1 Thirty years ago this house was noted for the excellent quality of its boiled beef;—no other meat is ever drest here,—Hobson's choice, or none! During that period it has had several occupants, and each has retired with a very considerable fortune. In the decided superiority of its buttock and flank, the house still sustains its pristine reputation. 2 These gentry are hardly to be distinguished from the Hanger-on, except by being, if possible, more impudent; they frequent all places of public resort, in order to pick up a dinner or a bottle, and otherwise prey upon the credulity of the unwary. Whenever they meet with a countryman, they salute him with enquiring the time of day, or describing the weather, and entertaining him with a story of little consequence, till they have artfully wheedled you into an invitation to dine or sup with you. They can tell you where the best entertainment is to be met with; which is the best comedian; can get you introduced to see such an actress; to hear this sing or that spout; will provide you with the best seat at the play-house, or keep a place for you in the front row of the first gallery, should you prefer it to the pit; can procure a ticket for the exhibition rooms for half price, and explain every thing in the museum as well as the librarians themselves.—If your inclination is for mischief, he is the only man in the world to assist you; would you break the lamps, or Mill the Charleys, he will stand by and cry Bravo! till you are carried to the Watch-house, but will not engage in the quarrel himself, acting only as a corps de reserve. When you are taken, he will negotiate with the constable of the night about your ransom, for which you must pay smartly, other-wise be detained till Justice opens her doors to descry and punish your enormities, according to the nature of the crime committed; upon which the Spunger says, that he foresaw and told you the consequences that would happen if you persevered, but that you would not listen to his advice.

Having done satisfactory justice to the buttock and flank, and further refreshed themselves with a draught of Whitbread's Entire; our pedestrians, leaving the “Boil'd Beef House,” recommenced their excursion by proceeding up the Old Bailey, when Dashall remarking on the number of Eating Houses with which that street abounds, observed, that it seemed a favorite seat of consolidation for the professors of the culinary art, like Cloth-fair for Woollen-drapers, Paternoster-Row for Booksellers, and Clerkenwell for Watch-makers, &c. “This,” said Dashall, “is His Majesty's Gaol of Newgate, and from this door ascend the numerous victims to the fatal scaffold, in immolation to the offended laws of their country. Let us enter this temporary abode of crime and wretchedness. It has been much meliorated by the humane and indefatigable attentions of an excellent lady, Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, and I am desirous of seeing the result of her philanthropic exertions.” The gentlemanly appearance and demeanour of the two strangers facilitated their admission, and they entered the prison preceded by one of the turnkeys, who courteously had proffered his services in shewing the place, and giving every required information.

Newgate, on the eastern side of the Old Bailey, has been rebuilt, its walls or shell excepted, since it was destroyed by the rioters, in the year 1780. A broad yard divides Newgate from the Sessions House, a very handsome stone and brick building. Another edifice, where that lately stood, commonly called Surgeon's Hall, has been erected; it is arched underneath, and supported upon pillars, and is used as a place of accommodation for witnesses and other persons, while waiting for the trials during session time.

This prison, until within these few years back, was a place of confinement as well for debtors as felons, but by late arrangements, and the erection of the new gaol in Whitecross-street, Newgate has now become the receptacle of felons only.{1}

1 Newgate has been the scene of two remarkable events, which frequently serve as eras of reckoning to some of the inhabitants of Loudon; the first is, that of the memorable riots in 1780, when this imposing edifice was attacked by a furious mob in the evening of Monday the 5th of June, who by breaking the windows, batter-ing the entrances of the cells with sledge hammers and pickaxes, and climbing the walls with ladders, found means to enter Mr. Akerman's house, communicating with the prison, and eventually liberated three hundred prisoners. The next of these events oc-curred on the 23rd of February, 1807. This was when Haggarty and Holloway were to suffer for the murder of Mr. Steele on Houns-low Heath. The populace began to assemble so early as five o'clock, and to accumulate until eight. (It is supposed that the concourse of people was greater than at the execution of Governor Wall.) At eight o'clock the prisoners ascended the scaffold. Im-mediately after they were launched off, a most dreadful scene took place. The approaches to the place were completely blocked up with carts, filled with spectators, and when some of the crowd began to move away, the pressure became dreadful. Some fell, and others falling over them they were trampled to death. Terror took possession of the crowd, they became desperate, and their efforts only contributed to increase their danger. As soon as this frightful confusion ceased, forty-two sufferers in the scene were carried to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Of these, twenty-seven were dead; and though every effort was made for their resuscitation, in not one instance was it crowned with success. Of forty-two, the whole number, five were women, and three of them were among the dead. Of the remaining twenty-four bodies, five were men, and the rest lads, from twelve to seventeen years of age. Among the dead men was a pye-man, who was said to have fallen first, and caused the dreadful catastrophe. A great number of the pupils in attendance happened to be collected in St. Bartholomew's Hospital at the time, and afforded prompt assistance; and Dr. Powell, and a Surgeon, who were both upon the spot, directed their humane exertions.

