OF THE U N I VERS I T Y Of I LLl N O I S B 'W3 l o32w\ The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/myprivatenotebooOOwatt MY PRIVATE NOTE-ROOK; OR, RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD REPORTER. BY W. H. WATTS. AUTHOR OF “ ODDITIES OF LONDON LIFE." LONDON : TINSLEY BROTHERS, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 1862. The right of translation is reserved. LONDON : PRINTED BY W. OSTELL, HART STREET, BLOOMSBURY. t y-? u * o n CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. MUTUAL INTRODUCTION CHAPTER II. MARLBOROUGH STREET POLICE MAGISTRATES 4 CHAPTER III. A TRIO OE MAGISTRATES CHAPTER IY. j HOW I FIRST BECAME A ec REPORTER ” $ CHAPTER Y. " THE CHAPTER VI. ; / , SOME OE THE MYSTERIES OF PENN Y-A- LINING h 3 CHAPTER YII. MY DEBUT IN fC HIGH LIFE ” - CHAPTER YIIL A RUBBER AT WHIST iii 1 5 9 19 24 34 44 53 IV CONTENTS, CHAPTER IX. SINGULAR ROBBERY AT THE TRAVELLERS 5 CLUB - 56 CHAPTER X THE MYSTERIOUS MULATTO - 63 CHAPTER XI. A WOLE IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING - - -72 CHAPTER XII. THE ROBBERIES AT THE RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR’S - 79 CHAPTER XIII. DEATH AND GLORY - - - - 85 CHAPTER XI Y. MY FIRST EXPERIENCE OF PUBLIC EXECUTIONS - 92 CHAPTER XY. THE “ BLACK MISSIONARY” 99 CHAPTER XVI. A GREAT ACTOR MARRED - - - 108 CHAPTER XYII. A GREAT ACTOR MARRED — CONTINUED - - 118 CHAPTER XYIII. THE SILENT SHAVE ----- 130 CHAPTER XIX. THE “ SAVILLE” GAMBLING-HOUSE - - - HO CONTENTS, V CHAPTER XX. “ THIRSTY JOE” - - - - 150 CHAPTER XXI. THE “game chicken” - - - - 157 CHAPTER XXII. A “dandy op the old school” - - - 165 CHAPTER XXIII. THE LONDON BURGLAR AND THE LONDON PENCE - 176 CHAPTER XXIY. POREIGN SHOPLIPTERS - 189 CHAPTER XXV. SAM PURZEMAN, THE NIGHT-CONSTABLE OP ST. GILES’S 198 CHAPTER XXYI. A “SECIAL” INVITATION TO MOORPARK - - 206 CHAPTER XXVII. “thieves’ houses” - 216 CHAPTER XXVIII. A SPORTING “GENT” 221 CHAPTER XXIX. THE HAWSTEAD HALL BURGLARY - - 227 CHAPTER XXX. A LESSON TO MEDDLERS - 212 Vi CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXXI. A BATCH OF NOTABILITIES - - - 25l CHAPTER XXXII. FRED KING, THE SWELL CRACKSMAN - - - 260 CHAPTER XXXIII. ct DETECTIVES 5 39 INGENUITY - - - 268 CHAPTER XXXIY. SINGULAR DISCOVERY OF BURGLARS - - - 277 CHAPTER XXXY. LOST AND FOUND— THE MISSING LORD - - 281 CHAPTER XXXYI. LADY SHOPLIFTERS - - - - 290 CHAPTER XXXVII. THE EAST-END BULLOCK-HUNTERS - - - 298 CHAPTER XXXYIII. FAREWELL CHAPTER ----- 304 PREFACE. The chief merit of the following “ Sketches ” is, that they are founded on fact. The author has thrown . * them into what he conceives to be a readable form, and he trusts his hope will not be found to be placed unreasonably high, that of affording half-an-hour or so of amusement to the reader. The majority of these Sketches were published in the West -end Examiner, a local paper, established by the writer, with the object of somewhat lightening the heaviness of parochial tdpics. Their circulation was of course restricted, and therefore to the general public they will have the force of novelty. October , 1862. MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK; OK, RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD REPORTER. CHAPTER I. * MUTUAL INTRODUCTION. A close observer of human nature has left upon record as the result of his experience, that out of every man's life — from the peer to the crossing sweeper — if fairly written materials for instruction and amusement might be collected. Perhaps there is no class of men in the endless ramifications of society, whose existence is passed amid a greater variety of circumstances and situ- ations than members of the press. As newspaper re- porter — as editor, and as proprietor — the scene is con- stantly shifting — the incidents varying — the persons changing. I make this assertion from the best of all possible authority, personal experience — an experience extending over considerably more than thirty years. Each of the three divisions I have indicated has its peculiar labours, responsibilities, and anxieties. It is something to have combined the three departments in one person, and to have felt the full force of the joys and sorrows of that tripartite position. Eegarding the remark then with which I opened this chapter, as en- B 2 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. titled to the weight of an axiom, I may, I hope, without presumption, be permitted to think that, in the course of a long and not unobservant connection with the public press, there have occurred a few incidents worth relating. Most people like to pry into the business of their neigh- bours — the curious public will possibly like to see just a corner of the curtain which shrouds the mysteries of the “ fourth estate ” lifted by a practical hand. The duties of the “-Reporter” are easily defined. His chief care, if he belongs to the “ dismounted,” is to collect full particulars of the striking incidents of the day, and to present them in such a form as will en- sure common insertion in the morning journals, and a sufficient pecuniary return to himself. This brief de- scription of a class will suffice. The “regular” reporter has higher aims, for which he requires higher educational qualifications. His greatest value is, perhaps, centred in his ability to report the parliamentary debates in scholarly style, and with scrupulous accuracy .J [I have gone through more than a quarter of a century of this life of hard, inadequately paid labour, and speak feel- ingly on the subject. The very few prizes that the press offers to its members, are not for the “reporter,” whether regular or dismounted, and when his overtasked energies are exhausted by time or sickness — if all his re- sources are confined to the press, his fate is lamentable indeed. I could write a painful chapter on this theme ; but this is not the medium through which public sym- pathy can be best enlisted. As “ Editor,” the responsibilities become wider and MUTUAL INTRODUCTION. 3 graver. The goal of my ambition when I joined the press, was the Editorial Chair. I found myself suddenly elevated to this position, and my eyes became disagreeably opened, not to my shortcomings — for the natural pre- sumption of youth, and I fear, an amount of self-conceit which I mistook for ability, prevented my vision from being turned in that direction — but to the vast and illimitable difficulties that lay before me. The mission which the press then modestly assumed to itself was merely to indicate public opinion— practically, I found it created, guided, and controlled public opinion. Questions of the highest social and political importance, all of which I had settled in my own mind, in a summary way, now presented themselves in a totally different and unexpected aspect. I saw the enormous power for good or evil that vested in the editorial “We” I saw the necessity of caution in advocating principles which were the watchwords of my own party, and of forbearance in opposing the views and principles of opponents. I dis- covered that one side was not all right — the other not all wrong. I found it was essential in one who honestly determined to pursue the right rather than the expedient, to examine questions involving important political and social changes and consequences carefully on all sides ; to master the true principles of a constitution, much talked about, but little understood, before committing myself to extreme opinions. I knew that editorial labors were severe ; but this was an addition I had not pre- viously taken into account. I have perhaps had some- thing to do in helping the public towards a decision MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. on some of the highest questions of the day ; whether I have played my part wisely or well is a personal matter, in which the public at large is not likely to take any very absorbing interest, and respecting which I should hesitate to give a candid opinion. My editorial elevation was not wholly barren of results. It satisfied me that a thoroughly qualified editor must be a kind of lusus naturae . It enabled me to dis- criminate between the Brummagem pilferer of other men’s ideas — the mere pourer out of one vessel into another — and the sterling and well informed writer. It filled me with feelings of astonishment at the little in- formation the public cared to possess of the small value of the first class of our public instructors ; it inspired me with boundless respect and admiration for the last. In John- son’s tale of the “ Happy Valley,” the philosopher Imlac enumerates the qualities which go towards making a poet. His catalogue of indispensible accomplishments is so extensive, that Prince Easselas, in despair, exclaims, “ Then I am satisfied that no mortal can become a poet.” When I think of all that is, or ought to be, required of an “ Editor,” I am almost tempted to repeat the exclama- tion of Easselas. One mortal mind seems incapable of possessing the omniscience of a perfect editor. But it may be asked, do I intend to ignore the con- summate ability which distinguishes some of our leading journals. By no means. One mind may be so gifted as to be able to give tone and influence to a journal ; but the real power is created by an association of kin- dred m inds — by departmenting subjects; and entrusting MARLBOROU GH-STREET POLICE MAGISTRATES. 