Real Life In London, Volumes I. and II.
“In the fields,” inquired Bob; “what then, are we come to the end of the
town?”
~80~~“Ha! ha! ha!” cried Tom--“the end--no, no,--I was going to say
there is no end to it--no, we have not reached any thing like the
centre.”
“_Blood an owns, boderation and blarney_,” (said an Irishman, at that
moment passing them with a hod of mortar on his shoulder, towards the
new buildings, and leaving an ornamental patch as he went along on Bob's
shoulder) “but I'll be a'ter _tipping turnups_{l} to any b----dy
rogue that's tip to saying--_Black's the white of the blue part of Pat
Murphy's eye_; and for that there matter,” dropping the hod of mortar
almost on their toes at the same time, and turning round to Bob--“By the
powers! I ax the Jontleman's pardon--tho' he's not the first Jontleman
that has carried mortar--where is that _big, bully-faced blackguard_
that I'm looking after?” During this he brushed the mortar off Tallyho's
coat with a snap of his fingers, regardless of where or on whom he
distributed it.
The offender, it seemed, had taken flight while Pat was apologizing, and
was no where to be found.
“Why what's the matter?” inquired Tom; “you seem in a passion.”
“Och! not in the least bit, your honour! I'm only in a d----d rage. By
the mug of my mother--arn't it a great shame that a Jontleman of
Ireland can't walk the streets of London without having _poratees and
butter-milk_ throw'd in his gums?”--Hitching up the waistband of his
breeches--“It won't do at all at all for Pat: its a reflection on my own
native land, where--
“Is hospitality,
All reality,
No formality
There you ever see;
The free and easy
Would so amaze ye,
You'd think us all crazy,
For dull we never be.”
These lines sung with an Irish accent, to the tune of “Morgan Rattler,”
accompanied with a snapping of his fingers, and concluded with a
something in imitation of
1 _Tipping Turnups_--This is a phrase made use of among the
_prigging_ fraternity, to signify a turn-up--which is to
knock down.
~81~~an Irish jilt, were altogether so truly characteristic of the
nation to which he belonged, as to afford our Heroes considerable
amusement. Tom threw him a half-crown, which he picked up with more
haste than he had thrown down the mortar in his rage.
“Long life and good luck to the Jontleman!” said Pat. “Sure enough,
I won't be after drinking health and success to your Honour's pretty
picture, and the devil pitch into his own cabin the fellow that would
be after picking a hole or clapping a dirty patch on the coat of St.
Patrick--whiskey for ever, your Honour, huzza--
“A drop of good whiskey
Would make a man frisky.”
By this time a crowd was gathering round them, and Tom cautioned Bob in
a whisper to beware of his pockets. This piece of advice however came
too late, for his _blue bird's eye wipe_{l} had taken flight.
“What,” said Bob, “is this done in open day?” “Are you all right and
tight elsewhere?” said Tom--“if you are, toddle on and say nothing about
it.--Open day!” continued he, “aye, the system of _frigging_{2}
1 _Blue bird's eye wipe_--A blue pocket handkerchief with
white spots.
2 A cant term for all sorts of thieving. The Life of the
celebrated George Barrington, of Old Bailey notoriety, is
admirably illustrative of this art; which by a more recent
development of Hardy Vaux, appears to be almost reduced to
a system, notwithstanding the wholesomeness of our laws and
the vigilance of our police in their administration. However
incredible it may appear, such is the force of habit and
association, the latter, notwithstanding he was detected and
transported, contrived to continue his depredations during
his captivity, returned, at the expiration of his term, to
his native land and his old pursuits, was transported a
second time, suffered floggings and imprison-ments, without
correcting what cannot but be termed the vicious
propensities of his nature. He generally spent his mornings
in visiting the shops of jewellers, watch-makers,
pawnbrokers, &c. depending upon his address and appearance,
and determining to make the whole circuit of the metropolis
and not to omit a single shop in either of those branches.
This scheme he actually executed so fully, that he believes
he did not leave ten untried in London; for he made a point
of commencing early every day, and went regularly through
it, taking both sides of the way. His practice on entering a
shop was to request to look at gold seals, chains,
brooches, rings, or any other small articles of value,
and while examining them, and looking the shopkeeper in the
face, he contrived by sleight of hand to conceal two or
three, sometimes more, as opportunities offered, in the
sleeve of his coat, which was purposely made wide. In this
practice he succeeded to a very great extent, and in the
course of his career was never once detected in the fact,
though on two or three occa-sions so much suspicion arose
that he was obliged to exert all his effrontery, and to use
very high language, in order, as the cant phrase is, to
bounce the tradesman out of it; his fashionable appearance,
and affected anger at his insinuations, always had the
effect of inducing an apology; and in many such cases he has
actually carried away the spoil, notwithstanding what passed
between them, and even gone so far as to visit the same shop
again a second and a third time with as good success as at
first. This, with his nightly attendance at the Theatres and
places of public resort, where he picked pockets of watches,
snuff-boxes, &c. was for a length of time the sole business
of his life. He was however secured, after secreting himself
for a time, convicted, and is now transported for life--as
he conceives, sold by another cele-brated Prig, whose real
name was Bill White, but better known by the title of Conky
Beau.
