eaks
of the wild Prince and Poins. Our people has never looked very unkindly
on these frolics. A young nobleman, full of life and spirits, generous
of his money, jovial in his humour, ready with his sword, frank,
handsome, prodigal, courageous, always finds favour. Young Scapegrace
rides a steeplechase or beats a bargeman, and the crowd applauds him.
Sages and seniors shake their heads, and look at him not unkindly;
even stern old female moralists are disarmed at the sight of youth and
gallantry, and beauty. I know very well that Charles Surface is a sad
dog, and Tom Jones no better than he should be; but, in spite of such
critics as Dr. Johnson and Colonel Newcome, most of us have a sneaking
regard for honest Tom, and hope Sophia will be happy, and Tom will end
well at last.

Five-and-twenty years ago the young Earl of Kew came upon the town,
which speedily rang with the feats of his lordship. He began life time
enough to enjoy certain pleasures from which our young aristocracy of
the present day seem, alas! to be cut off. So much more peaceable
and polished do we grow, so much does the spirit of the age appear to
equalise all ranks; so strongly has the good sense of society, to which
in the end gentlemen of the very highest fashion must bow, put its veto
upon practices and amusements with which our fathers were familiar. At
that time the Sunday newspapers contained many and many exciting reports
of boxing-matches. Bruising was considered a fine manly old English
custom. Boys at public schools fondly perused histories of the noble
science, from the redoubtable days of Broughton and Slack, to the heroic
times of Dutch Sam and the Game Chicken. Young gentlemen went eagerly to
Moulsey to see the Slasher punch the Pet's head, or the Negro beat the
Jew's nose to a jelly. The island rang as yet with the tooting horns
and rattling teams of mail-coaches; a gay sight was the road in merry
England in those days, before steam-engines arose and flung its hostelry
and chivalry over. To travel in coaches, to drive coaches, to know
coachmen and guards, to be familiar with inns along the road, to laugh
with the jolly hostess in the bar, to chuck the pretty chambermaid under
the chin, were the delight of men who were young not very long ago. Who
ever thought of writing to the Times then? "Biffin," I warrant, did not
grudge his money, and "A Thirsty Soul" paid cheerfully for his drink.
The road was an institution, the ring was an instit