5 them to the ablest hands, thus producing that perfect result of journalism which is not found out of the British Empire. If an aspirant for press laurels wishes to test his capabilities, let him measure himself in an article currente calamo on one of the passing topics of the day, against a leader in one of the high-class journals. We will bet long odds that, let his conceit be ever so great, it will take the best portion of it out of him. I suspect my notions on this head will be quizzed by certain “fast” editors of this new era in newspaper history; but it must be understood I write of times before their advent was possible. The last division, that of “proprietor,” may be dis- missed in a few words. It is a position of almost un- mixed anxiety. Popular favour is somewhat capricious ; that which is a property one day, may become a source of loss the next. Becent legislation has something to answer for in this respect. It is only the long purse that can tide over this state of things. Enough of this, and now for my reminiscences in the character of Reporter. Having, I trust, properly introduced myself to my readers, without further preface, I shall begin my “Extracts from my Private Note Book.” CHAPTER IL MARLBOROUGH STREET POLICE MAGISTRATES. Thirty years ago I first took my place as Marlborough- street “comic” police reporter of the Morning Herald, on 6 MY PEI Y ATE iXOTE-BOOK. the bench usually allotted to the press. At that time Mr. Wight, the well-known author of “ Mornings at Bow-street,” had just given up his engagement, to take sub-editorial duties, and casting about for a successor — the humourous portraitures of actual life from police- courts then furnished the distinguishing feature, if not the main cause of the great success, of the Morning Herala \ — eventually made his selection in my favour. I was duly installed, at the then handsome stipend of five guineas weekly, to “ dress up ” cases in the “ humourous” line for the special delectation of Morning Herald readers. Thirty years ago this police-court and its arrange- ments were upon a totally different footing to that on which they now stand. The court was not, as now, held on the first floor of the private house in Great Marl- borough-street, known as the police-office ; it was located on the ground floor, the front room being appropriated to the magistrates as their private room; and the back premises fitted up with bench, bar, and seats, so as to give something like the semblance of a place where justice was decently administered. As the court and its avenues were comparatively limited in extent, it frequently occurred that every part became inconveniently crowded whenever cases of weight and importance were brought to the office — and such was the reputation of the magistrates, and such the expert- ness and experience of the officers attached to the court, that a larger proportion of celebrated charges found their way to this locality than to any other of the police- courts — Bow-street, the chief office, not excepted. In- MARLBOROU GH-STPuEET POLICE MAGISTRATES. 7 deed, the Marlborough-street police-court lias always kept up its reputation for what, in reporters* language is known as “ good” cases. The jurisdiction has some- thing to do with this — the Marlborough-street district embracing those parishes in which the leading tradesmen of the nobility chiefly reside, in which the principal hotels and clubs are situated, and in which night houses, hells, and “ cracksmen’s ” cribs were at one period most abun- dantly found. From these sources, the best cases, esti- mating them by their magnitude, popular interest, and the position of the parties concerned, were sure to ema- nate, Again, a very large portion of “ country business ” was brought to the court, in consequence of the special employment of its officers, whose renown always stood deservedly high. Indeed, it is only necessary to name some few of its celebrities — for even among police offi- cers of the old school, heroes in their way were not uncommon — to recall the sensation made by cases which have faded out of recollection, but which now form the most stirring portions of our criminal statistics. Among the leading officers are to be named Plank, Foy, Goddard, Schofield, Ballard, Craig, and Clements, all of whom were, more or less, noted for qualities some- what higher than possessed by the common class of thief- takers. In the course of these penciilings, I shall have to bring under review some of their exploits, and this will enable our readers — and we hope their name is legion — to judge whether their reputation was or was not well merited. The prisoners 5 room, in which prisoners waited their turn for examination, was at the bottom of the passage 8 MY PRIVATE NOTE -BOOK. leading to the court — a most inconvenient arrangement ; the clerk’s office was just beyond the prisoners’ room ; and at the end of a paved alley, were situated the prin- cipal cells — one unusually strong, for cases of murder and other capital felonies. This cell has a dark but deeply interesting history all its own. But as it frequently oc- curred that the “ drunk and disorderlies,” especially on Mondays, were too numerous to be accommodated in the rang? of cells beyond the office, there were some three or tour additional cells improvised out of the coal and wine cellars belonging to the private house ; and in these dens — they w^ere literally dens in size and appearance — scores of offenders were crammed, principally women — in summer enduring the tortures of the Calcutta Black Hole, constantly raving for air and water — in the winter experiencing Siberian severities, and frequently so be- numbed by cold as to be obliged to have assistance to enable them to mount the stairs in order to reach the prison van.. Bor years this disgraceful condition of things existed. The press in vain exposed its scandals; the Home Office would do nothing ; the plea put forward was economy, but the general belief was that it arose from the opposition' of a nobleman whose mansion abut- ted on the precincts of the court, and who would not consent that a new and suitable edifice should be built on the ample space denominated the garden, as it would thereby overlook his study, and otherwise interfere with his private comfort and convenience. Be that as it may, the worst part of the case — the position and condition of MARLB0R0U GH-STREET POLICE MAGISTRATES. 