewer in a corner, drinking beer from a pewter pot.

"I thank ye all the same, Mr. Wilkins, but I don't like to be interrupted when I'm speaking," answered the Most Worthy Grand.

"You're right, Me Grand. Horder! horder!" shouted several indignant voices.

"I wos goin' to say," continued the Grand, after taking a deep draught of the porter which foamed in the pewter pot on the table before him—"I wos goin' to say that the state of our neighbor, Fronse, just hover the water, is now a spektikle for mankind. There's a great hadoo about the Hemperor's 'elth; and I must say as how he is in a bad way by all accounts. Nobody knows wot his disease is. It may be liver; it may be kidneys. I might take the liberty of sayin', as a rule, kidneys is bad. No one knows wot would be the consequences if the Hemperor was to step out, wulgularly speakin'. It would p'r'aps be the cause of a general war in Europe. Hengland doesn't want any more wars. We 'ave 'ad enough of them. They does no good for the workin' man. ('Hear! hear!') We pays the piper when the dancin' is done; but we never dances ourselves."

"True as the gospel, Jimmy," from a beer drinker.

"Now, there's another question which we all 'ave heard of a good deal, and that's the Halabama claims. They are in a precious muddle, to be sure. They may be right and they may be wrong. But I must say that I don't see where the money is to come from to pay them."

"We'll never pay them. We aint got the "dibs;" leastways, I won't pay any of it," says an irreverent young man whose face was quite flushed with strong drink.

"Well, as far as that goes, if they are to be paid, we know it will come from the pockets of just such people as ourselves in the way of taxes. Its taxes halways."

"I differ from the gentleman who preceded me altogether. Prussia must 'ave the left bank of the Rhine, and I'll put sixteen bullets in the Pope's heart. I tell ye, gentlemen, the Ekumenikal Council will be the downfall of the Romish religion. I'll put sixteen bullets in the Pope's heart," cried out a tall, thin-faced man in a half-clerical suit of black, who got on his feet, and while in the act of energetically expressing his feeling, by a wave of his right hand carried away a glass globe shading the gaslight above his head. The man was very drunk apparently, but by his language seemed to be a person of education. The "Beefy One," who sat by my side, and who had reached his third bottle of beer, whispered to me:

"I say, yon is a fine fellow when he's sober, and can talk poetry by the yard, but he is very drunk, and when he's fuddled he will talk a man blind about the Pope. Will you have some beer? Do take a pot."

It was with some trouble that the fiery Scotch orator was induced to sit down and defer his assault upon the Pope until a more fitting occasion.

At this moment the Beefy One pointed out to me a tall, martial-looking person in black clothes, who seemed to be very restive and looked as if he wanted to speak. He was of large frame, about sixty years of age, and was apparently a man of considerable stamina and backbone. His white whiskers and neat dress gave him the look of a justice of the peace who had dropped in to take a look at the assemblage from curiosity, and to see that the public morals and the constitution were properly taken care of.

COGERS HALL.

While the Worthy Grand was making a series of remarks on the health of the Emperor Napoleon and the menacing attitude of Prussia towards France in a gentle, slipshod way, the stranger looked up at times from the four-penn'orth of gin which he ordered when he came in to give an incredulous, doubting smile to a few of the coterie who sat around him and were evident admirers of his. The Beefy One whispered to me—

"That ole gentlemun is the finest orator as ever was. I tell ye, sir, he can talk when he's agoing. There's no end to his beautiful sentiments, I do say it, although he's a Hirishman. Oh, 'e is a great horator is the Ole One."

LIBERALS AND CONSERVATIVES.

After the review of the week's public events by the Worthy Grand, debate was in order on the topics reviewed by him. I found that the debaters who jumped to their feet one after the other in a manner worthy of the most dignified legislative assemblage, were divided into two parties, liberals and conservatives. The Liberals were the most logical, strange to say; the Tories were most dogmatic and violent. The Liberals—one of them at least—wished to do away with all monarchies and established churches; while the Conservatives, principally belonging to the shopkeeping element, in the audience, were strenuously opposed to the eight-hour law and to the trades-unions. One liberal orator would liked to have seen, as he expressed it, all the kings, barons, prime ministers, and other like despots, placed in one old rotten hulk of a vessel, and then the vessel was to be scuttled on the Goodwin Sands. "And who," said the eloquent orator, "would not say that it would not be a benefit to the human race? Who would not exclaim with me," and here he looked around on his eager audience in a threatening manner, "the more of sich cattle in the rotten old hulk the better?" There was a general grunt of acquiescence from the advanced Liberals at this possibility and a deprecatory shake of the head from one Conservative with a great clay pipe.