In the Old Bailey stood Sydney-house, known by the white front, and the recess in which it is concealed; and here Jonathan Wild is said to have lived the greatest part of his time. The north side of Newgate consists of two court-yards, which are far too circumscribed for the numerous inhabitants, this prison always exhibiting a multitudinous calendar of human depravity. The men's court is only 49 feet 6 inches, by 31 feet 6, and the women's of the same length, and about half the width. The whole square is entirely surrounded by the wards, which rise three stories above the pavement. The women's yard is separated from the men's by a wall. In the south and south-east yards, felons for trial are confined, and four other yards are similarly occupied. The yard assigned to female felons is a wretched place, containing three wards, in which are sometimes kept upwards of one hundred women. In the north-east corner, next Newgate-street, is the condemned yard, in which are kept persons under sentence of death. The yards and all the wards are repeatedly lime-washed, and by these and other excellent regulations of the Sheriffs of London, Newgate is changed from a loathsome prison, dangerous to the health of the metropolis, to a state which may be quoted as a model for all similar places. Water is plentiful, ventilators are introduced into every window, and a general system of cleanliness prevails throughout the whole prison. The morals of its inmates have been improved, and their condition greatly meliorated by Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, who like her predecessor in the exercise of philanthropy, the celebrated Howard, delights in reducing the sum of human misery. The feelings of the two visitors having been amply gratified by demonstration of the happy result, from superior management, accruing to the prisoners, they departed, not forgetting the poor box, put up for general benefit, inviting the contributions of charitable strangers.

Continuing their route, our perambulators proceeded down Skinner street into Holborn, and traversed its extended line without any remarkable occurrence, until they reached Broad Street, St. Giles's. “We are now,” said Dashall, “in the Holy Land.”

“Long life to your honors,” exclaimed a ragged professor of mendicity: “give a poor fellow the price of a shake down, and may you never be without the comforts of an upright!”

“What mean you,” asked the Squire, “by a shake down and an upright?”

“Not the worse luck that you don't know that self same thing now; but sure enough a shake-down is a two-penny layer of straw, and saving the tatters on my back, not a covering at all at all; may the son of my father never have a worse birth any how.”

“And an upright?”

“Is it an upright your honor's spaking about?—fait and troth, as to that same, may the devil fly away with Thady O'Flannagan, and that is myself sure, if he knows much about it at all at all, seeing as how he has not rested his old bones on such a thing, arrah, these many long years; but sure enough it is four stumps, with boards across, a good flock-bed, a blanket below and a sheet above, with a decent coverlet pieced and patched in a hundred places to boot;—may you never want the like of it, any how!”

“Thanks for your good wishes, my friend,” said Dashall; “and this for the information which you have given us.”

“By the powers of good luck!” exclaimed the itinerant philosopher, “a tirteener!—Now an Irishman's blessing upon you for two good-hearted gentlemen; may you live all the days of your lives in peace and prosperity both here and hereafter!”{1}

1 The many impoverished and deserted beings who daily wander the streets, trusting for the vegetative existence of the moment to eleemosynary occurrences, are incalculable. Amongst these sons and daughters of misery, happy is the one who, after partially satisfying the cravings of hunger, possesses two-pence, the price of a shake down for the night, in Rainbridge or Buckeridge-street, St. Giles's!—The upright is a wretched semblance of a bed, at the rate of three-pence or four-pence; but the lofty aspirant to genteel accommodation, must put down a tester. In this way there are frequently beds to the number of seventy in one house, made up for nocturnal visitants!

Palestine in London, or the Holy Land, includes that portion of the parish of St. Giles, Bloomsbury, inhabited by the lower Irish, with whom it seems a favorite place of residence. The Squire having expressed to his friend a desire of perambulating these boundaries, they proceeded, by the way of George street, to explore the sanctified labyrinths, the scenes of diurnal clamour, and hebdomadary conflict.