9 the prisoners* cells — has, at last, been remedied, though tardily, and, we fear, grudgingly. The court, now held on the first floor, is still, as far as public convenience is- concemed, a discredit to the metropolis, and a scandal to the Home Office. Nor are the general arrangements of the court the only changes that have occurred. The magisterial sys- tem has also undergone material modification. Thirty years ago, it was necessary to have a jury of two or three magistrates to decide cases of assault and some peculiar classes of cases. There were then three paid magistrates attached to each court ; and as two magistrates attended in the daily rota, whenever it was necessary to have a third, one of the "unpaid" was always found at hand to dis- charge the duty. CHAPTER III. A TRIO OF MAGISTRATES. The magistrates, at the time I am writing of, were Mr. Dyer, Mr. Conant, and Mr. Chambers. Of the three regular magistrates at that period, Mr. Dyer, Mr. Conant, and Mr. Chambers, it will be necessary to say a few words, and to give a few distinctive touches so as to bring them vividly before our readers. Mr. Dyer may be regarded as presenting the beau ideal of an English police magistrate, in person and in qualification. He had filled the office of judge in one of the colonies before he was appointed to the metro- 10 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. politan magisterial bench, and to the last carried with him a strong spice of judicial bearing, of forensic eti- quette and decision. Tall, erect, stately as a courtier of the Louis Quatorze period, with dignified bearing and courteous manner, it was impossible to surprise him into anything resembling an exhibition of warmth of temper. His bald and venerable appearance, his hale aspect, firm lips, severe eyes, and terse language, added to fastidiously neat attire, at once indicated the character of the man, and the externals of the judge. It seemed impossible to drive him by any species of insult or obstinacy from his cold and impassive demeanour — though, sometimes, the deepened glow on his cheek would show that the inner man was deeply stirred, and only restrained by habit and principle from showing that such was the fact. On one occasion, however, it must be confessed, he was surprised out of his usual placidity, and for a moment showed that under the cold exterior warm and lively passions existed. One busy morning, while in the midst of an im- portant investigation, a carriage drove up to the court, and a lady, in extreme distress of mind, was ushered into the private room. Sending an urgent message by a powdered lacquey for an immediate interview with the sitting magistrate Mr. Dyer, who was noted for his polite attention to ladies, and whose predilections were not altogether unbiassed by wealth and position, in- stantly laid down his pen, left the case before him only partly heard, and proceeded with Plank, the chief officer. A TRIO OF MAGISTRATES. 11 to his private room, where he found a stout jewel-be- dizened lady in an agony of tears. “Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, as soon as she was informed that a magistrate was present, “ Pray advise me, pray help me — my dar- ling Julius is dying — poisoned — poisoned.” “Calm yourself, madam,” said Mr. Dyer. “Tell me, do you suspect any one ?” “I do indeed; I suspect Sir Frederick's man. No one was allowed but Cook to prepare the victuals of my darling — no one to feed him but myself and the gover- ness. I have proof with me of poison. Here, John, bring in the remains of dear Julius’s supper.” The footman brought in a Sevres china bowl, con- taining portions of pap-like food, which certainly did look as if adulterated with some kind of deleterious compound. “ There is the bowl ; I have shown it to Sir James Clark, and he is quite of opinion that poison is one of the ingredients, but, oh! he positively refused to prescribe, though he said the sufferer had not half an hour to live” “ Should death ensue,” said Mr. Dyer, “ a coroner's inquest will, no doubt, bring out all the facts.” “ Oh ! can a coroner's inquest be held on dear Julius ? I was told it was impossible. I did not think it could be done. It shall certainly be held then.” “ I presume the victim is your son ? ” “ My son ! my dear sir — not exactly my son ; though I may say quite as dear to me as one of my own children. The poor dear is in the carriage ; you shall see him. John ! bring in the bassinette.” 12 MY PKIVATE NOTE-BOOK. The magistrate looked rather perplexed, but seemed to have a doubtful glimmering about the matter. A superb bassinette was here brought in by the foot- man, whose countenance wore as much concern as if he were first mute at a funeral ; and on the blue satin cover being withdrawn, there was seen on a satin pillow, in all the rigidity of moribund passiveness — a Blenheim puppy ! The magistrate jumped up, and, in a voice that was heard throughout the police-court, said “ Madam, have you dared ■” but checking himself suddenly, and resuming his usual calmness, added, “ Plank, show the lady to her carriage/' stalked out of the room. It was remarked that throughout the day the worthy magistrate was not himself. This was the only instance in which I ever discovered that his equanimity was in the least degree disturbed. Mr. Conant had nothing, as far as exterior was con- cerned, to indicate the police magistrate. There was a striking contrast in deportment and in forensic conven- tionalisms betwixt him and his colleague, Mr. Dyer. He never affected to be legally or morally sententious, or to give out what culprits call a “ wigging." His decisions were to the point, seldom including anything beyond a brief statement of the charge and the sentence. Not that this magistrate was unable to deliver a “ set ” judg- ment. He showed, on several occasions, that he could not only give a masterly analysis of evidence, but a complete view of all its legal bearings. Fauntleroy's forgery case may be instanced as one proof of the ability with which he could seize the salient points of a case. A TRIO OF MAGISTRATES. 13 and bring the law to bear directly upon it, notwith- standing the eminent legal minds arrayed in opposition against him. But Mr. Conant had one remarkable peculiarity. He w r as absent-minded — especially in later years — appearing almost constantly in a state of abstraction while a case was being stated — only cases, however, of the least important character, such as begging or plying for hire. Mr. Conant would on such occasions be seen bending over his writing-pad in a self-centred mood, jotting down lines rapidly, and seemingly at random ; now and then giving an abstracted look at the tenant of the bar and round the court. Plank, the chief officer, who knew his man, would on these occasions show how r admirable the selection of the magistrates was in taking him for their favourite and confidential officer. A few pointed questions from that officer, who was allowed an unusual latitude by all the magistrates who occupied the bench in turn, would enable him to get out the main circumstances of the evidence and the defence, that he might recapitulate them to the magistrate. Plank, in fact, in some cases, from his innate shrewdness and knowledge of the worst part of the London world, was far more fitted to deal with charges applying to cadgers, pickpockets, and begging-letter writers, than even the most experienced magistrate. “That's the case, sir/' would Plank say, pulling off his spectacles with a peculiar jerk, and giving a slight rap on the magistrate's desk to draw Mr. Conant' s attention. “ Oh, very well ; remand the woman." 14 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK, “ It's a man, sir." “Well, discharge the woman." Plank: “ It's the man's first offence. Only begging, sir." At the same moment giving an admonitory jerk with his glasses. By this time Mr. Conant had fully collected his faculties, and, having made himself master of the case, would give prompt judgment. When the pad, on which the magistrate had been apparently so busy, was examined, there would be found an admirable likeness of the beggar, or, perhaps, a clever pen-and-ink sketch of some well-known head from Guido or Titian. Mr. Conant was an amateur painter of no mean pretensions, and a devoted wor- shipper of the masters of the old school. Mr. Chambers, the third magistrate, was, perhaps, in direct antithesis to both his colleagues. Tf Mr. Conant had little of the exterior which is conventionally attri- buted to magistrates, Mr. Chambers had less. Short, sturdy, rubicund, not very legal or polished in language or demeanour — indeed, his umbrella fracas with the coal merchant, Pope, was long remembered to his prejudice — he might be mistaken for a fair specimen of the country gentleman, fond of rural sports, and by no means averse to an occasional magnum of “ old crushed port." But taken all in all, he was an excellent And a thoroughly conscientious magistrate. Brimful! of charity, his hand was always in his purse ; scores of outcasts, brought shivering and trembling to this court, have found them- selves suddenly provided with a fair start in the world. A TRIO OE MAGISTRATES. 