r him cheap at the money. I don't admire their
taste. I once spent an evening with the Norfolk Giant, and I did not
find him very witty or well informed. But let us walk up-stairs, having
first paid sixpence to a doorkeeper, by appearance a negro, for which we
are to receive a certain amount of refreshment, if beer and grog come
rightly under that denomination; at length we find ourselves in a very
ordinary room, with very extraordinary people in it. First, there are
the portraits--_imprimis_ Bang Up, looking grosser and more animal than
ever. Secondly, Mrs Bang Up, the exact counterpart of her bosom's lord;
then a tribe of Bang Ups junior, of all sizes and sexes, attract our
astonished eyes. Then--for the room is a complete Walhalla--we have
portraits of sporting heroes innumerable, with villanous foreheads, all
"vacant of our glorious gains," heavy eyes, thick bull necks, and very
short croppy hair. Here Gully vanquishes Bob Gregson, "the Lancashire
champion," one of the finest and most formidable men of the day. There
Jack Randall and Ned Turner display "a fine science and capital
fighting," almost unparalleled, and so on; for the list is long, and it
is one we do not care to repeat. We seat ourselves at the further end of
the room, with a few gentlemen drinking gin and smoking cigars. Twenty
or thirty mean-looking men are seated along the side; they are mostly
dirty, and have broken noses; they are not very conversational, but seem
chiefly to be deeply engaged in smoking. At length the waiter brings out
some boxing gloves; one man takes off his coat and waistcoat, possibly
his shirt, and puts them on; another does the same--they stand up to each
other, the gents at the table encourage them, and the seedy men with
broken noses look on very knowingly; they spar for some time, till the
one feels that he cannot touch the other, and throws down the gloves; a
small collection is then made for the noble art of self-defence, which, I
presume, is divided amongst the performers; other actors come upon the
stage, and the friendly contests are maintained till Bang Up closes his
public-house for the night. As I came out, it was a great consolation to
me to think that there are not many such places in London. The style of
men thus created are, I fear, neither useful nor ornamental. They have a
nasty ticket-of-leave look, and I would fain dispense with their company
in quiet back streets during the small hours. One oth