“Arrah now,” exclaimed a voice of maternity, in the person of a legitimate daughter of Erin,—“Arrah now, you brat of the devil's own begetting, be after bowling along to your fader: bad luck to him, and be sure that you bring him home wid you, by the token that the murphies are cracking, the salt-herrings scalding, and the apple-dumplings tumbling about the pot,—d'ye mind me, you tief of the world, tell him that his dinner waits upon him.”—“I'll be after doing that same, moder;” and forth from the ground floor of a mean looking house in Buckeridge-street, sprang an urchin without hat, shoe or stocking, and the scanty tattered habiliment he wore, fluttering in various hues, like pennants in the wind, with such heedless velocity, urged no doubt by the anticipated delicacies of the dinner-pot, that he came in furious, unexpected, and irresistible contact with Squire Tallyho, who borne forward by the shock, was precipitated into a stagnant collection of mud and water, to the total disfigurement of his Boots, which had that morning received the “matchlessly brilliant polish of Warren's inestimable Jet blacking.” Not like many others in London, who will run you down and leave you to your fate, the heir of his fader's whimsicalities stopped short in the inauspicious set-out of his rapid career; and “dirty end,” he exclaimed, “to the scavenger that didn't think of the gentleman's boots!” And at the same time the mother of this hopeful representative of the Mac Dermott family, made her appearance with the genuine warmth of Irish hospitality; and inviting the two strangers to walk in, consoled the bespattered Squire with the prospect of speedy and effectual reparation, for “fait and troth, (said she) his dinner is all of a heap in the pot there, praaties, salt-herrings, and apple-dumplings,{1} and that is my husband Thady Mac Dermott, who is neither more nor less than a bricklayer's laborer, is after amusing himself and obliging his neighbours, at a small outlay, of a Sunday morning, by claning their boots and shoes; so it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, they say.” The accommodating hostess then producing a bottle of blacking, with the requisite brushing implements, applied herself assiduously to the operation of claning the Squire's boots, and restored them, in a few minutes, to the splendour of their pristine brilliancy.

Scarcely had this important operation been performed, when entered Thady Mac Dermott and his son, the origin of the accident. “The devil burn your trampers, you imp of the Mac Dermotts,” cried the father: “couldn't you run against the gentleman without dirtying his boots? Never mind it at all at all; I'll be after giving you a walloping for it, any how.”

1 The fastidious delicacy of English cookery, when contrasted with that of Irish culinary preparation in the Holy-land, is surprising. The wife of an Irish laborer who is desirous of giving her husband a delectable meal, and of various description, bodders not her brain with a diversity of utensils; but from the same pot or pan will produce, as if by enchantment, potatoes, (without which an Irishman cannot possibly make a dinner,) salt-herrings, and apple- dumplings; nor, does this extraordinary union of opposites affect the appetite of those partaking the oglio.

The first instrument of attack that comes to hand is an Irishman's weapon.—Thady brandished in terrorem a red hot poker, and his son with the agility of a cat took sanctuary under the bed, but at the intercession of the Squire was allowed to emerge with impunity, and admitted to a participation of the salt-herrings and apple-dumplings. The two friends declining an invitation to taste of these dainties, now departed, Tallyho not forgetting the “outlay, and the ill-wind that blows nobody good.”

Winding the mazes of the holy land, which may not unaptly be considered a colony of Irish emigrants, our perambulators without further occurrence worthy of notice, threaded their way through streets, lanes, and alleys, until they emerged at the bottom of Tottenham-court Road, close by the extensive brewery of Read and Co. Entering the premises, they were gratified with a view of every thing interesting in the establishment; and the Squire, to whom the spectacle was entirely new, stood wrapt in wonder at the vast magnitude of its immense vats and boilers, containing, as he observed, of the fluid of Sir John Barleycorn, a sufficiency to inundate the whole neighbourhood! “Such a circumstance,” said the attendant, “actually occurred a few years ago, when the vat burst, and an ocean of beer rushed forth, with such impetuous force as to bear down, in its resistless progress, the side of a house, and fill, to the imminent hazard of drowning the astonished and alarmed occupants, all the cellars in the vicinity."{1}

1 Scarcely any thing contributes so much to characterize the enterprising spirit of the present age, as the vast scale on which many branches of manufacture are carried on in this country. Every one has heard of the celebrated tun of Heidelberg, but that monument of idle vanity is rivalled by the vessels now employed in the breweries of this metropolis.

Having seen all that is remarkable in this spacious concern, the two associates turned into Oxford Street, where their attention was directed to a gay female in an elegant equipage, pair in hand, dashing along, in the manner of royal celerity.

“Observe that lady,” said Dashall, “She is the celebrated Mrs. C*r*y, the favourite sultana of a certain Commander in Chief, and I shall give you her history in a few words.”