15 Mr. Chambers used to assert that he had unlimited credit on the purse of a well-known charitable lady. This, no doubt, was true, but it was believed to be equally true that his own purse was never closed to the call of charity. Mr. Chambers, with his rough and vigorous de- cisions, had also a spice of humour about him. Journeymen tailors, for instance, formed the staple of the Monday morning night-charges years ago. “ Tell them off in nines” said the magistrate. This was done. * f Now,” said the magistrate, addressing them, “as nine of you make a man, I fine each lot five shillings.” The tailors were glad to put up with this skit on the fractional claim to humanity assigned to them, and each cheerfully paid the ninth part of the penalty. Another specimen, and the last. A well-known sturdy mendicant — an incorrigible beggar — was brought, for the fiftieth time, before the bench. “What, you here again?” said the magistrate, at once recognising him ; “ why, I let you off last time, on your solemn promise to give up your lazy trade.” “ I'm hobligated to beg,” whined the mendicant,. “ cos I ain't got no friends.” “ No friends ? why, I'll be your friend.” “ I ain't got no lodging.” “ I'll find you a warm, dry lodging.” “ I ain't got no wittles.” “ I'll provide you with three good meals daily.” “ I ain't got no work.” “ I'll find you plenty of work. Fourteen days to ? 16 MY PRIVATE XOTE-BOOK. the House of Correction, with hard labour ; and it shall be a month every time you come here afterwards.” I have already stated that I first came to this court in the character of comic reporter. I may as well here say a few words here on the subject of a species of literary •composition which has passed out of the hands of the press, and which has been taken possession of princi- pally by serials. Forty years ago, until about twenty years from the present day, the “ humourous” delineation of real life was mainly confined to one or two newspapers. The writers of that day — the Purcells, the Hayneses, the Wights, the Conways, kind reader, will you add your very humble servant, and some half-dozen others, whose very names have gone out of recollection — undoubtedly laid the foundation of that peculiarly English kind of literature which Messrs. Thackeray, Dickens, and their legion of imitators have, for the last twenty years, rendered so widely popular. How far clever writers of this school have been indebted to the genius and style of humour of their less known predecessors might be a curious inquiry. It will not, however, be going too far to assert that forgotten humourous police delineations of character have furnished the “idea” for some of the most amus- ing and believed-to-be-original characters in some of the most popular works of our most popular comic authors; It is somewhat singular that a kind of writing so generally attractive should have entirely dropped out of notice as far as newspapers are concerned. The press A TRIO OF MAGISTRATES. 17 has not been enlivened with a truly cc humourous ” police case for many a day. If the heaviness of politics and criminal charges has been diversified recently by light writing, it has been mainly through translations from certain foreign journals, founded unquestionably on the model of the English style of humourous reporting. One reason why no comic cases are now to be seen in the newspapers may possibly arise, not so much from the indisposition of the proprietors to pay for this kind of literary matter, as from the fact that materials for humour are now more scanty than they were. The march of education, the spread of cheap knowledge, the nearer approximation of classes, have worn away the old broad distinctive lines, and have obliterated or destroyed much of that rough origi- nality which once constituted so large and so con- spicuous a feature in what may be called the mcM~ viduality of the lower orders of English society. Acts of Parliament have had something to do with tills change by abolishing, or very much changing, the cha- racteristic occupations of many special classes from which materials for humourous description could once be abun- dantly drawn. Where are the running dustmen, where the “ Charlies,” where the “ chummies,” where the twenty-caped hackney-coach “jarvies?” They have disappeared, or, if they still exist, have merged into the common herd ; and the sons of the present day have certainly lost much of the racy peculiarities of the sires of the past. But perhaps it may be asserted that the constant 18 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. influx of Irish, the countless increase of Irish-bred Lon- doners, who have displaced whole sections of English labour in the metropolis, and have secured whole districts to themselves, with their traditionary and popularly- admitted claim to superior wit, must have more than adequately filled up the gaps occasioned by causes which I have indicated. It will surprise many — it will be doubted by more— the assertion that Irish generally are not witty, and have little appreciation of what constitutes true humour. I can conscientiously declare, during a twenty years' careful search after phases of originality and humour, in every department of society, that I never came upon a specimen of Irish humanity among the lower orders (at least the London Irish) who had the remotest pretension to original wit, or from whom I could derive directly one unborrowed, unadulterated, humourous idea. It is quite true that, from Irish peculiarities, a good deal of humour may be drawn and manufactured , but I assert that humour does not exist in prominent form among the Irish in London to any appreciable extent. Let the experiment be made, and then the accuracy of my observation will be tested. I know that my statement will very much irritate a class of Irish writers, who insist so constantly on the superiority of their countrymen over Englishmen in all matters of repartee and nimbleness of wit. All I can say is, that I have often had quoted against my theory specimens of Irish wit, which I have manufactured myself, and instances of Irish humour, which were HOW I FIRST BECAME A “REPORTER.” 19 nothing more than stale London jokes reproduced with an Irish brogue. Among our own lower orders, especially of London, an abundant fund of real wit and humour — of a coarse kind, it is true — is to be found : and in that species of comic combat called “ chaff,” a couple of cockney cabmen or omnibus drivers will utter more good things good-humouredly in an hour than a whole province of Irish hodmen in a year. CHAPTER IV. HOW I FIRST BECAME A “ REPORTER.” I fancy I plunged rather too plumply in mediae res , when I commenced my press “ recollections ” at the period of receiving my appointment at Marlborough- street Police-court. The present, I think, is a good opportunity to state how, why, and by what means I came to adopt the press at all as a profession. It will suffice to say that my original destination in life was mercantile. My father-in-law was a Portuguese merchant, a ship-broker, and an underwriter of Lloyd's, in all which vocations he destined me to be his suc- cessor. I was sent to a public school to learn com- mercial languages and commercial requisites; but instead of “ useful” knowledge, I acquired a good deal ot “ useless ” lumber, some Latin, some Greek, more geo- metry than algebra, and a strong notion that the bent of my “ genius ” was decidedly towards literature, not 20 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. commerce — a mistake that I never had cause to regret but once, and that once was during my whole life. The hallucination I laboured under was very much fostered by the secret production of a tragedy, the plot and dialogue of which envious people might say were filched from