~82~~will be acted on sometimes by the very party you are speaking
to--the expertness with which it is done is almost beyond belief.”
Bob having ascertained that his handkerchief was the extent of his loss,
they pursued their way towards Charing Cross.
“A line of street is intended,” continued Tom, “to be made from the
Opera House to terminate with that church; and here is the King's Mews,
which is now turned into barracks.”
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” was at this moment vociferated in their ears
by a variety of voices, and turning round, they perceived a well-dressed
man at full speed, followed pretty closely by a concourse of people. In
a moment the whole neighbourhood appeared to be in alarm. The up-stairs
windows were crowded with females--the tradesmen were at their
shop-doors--the passengers were huddled together in groups, inquiring of
each other--“What is the matter?--who is it?--which is him?--what has he
done?” while the pursuers were increasing in numbers as they went. The
bustle of the scene was new to Bob--Charing Cross and its vicinity was
all in motion.
“Come,” said Tom, “let us see the end of this--they are sure to _nab_{l}
my gentleman before he gets much
1 _Nabbed or nibbled_--Secured or taken.
~83~~farther, so let us _brush_{1} on.” Then pulling his Cousin by the
arm, they moved forward to the scene of action.
As they approached St. Martin's Lane, the gathering of the crowd, which
was now immense, indicated to Tom a capture.
“Button up,” said he, “and let us see what's the matter.”
“_Arrah be easy_” cried a voice which they instantly recognized to be no
other than Pat Murphy's. “I'll hold you, my dear, till the night after
Doomsday, though I can't tell what day of the year that is. Where's the
man wid the _gould-laced skull-cap_? Sure enough I tought I'd be up wi'
you, and so now you see I'm down upon you.”
At this moment a Street-keeper made way through the crowd, and Tom
and Bob keeping close in his rear, came directly up to the principal
performers in this interesting scene, and found honest Pat Murphy
holding the man by his collar, while he was twisting and writhing to get
released from the strong and determined grasp of the athletic Hibernian.
Pat no sooner saw our Heroes, than he burst out with a lusty “Arroo!
arroo! there's the sweet-looking jontleman that's been robbed by a dirty
_spalpeen_ that's not worth the tail of a rotten red-herring. I'll give
charge of dis here pick'd bladebone of a dead donkey that walks about in
God's own daylight, dirting his fingers wid what don't belong to him at
all at all. So sure as the devil's in his own house, and that's London,
you've had your pocket pick'd, my darling, and that's news well worth
hearing”--addressing himself to Dashall.
By this harangue it was pretty clearly understood that Murphy had been
in pursuit of the pickpocket, and Tom immediately gave charge.
The man, however, continued to declare he was not the right
person--“That, so help him G----d, the Irishman had got the wrong
bull by the tail--that he was a b----dy _snitch_{2} and that he would
_sarve him out_{3}--that he wished
1 _Brush_--Be off.
2 _Snitch_--A term made use of by the light-fingered tribe,
to signify an informer, by whom they have been impeached or
betrayed--So a person who turns king's evidence against his
accomplices is called a Snitch.
3 _Serve him out_--To punish, or be revenged upon any person
for any real or supposed injury.
~84~~he might meet him out of St. Giles's, and he would _wake_{ 1} him
with an _Irish howl_.”
1 Wake with an Irish howl--An Irish Wake, which is no
unfrequent occurrence in the neighbourhood of St. Giles's
and Saffron Hill, is one of the most comically serious
ceremonies which can well be conceived, and certainly
baffles all powers of description. It is, however,
considered indispensable to wake the body of a de-ceased
native of the sister kingdom, which is, by a sort of mock
lying in state, to which all the friends, relatives, and
fellow countrymen and women, of the dead person, are
indiscriminately admitted; and among the low Irish this duty
is frequently performed in a cellar, upon which occasions
the motley group of assembled Hibernians would form a
subject for the pencil of the most able satirist.
Upon one of these occasions, when Murtoch Mulrooney, who had
suffered the sentence of the law by the common hangman, for
a footpad robbery, an Englishman was induced by a friend of
the deceased to accompany him, and has left on record the
following account of his entertainment:--
“When we had descended (says he) about a dozen steps, we
found ourselves in a subterraneous region, but fortunately
not uninhabited. On the right sat three old bawds, drinking
whiskey and smoking tobacco out of pipes about two inches
long, (by which means, I conceive, their noses had become
red,) and swearing and blasting between each puff. I was
immediately saluted by one of the most sober of the ladies,
and invited to take a glass of the enlivening nectar, and
led to the bed exactly opposite the door, where Murtoch was
laid out, and begged to pray for the repose of his precious
shoul. This, however, I declined, alleging that as the
parsons were paid for praying, it was their proper business.
At this moment a coarse female voice exclaimed, in a sort of
yell or Irish howl, 'Arrah! by Jasus, and why did you die,