“Sutherland, a bombadier at Woolwich, obtained a commission, but was less successful in securing the fidelity of his wife, who eloped with an officer to Gibraltar; the produce of this intercourse was the amoroso whom we observed en passant; in process of time she married C*r*y, an officer in a veteran battalion, but shortly afterwards getting tired of the connection, she adopted the laudable example set by her respectable mamma, deserted her husband and came to England, under the protection of a surgeon in the army, whose embraces she relinquished for those of her present illustrious possessor. How long she may keep him in captivation, is a surmise of rather equivocal import; however ardent at present, his attachment, Mrs. C*r*y must be aware of the versatile propensities of his R*y*l H*ghn*ss of Y**k, and sans doubt like her predecessor, Mary Ann C***ke, will make the most of a favourable opportunity.”

“London exhibits Real Life in all its forms and gradations, from the hireling of royalty in a curricle, to the passive spouse of all the town, on the pavement; from the splendour of affluence to the miseries of penury; even Mendicity itself has its shades of variety, its success being less frequently derived from the acuteness of distress than the caprice of Nature, in having gifted the mendicant with some peculiar eccentricity of person or character, to attract attention and sympathy. He who is without these endowments passes unnoticed; but the diminutive and deformed creature, seated on a child's cart, who with the help of crutches shoves himself along the street, and whose whole height, including his machine, does not exceed two feet; this minikin, ecce homo, is gazed at by the casual passenger as a prodigy, and seldom fails to benefit by the excitation of curiosity.”—

Approaching the tiny personage alluded to,—“Well, Mr. Andrew Whiston,” said Dashall, “what important business brings you so far westward? I thought that your migrations from Bankside had never extended beyond the precincts of Temple-bar.”

“I wot weel, your honor, that I have strayed far frae hame, and to little purpose,—better fortune has not lit on me this wearisome day, than meeting wi' your honor, for God bless you many a time has the poor dwarfish body tasted your bounty.”

During this colloquy, Tallyho gazed on the poor dwarfish body with commiseration, intermixed with no small portion of surprise, at this fresh display of general knowledge by his intelligent and amusing coz, to whom all of interest and curiosity in the metropolis, animate and inanimate, seemed perfectly familiar.

“And whither away now, Master Whiston; do you mean to look in at the rendezvous to night?"{1}

“Faith no, sir,—I got a fright there some few years since, and I shall be very cautious of getting into the like disaster a second time.”

The conversation had so far proceeded, to the entertainment of congregated passengers, when the auditory getting rather inconveniently numerous, the two friends left each his mite of benevolence with Maister Andrew Whiston, gaining home without further incident or interruption.{2}

1 Recurring to the holy land, the rendezvous is a noted house in St. Giles's, where, after the labors of the day, the mendicant fraternity assemble, enjoy the comfort of a good supper; amongst other items, not unfrequently an alderman in chains, alias a roast turkey, garnished with pork-sausages; elect their chairman, and spend the night as jolly beggars ought to do, in mirth and revelry. 2 Andrew Whiston was born at Dundee in Scotland, February 10th, 1770, and has, during the last twenty-eight years, resided in London. The person of this man is well known to the perambulators of the metropolis. He forms altogether a disgusting little figure, pushing himself about on a small cart, which moves upon wheels, and wearing an apron to conceal the deformity of his legs. His whole height, including his vehicle, does not exceed two feet. To avoid the penalties attached to begging and vagrancy, he carries a few pens stuck between his coat and waistcoat, and declares that the dealing in those articles is the only trade to which he has been brought up. It is not improbable, that by means of this, and other arts and mysteries which he exercises, Andrew has been enabled to procure something more than salt to his porridge. It cannot be supposed that his person is calculated to excite the tender passion; it must therefore be to the idea of his having accumulated wealth, that we are to attribute the following circumstance. A short time since, Andrew began to think seriously of taking unto himself a wife, and having looked round among his female acquaint-ance for a desirable partner, he fixed his choice on a Mrs. Marshall, the widow of a waterman, who follows the trade of a retail dealer in fish, at the corner of Spiller's public-house, on that side of the Surrey Road which he usually frequents. This fair lady, who might perhaps have been dead as a roach to his addresses, if he had possessed nothing but his deformed person to offer, proved leaping alive, ho! at the thought of Andrew's little hoard, of which she hoped to become mistress. Several presents attested the seriousness of the lover's proposals, and his charmer was all compliance to his wishes, till he had actually sent the money to pay for publishing the banns at Christ Church, when the ridicule of all her acquaintance urged her to abandon the design of so preposterous a match.