Shakespeare ; a melo-drama, which would afford ground for the belief that either Schiller -had stolen from me or I from Schiller; a poem — the completion of Don Juan — a feat Byron was never able to accomplish; and a Scotch novel in three volumes, which somehow bore a remarkable resemblance in all but genius and originality to Scott's “ Heart of Midlothian." I venerated with profound veneration those im- mortal literary names, ancient and modern, which had enlightened and instructed the world. I thought the roll of fame, though crowded, yet contained room enough for one name more — that name only known to myself ; might it not bye-and-bye resound throughout the whole area of civilization ? With qualifications such as I have indicated, it is no wonder that at twenty-two or thereabouts I determined that the world should be no longer in ignorance of the talents of a “ certain person," and the channel T selected, through which to impart the secret, was the press. But then to make my way to editor or proprietor was a puzzling affair. I knew no one connected, directly or indirectly, with the press. This was a damper, to be sure ; but at that happy period of life trifles of this sort had no formidable influence or weight. I saw a way at once to overcome the difficulty; I HOW I FIRST BECAME A “REPORTER.” &1 had only to write to the known editors, enclose a specimen of, as yet, unrecognised genius, and an engage- ment, I felt assured, would promptly follow. The chief difficulty was in the selection of that news- paper editor who was to be the fortunate possessor of my valuable assistance. I considered, however, in order to prevent jealousy among these touchy gentry, that the best way would be to write to them altogether, to state the facts candidly, and, at the same time, to hint that first-comer would be first served. I wrote letters — masterly in composition as I conceived, yet toned down with obvious modesty— to all the morning papers, and having seen them carefully posted, I waited a day or two with exemplary patience. The day or two stretched to a week, and I began to have a suspicion that neither proprietors nor editors of morning papers were entitled to that character for ready discrimination which they enjoyed by popular consent. I resolved to give the evening papers a turn. Letters were accordingly sent round, but no replies were vouch- safed. The last letter was to the Conner , then on the wane of its popularity, though once the co-partner in some respects, in others rival of, the Times ; once the organ of eager politicians, who scrambled during the war — so the rumour goes — for early copies of second editions at the rate of half-a-guinea each. Another week passed, and all hope had nearly fled. I was about condemning summarily the whole batch of press men, evening and morning, as unqualified block- heads and envious monopolisers, when a letter was put 22 MY PIU Y ATE NOTE-BOOK. into my hand which changed my views in a twinkling. It was a letter from the Courier office, couched in the kindest and most familiar terms, apologising for unavoid- able delay in answering my note, inviting me to come to the Strand any day after four o'clock, ask for the editor, and to prepare to name the department I was desirous of filling on the paper. The letter was signed “Eugenius Roche.” Peeling now satisfied that true merit could not be wholly overlooked, even in that degenerate age, I made my way quickly to the Courier office, and on sending in my card, was instantly ushered into a back room, where sat a tall spectacled, benignant-looking gentleman. As soon as I presented myself, he rose with a stare of un- mistakeable astonishment. He looked at my card — he looked at me. “ Jonathan Potts,” said he; “ why really — are you the gentleman who wrote to me, and who sent me in this card ?” “ I am,” said I, rather, as the phrase of the day went, dropping down on my luck at this inter- rogation. “ Bless me, bless me !” said he ; “ what an absurd mistake. I thought it was one of my oldest and dearest friends, one of the oldest contributors to the press, who had written to me. Your name and his name are pre- cisely similar. You must have been very much astonished at the free-and-easy style of letter you received.” “ I certainly was pleasantly surprised,” I said, “ but having been almost reduced to despair, the sensation 23 THE " PENNY- A-L1NEU ” was too agreeable to be discarded at the time. I had written so many letters in vain, and hoped against hope so long, that your letter was doubly welcome, and I can hardly express to you the extent of my present disap- pointment.” cc Well, well,” said he, with that amiability which distinguished him throughout his literary career, “ per- haps the disappointment may not turn out to be so thorough as you anticipate. What can you do ?” “ I’m afraid,” said I, modestly, “ very little. I have had no press experience yet.” “ Ah,” said he, shaking his head, “ that's unlucky, and I am afraid I shall be able to do nothing for you. The Courier only makes use of the services of expe- rienced hands. Can you report ?” “ I don't think,” said I, “ that I am quite, though very nearly, in the position of the bumpkin, who, when asked if he could play on the fiddle, replied he did not know, as he never had tried. I have never reported, but I think I could report if I tried.” “ There, again,” said he, “ only experienced re- porters can hope for employment on the Courier. All I can promise is, if you send anything that can fairly be inserted, I will promise you a trial.” With this opening I was bound to be satisfied. I thanked him warmly, took my leave, and as I shall, perhaps, have occasion to mention, earned my first guinea on the press through this introduction. 24 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. CHAPTER V. THE " PENNY-A-LINER.” A quarter of a century ago, although the “ press ” was then, unquestionably, a “ great fact,” it was not the vast power it confessedly now is. To the conductors of, and contributors to, the press a quarter of a century ago, are undoubtedly due the merit of having conferred on it the status and the influence progressively acquired, a status and influence which unquestionably the press, although in a transition condition, still enjoys. Now-a-days the press is no mystery. cc Gentlemen of the press ” are as common and plentiful as mush- rooms. The case was a little different twenty-five years ago. There was no lack of contributors of all grades even at that bygone-generation epoch, but they were not bodily before the public eye; indeed, a retiring feeling, not arising, however, from superfluous modesty, was, in a certain sense and extent, the press charac- teristic, possibly because the profession was one of doubtful and as yet unrecognised position. The "press” with the "mob” was a sort of abstrac- tion. Everybody either felt or admitted the moral and positive influence which it everywhere exercised — the practical force with which it operated on public affairs and opinion — but very few seemed to have any clear notion of its whereabouts, its personality, or its material existence. Now and then an “ editor,” as a sort of lusus 25 THE “ PENNY-A-LINER.” natures, might be pointed out at some public festival, or his bodily presence discovered, as the “ lion ” at some out-of-the-way tavern ; while “ reporters,” during session of Parliament especially, might be commonly seen in batches on the back benches of the then unre- formed House of Commons, and in the small publics adjacent ; but, beyond these tangible evidences of actual existence, it was a difficult problem for the public at large to solve how newspapers were got up daily, and where were to be found the labourers in that mysterious and not over-productive vineyard. It is not my purpose just yet to speak of editors or reporters either of the past or present school. I pro- pose to bring before my readers a class of contributors quite as indispensible as either of the two constituent parts of a daily newspaper, and twice as popular. I refer to the “penny-a-liner” — the unit of a race sui generis ; not, however, the penny-a-liner of the existing time, but of the particular period to which