once told on inquiring of their seniors, of
its terrible plot:—How, Thurtell, one fine
afternoon, drove his friend Weare twelve or
fourteen miles out of town into Hertfordshire,
to pay a visit to Probert, buying a loin
of pork on the way for supper, and taking
also a sack, a cord, some dice, and a
backgammon-board, that they might all be
pleasant and agreeable.—How, in Gill's Hill Lane,
Thurtell shot Weare in the head, as he sat
by him in the gig; but, as "the pistol was
no better than a pop-gun," did not succeed
so perfectly as he could have desired; whereupon
Weare, struck with a sudden notion
of intended mischief, jumped out of the gig
and ran along the lane, until Thurtell overtook him,
knocked him down, hacked at his
throat with a penknife, still without killing
him, and, finally, with great force, jammed
the pistol-barrel into his brain, and turned it
round and round until his man was dead—
How, also, after dragging the body into the
roadside fern, Thurtell went on to Probert's
house, meeting him and Hunt, who had also
come down in a gig and knew what was
going on; and how they cooked the loin of
pork, and Hunt sang songs to Mrs. Probert,
and her sister, Miss Noyes, and they had,
altogether, a very merry, and convivial
evening, whilst the ghastly body was lying,
stark and bloody, within sound of their
voices, under the fern.

So far the actual murder. When the
ladies went to bed, the others went to fetch
the body, which they brought, hanging across
a horse, to Probert's cottage, and threw into
his garden pond, whence Thurtell
subsequently removed it to a pond at Elstree,
where it was found. On the morning after
the murder, Thurtell was seen by some
labourers in Gill's Hill Lane, "grabbling"
amongst the fern. Thinking they might find
what he appeared to have lost, they waited
until he had departed, and then commenced
a search themselves. The blood, the
penknife, and the pistol were the first
witnesses. Suspicion pointed to the murderer,
and he was arrested with his friends:
Probert turned King's Evidence; Hunt also
split, but not to the same extent, and was
transported; and Thurtell was hung, after
a bombastic defence that touched upon
everything but the murder. We may add that
Probert, convicted some time afterwards for
horse-stealing, also finished his life with the
assistance of Jack Ketch.

As black satin altogether went out after
Mrs. Manning selected that glossy fabric for
her last toilette—even with that landlady-
looking race of lusty flush-faced women with
whom, by some mysterious affinity, it always
appeared to be identified—so, it might have
been expected, that sporting men would not
altogether have been so attached to their
status and appearance, after this terrible
reflection had been thrown upon their order.
But, it was quite the contrary. Night-houses,
wine rooms, and fighting public-houses became
more popular than ever; and the ruffians of
the ring especially rose to celebrities. If a
nod from a lord was a breakfast for a fool,
a wink from a boxer was a supper for a
snob. For, the noble art of self-defence must
indeed have stood high above mundane
matters, when Thurtell, during his last
dreary meal of tea and toast—of which,
according to custom, he partook heartily—
asked: "Who won the fight yesterday?"
The late lamented Mr. Palmer, of Rugeley,
is reported to have put a similar question,
under similar circumstances, with respect to
horse-racing.

Well, night-houses of every description
maintained their popularity. The murderers
and the victim had been known at most of
them, and people went there to hear
anecdotes of their private lives—as private, that
is to say, as such men can lead—and to
talk about their visit to the Surrey Theatre,
where the murder had been dramatised, and
the manager had purchased the identical
gig in which Weare had been shot away
from the loin of pork under his seat. Fighting
men almost conceded that Thurtell was
"always a good un," and "know'd he'd die
game." Gamblers pronounced their verdict
on the victim instead of the murderer, which
was "Serve him right!" and sporting men,
of this caste generally went the rounds,
which consisted in getting gradually more
intoxicated at a lower haunt than the last
between midnight and day-break, and sparred,
and wagered, and did bills, and swindled,
and drove fast mares in light gigs to fights,
and gambled, and drank saloon champagne,
and kept the world twirling in a wonderfully
lively and festive manner, to the
admiration of all beholders.

This must have been a sad state of things,
we think; must it not? How considerably
we have improved! Gambling-houses have
been put down—almost; for that cannot be
called gambling where twenty or thirty
highly respectable persons meet in a back
parlour behind a tobacco shop, dealing
entirely in empty cigar boxes, to play a quiet
hit at backgammon and hear the news, at
two in the morning. Prize-fights have been
put down—almost; for no railway nor steamboat
company can possibly imagine, when two
or three hundred very ill-looking travellers,
the scum of London, take return tickets on a
day's notice, to some spot entirely uninhabited,
that they are going to do anything
else than see their relations who live
somewhere about there. The saloons of the
theatres have, to be sure, quite mouldered
away, with their woolly oranges, and muddy
coffee, and warm soda-water, and brandy,
dit "burnt sherry," and stale macaroons.
There are no "rounds" to "go." What a
charming thing to reflect upon—a great city
thus purified!

Wait a while. If Thurtell could be permitted