Finally, the Irish orator got a chance, and then it was wonderful to see how, in a sarcastic tone, he humbugged his hearers for half an hour by allusions to the good time coming, when every man should have a vote, and every Irish tenant should give up the graceful and sportsmanlike habit of potting from behind the Tipperary hedges all landlords who were in the way of a freehold system. The orator waxed wroth and became pathetic at times as he reviewed the past glories of the Isle of Saints and her present degraded position among nations. Yet in that he was skilful enough, in speaking of the Fenians, to deprecate their acts mildly, but, at the same time, he told his English audience, in the most forcible tones, of the abuses and tyranny that had led to the organization of Fenianism.

"Oh, I say, O'Brien, you are a humbugging of hus with that here gammon habout '98, ye know."

"I give yes me word, me Worthy Grand and gentlemen, that I do not advocate Fenianism at all, at all; but when yes dhrive min to madness by oppression, by acts of oppression such as the world has never seen, can yes blame the wu-r-rum if it turns on yes and bites."

THE SCOTCH PRESBYTERIAN.

No one could reply to this with the exception of the Scotch Presbyterian, who, again rising from his seat, denounced the Pope and Dr. Cumming as accomplices, and declared that at the first opportunity he would cheerfully encounter martyrdom to be able to "put sixteen bullets into the Pope's carcass," as he politely and charitably expressed himself. "I didn't care about your Ekumenikul Council," said he; "it will be the downfall of popishness and prelacy, and those who may go there are welcome; but as for me I would be burned to have him under my pistol."

"Oh, Mac, yer not so bad as yer purtend in yer talk. I'll engage, if his Holiness would give ye the chance, ye'd only be too glad to kiss his toe."

This raised a laugh at the Scotchman's expense, but he violently disclaimed for himself, as a true disciple of John Knox, any intention of submitting to such a degrading act of spiritual submission. The debate continued as the night waned, and at eleven o'clock, when I left the hall of discussion in Shoe lane, the subjects of vaccination, land laws, and coinage were yet to be touched upon by the speakers.

I have given but a glance at this place, which is the oldest established of its kind among a number of discussion halls and forums, whose sign-boards meet the stranger's eye in different parts of the city where most thickly populated. There is invariably a pot-house attached to these debating places, or rather the debating halls are attached to the pot-houses.

The better class of artisans and shopkeepers in a small way are principally the frequenters of the discussion halls. Mechanics with a gift of the gab, and who have five or six shillings a week to spend out of twenty-five or thirty, are to be found here in large numbers. The Most Worthy Grand and the Vice Grand are paid a fixed salary for their stated eloquence, and it is principally their duty to read all the cheap weeklies and dailies, not forgetting the Times, which is very often quoted by them as a sort of a clincher in the argument brought up. A place like this will take in five pounds of a night, and the wages paid to the bar-maids is about sixteen shillings a week. There were two here, and four waiters, who receive sixteen pounds a year and their "grub," as they call it. A small paper of rough-cut tobacco is furnished to each customer for a penny, and the consumption of this narcotic and Welsh Rabbits is encouraged, as they are quite certain to make the customers dry, and this dryness, as a matter of course, leads to the imbibition of plenteous beer and gin and water. These shops are licensed to sell spirits under the new Beer act, and they are compelled to shut off the debate at midnight. As a general thing the most advanced liberalism prevails in these places, and religious sentiments are below par with the audience. Very often it is possible to hear a well educated or scientific man debating in these halls, but, on closer survey, his accent will betray him to be some impoverished French or German physician, or reduced savan, who has no occupation in the hours of the evening, and can, therefore, afford to dispense wisdom to the thick-headed audience, gratis.