I have already referred. The profitable business of “ penny-a-lining ” — a misnomer, however, for the general scale of payment in the palmy days of the press was three-halfpence per line for town matter, twopence for country — had become a kind of monopoly. It was in comparatively few hands, but those hands belonged to men, several of whom were of the highest order of intellect and possessors of varied attainments. Some of these “ outsiders ” preferred the independence, the ease, and the profits of their position, to regular engagements; others adhered to “lining,” 26 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. because whiskey-toddy, porter, tobacco, and freedom, had attractions too potent for their idiosyncracies. About half-dozen first-rate men, who had the monopoly of the papers, carefully guarded every avenue from interlopers ; they mapped out amongst themselves the various depart- ments and districts, and it was a point of honour not to poach on any part of the recognised fraternity's allotted manor. The “ dismounted," as they were facetiously termed, held their nocturnal gatherings at the “Ben Jonson," in Shoe-lane. Turning from Fleet-street into Shoe-lane, you come upon a dingy public-house down a short passage ; this is still the “Ben Jonson," but, alack ! not the thriving “ Ben Jonson" of former years. The renown once conferred upon this public-house as the recognised head-quarters of the press attracted all the respectability of the ward. The aldermen, the deputy, and leading common councilmen, might be nightly seen among the guests. They were glad to hear the latest intelligence of the latest murder, the freshly delivered Old Bailey verdict, and the numbers on a division which had just put Ministers out of office, and all in anticipation of the morning papers. I ask you to fancy a room about twenty feet long by twelve feet wide, with a mahogany table down the centre, closely packed wooden chairs on each side, at the top a raised arm-chair, the seat of honour, for years occupied by a Ludgate-hill watchmaker, and in one corner a small square table, exclusively reserved for the THE “ PENNY- A-LINEE.” 27 “liners” on which to write their “special” or their “ flimsy ” reports, respecting which I must explain the difference. A “ special ” report was where an outsider had been engaged by the editor to forage out the par- ticulars of, say, a fire, murder, or execution, exclusively for a settled sum. A “ flimsy ” report was where the outsider preferred to write, by the aid of manifold, as many copies as there were papers, taking payment at so much per line for as much as the editor might choose to use. For “good business,” such as “Murders,” “ Forgeries,” “ Love and Suicides,” this latter mode of contribution is, or rather was, by far the most profitable. Take, for instance, such cases as John ThurtelFs, for the murder of Weare, of Corder, for the murder of Maria Martin in the Bed Barn, the murder and burning of the body of Paas, at Birmingham — events that horrified and interested our fathers — there the lucky penny-a-liner whose copy was preferentially used — for reports of such atrocities were done incomparably better by the penny-a-liners than by the regular reporters— would have little difficulty in netting his ten or fifteen pounds per diem, as long as the trial or his ingenuity made the interest last. It was in this direction I resolved to make my first attempt. I thought it would be a good preparation for the higher journalistic departments. I liked the rollicking independence of the fraternity — I liked the prospect of superior profit; I did not then care for honour. I had paid several evening visits to the “ Ben Jonson,” and had formed a sort of conversational 28 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. acquaintance with one of the penny-a-lining fraternity, who seemed most accessible to invitations to eleemo- synary ale and oysters, and who, mistaking me for one of the “ young swells ” who now and then come eastward to imbibe a few notions from the wise men of Shoe-lane, was obligingly communica- tive on all the minutia connected with his profession, conceiving, as a matter of course, that he was bound in honour to give a quid pro quo for the good cheer he was invited to partake of without being called upon to bear any part of the reckoning. I watched for an opportunity for some time. One evening I alighted on a short paragraph in the Morning Advertiser , to the effect that a fisherman named Malcolm had been shot in the arm by a gentleman named Moir, and that, as death was anticipated, the event had created a great sensation in the neighbourhood. I thought this a good opportunity for a venture on my own account. Profiting by the information I had sur- reptitiously picked up from my bibulous friend, I went round late at night to the various papers, stating that I was going to Shelhaven the next morning, to inquire into the circumstances, and adding, that I proposed to send a full account if the facts were of sufficient im- portance. I received a conditional promise that my “ copy ” should be used if none of their “ regular con- tributors” sent anything. The next morning I set out on my first newspaper expedition. I shall not recount the difficulties — comic and serious — for I had abundance of both, which I THE “ PENNY - A-LIN EH 29 experienced before I could either find out the locality of the event or make my way to Shelhaven Creek. When I did arrive there, my labours were well rewarded. I found that the wounded man had just died, that Captain Moir was in custody, and that a coroner’s inquest was fixed to take place the next Thursday. I put together a very readable account of the unhappy affair, which I wrote out in manifold for every paper, thinking that it would whet public curiosity for further details at the inquest. I reached town in good time to give all the papers copy for the next morning. Profiting by my knowledge of the “Ben Jonson” junta, I took the pre- caution of stating at the end of my report that the inquest was fixed, not for Thursday , which was the fact, but for Friday , a ruse of which I reaped the full benefit, as will be seen in the sequel. The following morning, to my intense delight, while breakfasting at Peele’s Coffee-house, I read, without missing a word in all the seven papers, my first report, in which I felt no doubt I had blended style, pathos, and fact together in a manner not altogether unworthy of the “Sensation School” of the present day. The next evening I was at the “ Ben,” and there also were the clique of “ liners.” “ Seen the * Melancholy and Tragic Event ’ (so I had headed my paragraph) in the papers?” said one. “ Oh, yes, it’s Tom Akland’s.” “ That be ! (the cleverest gentlemen are not always the most refined in their language — this specially applies to gentlemen of the press) It isn’t 30 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. a bit like Tom Akland’s style. It's from the Essex yokel of the Chebnsford Clodhopper. Why, who but a yawnips that makes shoes one half the week and goes to case the other, would write this sort of country muck. 6 But, alas ! hope was doomed to disappoint- ment — death, at last, putting an end to a week of mortal agony and protracted suffering/ Don’t that smell of the cobbler, eh? But I see the inquest is on Friday. It will be worth going to.” “ Oh, yes,” said the liners, in chorus, “ it’s a joint- stock job ; we’ll all be in it.” I was a little nettled at the criticism on my first production. I attributed — no doubt correctly — the quiz on my “ style ” to sheer envy. I hoped, however, to have my modicum of revenge in good time. On Thursday, accordingly, I was again at Shelhaven. No one from the press was present at the court but myself and the shoe-making representative of the County Clod- hopper. The evidence was very long. Many will yet remember the unhappy case. Captain Moir, a gentle- man of fortune, of warm temper, had shut up a path over his lawn to the river. A fisherman, named Mal- colm, persisted in committing the trespass of crossing the lawn, though warned off by the Captain. The fisher- man is believed to have used bad language to the irri- tated Captain, and to have declared that he would come back that way in the evening, in spite of prohibition to the contrary. The Captain went home, loaded a pair of small pistols (here was the strong part of the case, which afterwards hanged him), and on seeing the fisher- 31 THE “ PENNY- A-LINEE.’’ man again crossing the lawn, rushed out, threw himself on his pony, and overtaking him, commenced an altercation, which ended by the Captain firing one of the pistols, and lodging a ball in the arm of the fisher- man. The wound would not heal, inflammation set in, and the man died. I had taken a heap of notes, when the county reporter made an arrangement with me to give his paper the conclusion for a couple of guineas, as he had to be back at Chelmsford at a stated hour c This was the first piece of unexpected good fortune. The jury returned a verdict of wilful murder ; and after despatch- ing a brief report to the county paper, I went to bed, resolving to write out fully for the daily papers the mass of evidence I had in my note-book. I rose early, reached Billericay in the morning, and took an outside place to London. About eleven o’clock, as I was passing through Ingatestone, I saw five familiar faces trudging up the road, dusty, hot, and footsore. I recognised them as my “ Ben Jonson” critics, in full trot to the inquest. After I reached London, six hours’ hard writing en- abled me to turn out a couple of columns of matter, every line of which, in that happy age of editorial jealousy and competition, was sure to be inserted and, what is better, paid for. Feeling particularly comfortable at the golden harvest before me, I made my way to the “ Ben ” about ten o’clock at night, and while indulging in the extrava- gance of a lobster and bottled ale my five gentlemen turned in, travel-stained, and rather out of temper. * 32 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. " What a bloke that Chelmsford yokel was, to shove down Friday instead of Thursday for the inquest/' said the leader. "If we hadn't known where to find Bartlett, the coroner, we should have looked precious spooney when v r e came back. Come, my lads, bring out the tools, and let's strap at it." The five liners went to work busily for an hour, when one of them, gathering up the copy as far as it had been written, proposed, as it was late, to take it round, and tell the printers the remainder would soon follow. This was assented to, and he left, but returned in marvellous quick time, with a face of dismay. " Knock off, my boys," said he. "We're all done dirty brown. Copy has been in to all the papers, and e up,' these three hours." "None of your gammon, Bob," said one of the writers, regarding the speaker with a suspicious look. "You won't ‘ suck the monkey' this time, I promise you." The phrase contains a little bit of slang, well known at the Docks. It refers to the practice of inserting a straw in a pipe of wine, and sucking out its contents. The "liners" had adopted and applied it to cases where a breach of faith was committed — where one " liner " sucked out the contents of copy in common and sent it specially in his own name. " I tell you," said the first speaker, " the copy is all in type — two columns at least. Lawson, of the Times , showed it me, and the name on the copy was ‘ Jonathan Potts.' " My special friend here cast a scrutinising glance at SOME OF THE MYSTERIES OF PENNY-A-LINING. 33 me, and then appeared as if he had a sudden revelation of light. He came and sat himself by my side. “How do? We didn't see you here last night." “No," said I, evasively; “I was a little way in the country." “ In the country, eh ! Anywhere near Shelhaven P " said he. “ Why, yes," said I. “ Perhaps your name is Potts ? " “ It is." “D my sister's cousin's cat," said he, with great liveliness; “I thought so. What a blessed pump I've been ! But, confound it ! why didn't you give us the ‘ office ' when you passed us at Ingatestone, for I'm sure it was you on the top of the coach, and not let us go tramping forty miles for nix, besides sticking up five * bob ' at the bar for expenses, to be paid out of what we got for our copy ? You ought to pay your footing, and c stand Sam,' especially as you'll make a £20 note by this job." “Well," said I, “if it turns out as well you say. I'll pay your score, and put down half-a -sovereign for a beefsteak supper." My friend communicated this piece of intelligence to his colleagues. They were obliged to be content with it ; and when the supper came off the next night a solemn compact was entered into to admit me info their corps, share and share alike. The honourable way this compact was carried out shall be described in my next. 34 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. CHAPTER YI. SOME OF THE MYSTERIES OF PENNY- A-LINING. Before I go on with my story, I may be permitted to say a few more last words respecting the mysteries of the penny-a-liner's vocation. The old — and, I may add, the aboriginal — race of penny-a-liners were, taken in the lump, clever fellows. They were masters, or rather inventors, of the art of “dressing-up” paragraphs, so as to give them a character of speciality and interest. Their talent was not confined — as small writers in cheap publications of the day have ignorantly asserted — to the business of exaggerating the dimensions of “ gigantic gooseberries,” or, by taking thought, adding a cubit to the longitude of some “Patagonian cucumber.” They were real geniuses in their way, and have, in their vocation, afforded the newspaper public many a hearty laugh, and inany a pungent thrill, though through the agency of facts not always based on the soundest foundations. The object of the “penny-a-liner” in discarding simple Saxon words, and using sesquipedalian poly- syllables, was, not — as ignorantly asserted by authorlings not possessing a tithe of his real talent — to create or exhibit “ false taste,” but, really and truly, to add to honest gains. Being paid by the line, the great aim of the “liner” was to extend their number, by ingenious means, in an artistic manner. In the hands of a “ regular ” reporter, the details of a “ tragic event ” or SOME OF THE MYSTERIES OF PENNY-A-LINING. 35 a “melancholy occurrence” would be given drily or succinctly. A penny-a-liner, handling the same matter, would, by the judicious application of verbal ornament- ation, give the affair unexpected life and interest. To illustrate my meaning, here are two reports of the same occurrence copied from the papers of the day. They are both reports of the same speech ; one furnished by the “ regular ” of The Times , the other, manifolded for the rest of the papers, by the self-same Jack Holliday already referred to as my quondam friend. I must first explain that the occasion was an election of common councilmen at one of the City wards. The elected was a cheesemonger, more remarkable for the quality of his goods, than the excellence of his oratory. Times report : — “Mr. Cheshire said he couldn't find words — he was no orator — but he thanked them all round; and, though he couldn't speak well, he could vote well. He was not worthy of the honour done to him ; but they all knew him — he would do his best. They might find a better, but not an honester, man ; and he wished them all the same success he had met with, and long life to enjoy it.” The “penny-a-liner” version, “spun out” and interjectionally interlarded for the benefit of his pocket — perhaps as accurate but not quite so literal — appeared in the other morning papers in this form : — “ Mr. Cheshire, on being unanimously called for by the electors, presented himself before them, and, bowing all round, with evident emotion, said : Fellow-wardsmen, friends, and fellow-parishioners, overpowered as I am by 36 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. the honour you have just conferred upon me in electing me your representative in the Common Council of the first commercial city in the civilized world, I cannot find suitable words in which to thank you. (Applause.) He did not pretend to oratory (Cries of 1 So much the better'). He was no orator — but, from the bottom of his heart, he thanked them all round. (Cheers, and cries of c Bravo, Cheshire ! ') Though he might not be able to speak well, yet he could vote well. (Renewed cheers.) He felt himself totally unworthy to fill the high position in which he had been placed. (Cries of 'No, no!') They all knew what he was. (A voice, ‘You're a trump !') They all knew him. In the face of that respectable meeting of his constituents he solemnly pledged himself to do his best — his very best — for the common interests of the ward. (Cries of / We know you will ! ') They might find a better man (‘ No, no ! '), but they never should say they could find an honester representative. (Loud cheers.) In all sincerity he wished them all the same success as he had met with, and he fervently hoped, under Divine Providence, they would live long enough to enjoy it. The worthy common councilman here resumed his seat amidst general plaudits." The seven lines of the “ regular " was expanded into twenty-seven by the “ liner." I need not say that neither common councilman nor penny-a-liner had cause to regret the figure they made in the papers the next morning. One of the greatest masters of verbal amplification was this renowned and once well known J ohn, or familiarly SOME OF THE MYSTERIES OF PENNY -A-LINING. 