grooms frequently have a " set-to " on
the lawn for his lordship's amusement : with
the gloves on, of course ; though, if they
happen to fall off after the third or fourth
round, his lordship is not unappeaseably
incensed. Next to the Lord is a cadaverous,
wild-haired man, " all tatter'd and torn." He
is an author, and cultivates literature upon
small " goes " of grog. He has written
handbooks to the ring, memorabilia of boxers,
ana of sporting characters without end. He
has the chronology of every event in every
fight, from the days of Figg and Broughton
to the last fight, at his fingers' ends. His
toilet is on his back ; his dressing-case (in
the shape of a felting comb with all the back
teeth knocked out) is in his pocket, cheek-
by-jowl with his library (a torn copy of
Boxiana) and his writing desk (a tattered
pad), an iron pen lashed on to the stump
of a tobacco-pipe by a piece of twine, and
a penny bottle of ink with a paper plug
formed from a defunct screw of birdseye
tobacco instead of a cork. He is as strong
as a bull, but never fights. He is an oracle,
but is too timid to bet, and too honest to
go into the prophetic line of business. He
is content to write his literary compositions on
tap-room tables for the meagre wages doled
out to him by cheap sporting periodicals, to
get drunk at those said tables afterwards, and
to sleep peaceably beneath their Pembroke
canopies, when he falls. He has a pretty
turn for poetry, and will write you an acrostic
on any subject from geology to gaiters, for
sixpence. He was a compositor once, and
even works occasionally now, being able to set
up in type the rounds of a fight, right off,
without any manuscript. Lord Shortford
patronises him, from time to time ; and he
is fond of reciting an ode, in the Alcaic
measure, composed by him in honour of his
lordship, in which he (the peer) is celebrated
as the " Mæcenas of the ring," and for which
Mæcenas stood two dozen of Champagne. The
room is, besides, thronged by fighting men,
all with close cropped hair, flattened noses,
discoloured faces, wide mouths short within
of the natural allowance of teeth ; and all
addicted to the wearing of coats with big
buttons, cloth-boots, and staring shawls.
Then, there are young gentlemen in loose
and slack garments, who were lately flogged
at Eton, and are now in the Guards — old
gentlemen, who have been a considerable
time on town, and know, I am led to believe,
every move thereon — seedy gentlemen living
on their wits, and, seemingly, not thriving
much on that course of diet. There are
gentlemen who, from top to toe, are as
plainly and clearly dupes as though they
carried pigeon inscribed in legible
characters on their hat-bands ; and gentlemen
in nose, whisker, and pervading appearance
as unmistakeably hawks. There are some
meritorious public characters decorated with
a profusion of chains and rings, who know
several Inspectors of the Metropolitan Police
by sight, are on bowing terms with the
stipendiary magistrates sitting at the London
Police Offices, and who, I dare say, were
you to ask them, could tell you which
was the snuggest corner on Brixton treadmill,
and the warmest cell in Coldbath
Fields prison. There is the landlord, in
a decent suit of black and a white neck-
cloth, which costume, superadded to his
bonifacial apron and his eminently prize-fighting
face, would tend to create a confused idea
in your mind that, after he had been a
gladiator, he had had a call and had gone
into the ministry ; but, finding that not to
agree with him, had taken, eventually, to
the public line. Finally, there is Lurky
Snaggs, himself, the hero of to-morrow's
fray. Mr. Coffin has had him in training
for the last two months ; and the devoted
Snaggs has worn spiked shoes, and carried
dumb-bells, and taken long country walks in
heavy great-coats, and eaten semi-raw beef-
steaks, all for the more effectual bruising,
pounding, and mutilating of Dan Pepper,
the " Kiddy," to-morrow morning. He
broke away from his training a fortnight
since, and was found in an adverse house
solacing himself with a pint of raw rum,
which aberration caused some terrible
fluctuations in the betting-market ; but, all
things considered, he has been very docile
and abstemious, and is, as Mr. James Coffin
triumphantly asseverates, "in prime condition,
with flesh as firm as my thumb."

Betting, laughing, smoking, fierce
quarrelling, snatches of roaring songs are the
entertainments at the Bottleholder and Sponge.
But Lurky Snaggs is off to bed, and we must
be off with him. Whither shall this much
enduring dray convey us now ? Let us go
down to Flunkeyland to a Servant's Public.

No low neighbourhoods for you now — no
narrow streets or swarming courts. Hie we to
Belgravia: nay, that is too new — to Tyburnia:
nay, the mortar is scarcely dry there, either.
Let it be time-honoured Grosvenoria, the
solemn, big-wigged, hair-powdered region,
where the aristocracy of this land have loved to
dwell time out of mind. Tiburnia and Belgravia
may be very well for your yesterday nobility
— your mushroom aristocrats — millionnaires,
ex-Lord Mayors, and low people of that sort;
but for the heavy swells of the peerage, those
of the blue blood and the strawberry-leaves,
and who came over with the Conqueror,
Grosvenoria is the place. There seems to be
a natural air of fashion and true gentility
about it. Yet things do change, and streets
will decline. The Earl of Craven lived in
Drury Lane once; Sir Thomas More resided
down Bishopsgate way; the Duke of
Monmouth's address was Soho Square; and, who
knows, some day or other, perhaps I shall
engage a garret in the mighty Lower
Grosvenor Street itself.

Out of Crenoline Square runs, parkwise,