About a week after my visit to Cogers Hall I went, accompanied by Mr. Marsh, a member of the Daily Morning Telegraph's staff, and another gentleman connected with the editorial management of the Pall Mall Gazette, to take a look at another debating hall which is situated at No. 16 Fleet street. This place is quite famous in London for the virulence of its debates and the high flavor of its gin. Its Brown Stout is also above reproach.

As usual in all such places there is a public bar here, and this is located at the entrance, and is attended by the inevitable bar-maid, smiling and bedizined in all the glory of a two guinea silk dress, bought perhaps in Regent street or the Oxford Circus.

"WHERE ARE WE NOW."

The room here was not so large a one as that at Cogers Hall in which the orators were in the habit of haranguing their auditors. There were a dozen small tables, around which chairs were placed in a most picturesque confusion. Small white placards printed in blue ink were posted on the walls with the following announcement:

TEMPLE

DISCUSSION FORUM.

ADMISSION FREE.

STRANGERS ARE PARTICULARLY INVITED TO TAKE PART

IN THE DISCUSSION AND TO INTRODUCE SUBJECTS

FOR DEBATE.

THE QUESTION THIS WEDNESDAY EVENING WILL BE

"THE POPE'S MODEL LETTER,"

WHERE ARE WE NOW?

TO BE OPENED BY "A PROTESTANT."

CHAIR TO BE TAKEN AT NINE O'CLOCK.

SUPPER FROM EIGHT TILL TWELVE.

BEDS. PRIVATE SITTING-ROOMS.

There was a venerable looking old fellow in the chair when we entered the Discussion Forum, who lifted a pair of gold rimmed spectacles from his nose to take a look at us. This was the chairman of the meeting, and shortly after we sat down he cried out to a tall person with a short grey raglan coat who was speaking and perspiring at the same time.

"Mister Chowley I will and cannot allow you, sir, to trample on the religious feelings of any man present in this harmonious meeting. We are all brothers here, sir, and the individual who disturbs our peace and quietness, should be to us all as the 'Eathen and the publican, sir." (Hear, hear.)

The tall man with the raglan, who did not like to be suppressed so easily, had taken his seat for a moment much against his will, but now he arose slowly and scornfully looking around him, spoke, with one hand leaning on a chair behind him, and another hand in his breast, as follows:

"Gentlemen, this his an age of science if it is an age of hanythink. Wot does my honorable and noble Roman Catholic friend wish to advance has an argument. Does he mean to tell ME, with my heyes hopen in this here blessed Nineteenth Century, which we are all so proud of, and whose blessed light is the moving cause of so much mental brilliancy—does he mean to tell me for a moment that the miracle of the transposition of water into wine at the wedding of Cana wos han hactual fact. Why gents it his altogether impossible—and no reasonable man in this Nineteenth century can for a moment believe it possible. Wot would Galileo, Kepler, Faraday or sich bright lights of the Nineteenth century say to sich stories? Why gents, there is a chemical change which would have to take place before such a translation, and this chemical transformation could not take place without the assistance of other substances. (Hear, hear.) And gents, as far as the infallibility of the Pope is concerned, why I have only to say in the words of the poet, hand I mention no names, that a piece of fat pork might stick in his gullet as soon as it would stick in mine, and that's all I think of infallibility and fat pork, with the blessed light of the nineteenth century before me." (Hear, hear.)

Mr. Chowley here sat down, thoroughly satisfied with himself and auditory, who applauded him to the echo. Then a member of the Roman Catholic persuasion answered him in a long and splendid oration, which seemed to thoroughly convince every one present that the Catholic side was right, and the Protestant one a most diabolical doctrine. After each man had done his little speech, it was curious, nay amusing, to hear the adherents of either party comment upon the previous argument.

"Oh! I say," said a Presbyterian, "didn't he smash the old Pope neither."

"And wot a blessing he gave His Grace, Archbishop Manning, though?"

"Well," said an ardent Irishman, "I niver heard such a lambeastin as the heretics got to night."

"You might well say that, Pether, and didn't he scald Martin Luther with the holy wather, though," said an honest looking, hard working fellow who sat smoking a pipe.