37 Jack, Holliday. The late Tom Haynes was a genius of the same school, but in a more cultivated and classical form. When quizzed, respecting the profuse sprinkling of “ cheers ” and “ counter cheers,” “ hear, hear,” and “ applause,” in his common council and civic reports, “My dear fellow,” said he, “ I pay for my tobacco with them.” His confidential advice to me was, “Never, when writing manifold, use a short word where a long one — the longer the better — can be substituted, for it may turn the line?' From these brief hints it will be seen there was something in the “ art ” that must be learned, and which did not, like Dogberry's reading and writing, “ come by nature.” The “captain” of the “liners” was one Tom Conroy. On him devolved the duty of apportioning the labour and the districts among those who worked in partnership. My special friend, Holliday, who evidently bore the “ captain ” no good will, one evening, under pressure of his sixth pint of Burton, whispered in confidence to me, “ Take care of Tom, if ever you do any business with him ; you'll find lie's a rogue, and would sell his grandfather if he got a chance.” The opening of Staines Bridge, at which King William the Fourth was announced to be present, was the first business of sufficient importance to engage the attention of the cooperative “Ben Jonsonians.” Ac- cordingly, the “ captain,” finding there were four of us to be in it, allotted to each their parts, the profits of which were not to be shared in common, but in the 33 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. proportion to the amount of information each respectively contributed. This was the plan adopted on particular occasions, the prudence of which had been more than once experienced. My part in this business was to give an account of the royal procession as it set forth from Windsor Castle, and the general behaviour of the populace : this, I was assured, was particularly important, the whole country being then in arms in reference to the Reform Bill. I thought my portion of work rather meagre, but I did not complain, as it was the first trans- action, and, accordingly, full primed with instructions, I made my way to the locality pointed out, a cross road between Windsor and Staines, by which the royal carriages were expected to pass. There might, perhaps, have been half-a-dozen people lounging about, but I soon saw I had been “ sold,” that, in fact, I should have nothing to describe, and that, very likely, I should be the expenses out of pocket, as the expenses were to be borne individually, and not to come out of the common purse. The conveyances to London were so few from this out- of-the-way locality, that I did not get to town until nearly ten o’clock. My first visit was to the “ Ben,” in no very placid humour. There sat the “ captain ” at the table, which was covered with manifold, already laid out, brimfull of expectation, and boiling with impatience and vexation at the delay. “ You the first here ?” said he, gruffly, " you can’t have got much. Did you tumble in with Tom Conroy and Jack Holliday ? ” my copartners, inquired he. “ I don’t very well see how I could tumble over any SOME OF THE MYSTERIES OF PENNY- A- LINING, 89 one, considering the ridiculous place you sent me to/* said I, rather pettishly. “ Haven't you got anything ? ” said the “captain.” “Not aline worth writing/' said I. At this moment in staggered Tom Conroy. “ Missh'd the lasht coash, by shingo ! ” hiccupped he. “ Couldn't shee Holliday till after peshession to Sthainsh wash all passhd. Left Snack at Windsher, drunk ash a fiddlersh — fiddlersh .'' “ You haven't been to Staines at all/' roared the “ captain '' in a rage, “ you've sold us, and so has J ack, and now we're in a pretty mess. Here/' said he, turning to me, “ the papers expect copy, and I must write some- thing. Can't you fudge up anything ? '' “Nothing whatever/' said I, “the procession certainly passed the lane, but it was gone in a moment." “Did you notice anything particular?” inquired he anxiously. “ The only thing,” I replied, “ I noticed was, that one of the sheep from a flock coming down the lane ran under the feet of the leaders, and frightened the animals a little bit.” “ What,” said he, catching hold of me eagerly, “ do you call that nothing ? My dear fellow, tell me every particular — be careful, recollect every circumstance.” Astonished at his sudden anxiety, 1 told him, as clearly as I could remember, the particulars of this very simple affair, how that, the horses being startled, the leaders began to caper, the postilions to look uneasy, but that, three or four bumpkins having started forward, and 40 MY PRIVATE NOTE-BOOK. laid hold of the horses's heads, and soothed them, the royal carriage proceeded, and was out of sight in a moment. “ And this happened close to the gravel pits, did it not?" “ Well," said I, “ there certainly were some pits about half a mile off, out of which the contractors got their ballast." “ Did the king do or say anything ? " “ Nothing that I can vouch for, except to tell the postilions to go on." “ And the mob cheered, did they not ? " cc I fancied I heard some two or three huzzas, certainly." “ That will do, my dear fellow. This nice little bit of c fat ' will afford a mutton chop, and a pot of ' heavy/ so order them at the bar." Wondering what could possibly be made out of my bare morsel of information, I bespoke the viands, and while they were preparing Conroy was writing away with vigour. My wonder, the next morning, was chequered with amusement and admiration, when in all the papers, conspicuously, in large type, leaded, with Egyptian heading, appeared “ MIRACULOUS ESCAPE OP ROYALTY. “ After the interesting proceedings of the day were concluded, an event occurred which, but for the season- able interposition of Divine Providence, might have put the whole nation in mourning, and possibly plunged all Europe in grief. Just as the Royal cortege had reached SOME OF THE MYSTERIES OF PENNY-A-LINING. 41 the cross-road leading to the Castle, an infuriated sheep suddenly rushed from the lane, and dashing under the feet of the high-mettled steeds, set them plunging and kicking with fearful impetuosity. The alarmed posti- lions in vain endeavoured to restrain their frantic excite- ment ; the leaders had already turned their heads towards a chain of pits which had been excavated to a fearful depth, in order to furnish ballast for the earth- works of the bridge ; the animals were preparing to start madly off in that perilous direction, when the imminent danger to Majesty was in an instant compre- hended by the alarmed and loyal crowd which had con- gregated at the spot, anxious to catch a glimpse of their beloved and popular monarch. A dozen brave hearts and brawny arms instantly precipitated themselves to- wards the scene of danger, and seizing the steeds, for- tunately succeeded in turning their heads from the direction of destruction, and calming their terror. Our