PLATE III. Master "Young Spicy," and Master "Tater Sam."

These hopeful scions of our Mobility are engaged in "an affair of honour." We apprehend that the names by which they are above designated, and by which they are commonly known, are not, bona fide, their own, but have been imposed upon them by the suffrages of their acquaintance, probably with reference to the occupations of their respective parents, and partly, perhaps, in conformity with the custom which generally attaches a sobriquet to fistic proficiency. Master "Tater Sam" is attended by Master "Lanky Tim," a student attached to a parochial seminary. Master "Young Spicy"—for street encounters are not always characterised by the strictest regularity—has no professed second; though the place of one may be considered as supplied by the exhortations of the spectators generally. As to the young gentleman midway behind the two combatants, a retainer of one of the Knights of the Azure Vest, his attentions are bestowed alternately on both; his object being, to enjoy to the full what he regards as a "prime lark;" the reciprocation of as large an amount of blows as possible. The extremity of the by-standers' delight may be read in their animated and dilating eyes; even the soul of yonder small boy in the corner, who, but for the evident care with which he has been enveloped in his cloak, might have been suspected of having left his home without maternal cognisance, is on fire. The contrast presented by the vivacious ardour of the juvenile group to the subdued complacency with which the approving elders overlook the scene, is as interesting as it is remarkable.

[Original Size]

The hostile encounter may be supposed to have originated, and to proceed in the following manner. The parties are at first engaged in that particular game at marbles technically termed "shoot ring."

Tater. "Now then, Spicy, knuckle down; 'fend dribbling."

Spicy. "Come, then, stand out of the sunshine."

Tater. "In! Three clayers and a alley. Game! Hooray!"

Spicy. "Oh ah! I dare say. It's no go; play agin."

Tater. "No, no, it's my game."

Spicy. "I say t'an't."

Tater. "I say 'tis."

Spicy. "You'm a story!"

Tater. "Y ou'm another!"

Spicy. "Come, give me my alley, will yer?"

Tater. "No I sharn't!"

Spicy. "Won't yer though?"

Tater. "No I won't, frizzle wig!"

Spicy. "Won't yer, puggy nose? Come, I say, leave go!"

(Here a scuffle ensues.)

Tater. "Don't yer wish yer may get it?"

Spicy. "You'm a strong feller, arn't you?"

Tater. "D 'ye think I'm afeard o' you?"

Spicy. "D 'ye think I'm afeard o' you then?"

Tater. "Ah! jist you hit me!"

Spicy. "You hit me first; that's all!"

Tater. "Well, there then!"

Spicy. "Here's at yer!"

(The contest now commences.)

Cries of "Hallo! here's a mill!"

"Here's a scrimmage!"

"A battle, a battle! 'tween two sticks and a rotten apple!" &c. from various quarters. (A ring formed.)

Butcher Boy. "Now then! Fair play! fair play! Go it!"

A Boy. "'It im ard; he've got no friends."

Second Boy. "Give it im, Spicy! 'It im a peg in the mouth!"

Third Boy. "At im, Tater!"

Charity Boy. "Fetch im a wipe 'tween the heyes!"

Butcher Boy. "Well done, little un, great un's biggest!"

First Boy. "Well done, Tater! My eye wot a whop!"

Second Boy. "Brayvo! Spicy. Had im there!"

Hackney Coachman. "A nasty vun, that ere!"

Cabman. "Rayther."

Charity Boy. "Go in at im, Tater,—that's it!"

(The combatants close and wrestle. Both fall; Spicy under. At this stage of the proceedings a sanguine stream is seen escaping from Spicy's nose; his eyes, too, are in a state of incipient tumefaction. The size of Tater's lip appears considerably augmented; and he bleeds copiously at the mouth. After a short pause, hostilities are resumed.)

Butcher Boy. "That's the time o' day. 'It im, Spicy! Skiver im, Tater. That's it, my cocks!"

Third Boy. "One for his nob! That's the ticket!"

Charity Boy. "Under the ribs! Well done!"

First Boy. "That's a vinder for im!"

Third Boy. "Tater, keep your pecker up, old chap!"

Butcher Boy. "Right and left! Hooroar! Fake away!"

All science is now abandoned, and they rush together, pell-mell; but in the heat of the conflict a Policeman appears, and advancing to the scene of action, separates, with some difficulty, the incensed opponents. After a little additional altercation, they are persuaded to shake hands, and each gathering up his cap from the field of battle, returns home, accompanied by his partisans, the victory remaining undecided.

The horrid scene which we have profaned our pen in describing suggests a few reflections which it may behove our readers to consider. In the first place, with reference to the coarse practice of boxing among the Children of the Mobility, we think it decidedly objectionable. It tends to eradicate from their minds all those fears and susceptibilities with regard to personal safety, by means of which, alone, they are manageable; and to replace them with those unamiable qualities which render them, when grown up, offensive to the genteel and the delicate. It also enables them to repay any little playfulness in which a distingué youth may happen to indulge with them, such as tilting off their caps, or knocking their marbles out of the ring, with rude and painful blows. The frightful violence, too, which their street broils do to the ears and eyes of any of the superior classes who may have the misfortune to witness them, ladies for instance, in their carriages, is such, that we are shocked to think of it. Some people say that it is best to let them have their quarrels out, as they express it, that they may be prevented from bearing malice. We hear, too, a great deal about the danger of stabbing becoming prevalent, were pugilism discountenanced, among the lower orders. Still, being beaten about with great hard knuckles, is very horrid; and the knife, if more sanguinary than the fist, is decidedly more romantic and piquant.

But what shall we say of the Children of the Nobility learning, at public schools, to emulate the boys of the street, transforming themselves from innocent and interesting lambs, into ferocious bull-dogs, if we may use so strong a metaphor, and making one another perfect frights? What must be the feelings of their Mammas?