S.
Sadler’s Wells.—The oldest theatre in London, and named in part from a mineral spring, which was superstitiously dispensed by the monks of the Priory of St. John of Jerusalem, from an early date. In the reign of Charles II. a Mr. Sadler, built here a music-house, and in 1683, re-discovered while digging gravel for his garden the Holy Well of “excellent steel water” which in 1684 was visited and drunk by hundreds of persons of every degree in their morning’s walk. In 1765, Mr. Rosoman converted Sadler’s Wells garden into a theatre. Mr. King, of Drury Lane Theatre, was long a partner and stage-manager, and Charles Dibdin and his sons Thomas and Charles were proprietors. Grimaldi, father, son and grandson, were famous clowns. The season of 1803 is memorable for the appearance of the celebrated Italian traveller Signor Benzoni, as the Patagonian Samson, in which character he performed prodigious feats of strength. Wine was sold and drunk on the premises until 1807, under the old regulation,—“for an additional sixpence, every spectator was allowed a pint of either port, Lisbon, mountain, or punch.” On the 15th of October, 1807, twenty three persons, male and female, were killed, and many dangerously injured by reason of a false alarm of “Fire!” New River water was introduced in a tank under the stage, and plays were written and arranged so as to display “Real Water” in some of the scenes, and the place advertised as the Aquatic Theatre Sadler’s Wells. In some cases the “good young man” and rightful heir to the estate, was basely and unmercifully hurled from some rock-work into the angry and surging billows below; by the hired myrmidons of the “Cruel Squire” of the Castle: then it was that the real dog would plunge into the real water, and rescue the real Count De Montfordiano from perdition. At other times the Lord of —— “the star-breasted villain,” was set upon by the highly virtuous villagers, for having disgraced the “Village-born Beauty,” who chased him in and out, and all round about the huge mountain-pass which overhung the “Perilous Pool,” until his noble Lordship! was captured, and then hurled into the “depths below,” and while his dummy! body was descending, it was shot—in two places, by Robin the Ploughman and Virtuous Villager—“under whose calf-skin waistcoat beat a heart truer than all the Lords, Dukes and Squires in wide England and Foreign parts.” Pierce Egan’s own version of “Tom and Jerry”—the “Author’s Piece” was performed for the first time on Monday, April 8, 1822; Tom, Mr. Elliott; Jerry, Mr. Keeley; Logic, Mr. Vale. But the more honourable distinction of Sadler’s Wells Theatre is the admirable representation of Elizabethan plays under the able management of Mrs. Warner and Messrs. Phelps and Greenwood, by whom it was made “the popular retreat of the regular drama”—1844-59 and 1861.
Sam—To Stand Sam.—To pay for the whole of the reckoning. Sammy is he who is fool enough to do it.
Sanders, John.—“Old Jack of the Adelphi”—and original Black Sal, died December 9, 1865, aged 66.
Saving one’s Bacon.—Taking care of one’s self.
Schneider.—A tailor. Scholars will perceive this “cognomen is german to the matter.”
Scamp.—A street-walking vagabond of the lowest order.
Scarce.—Non est inventus.
Scout.—A watchman.
Scran.—Food in general.
Screen.—A bank-note.
Screw.—A turnkey.
Screw Loose.—Something wrong.
Seven Dials Bard.—
There is a pleasure in poetic pains,
Which only Poets know.
“Yonder, sir, is Mr. Goosequill, one of the ‘Seven Bards of the Seven Dials,’ a clever man, who came to town with half-a-crown in his pocket, and his tragedy, called the ‘Mines of Peru,’ by which he of course expected to make his fortune. For five years he danced attendance on the manager, in order to hear tidings of its being ‘cast,’ and put into rehearsal, and four years more in trying to get it back again. During the process he was groaned, laughed, whistled, guyed, and nearly kicked out of the secretary’s room, who swore—which well he might do, considering the exhausted treasury of the concern—that he knew nothing about, or ever heard of the ‘Mines of Peru.’ At last Mr. Goosequill, being shown into the manager’s kitchen, to wait till he was at leisure, had the singular pleasure of seeing two acts of the ‘Mines of Peru’ daintily fastened round a savory capon on the spit, to preserve it from the scorching influence of the fire.
“‘This was foul treatment,’ I observed, and I ventured to ask how he had subsisted during the meanwhile? ‘Why he first made an agreement with a printer of Ballads, Last Dying Speeches and Confessions, &c., living in the Seven Dials, who finding his inclinations led to poetry, expressed his satisfaction, telling him that one of his poets had lost his senses, and was confined in Bedlam, and another was dazed with drinking drams. An agreement was made, and he earned five shillings and two-pence-three-farthings per week as his share of this speculation with the muses. But his profits were not always certain. He had often the pleasure of dining with Duke Humphrey, and for this reason he turned his thoughts to prose; and in this walk he was eminently successful, for during a week of gloomy weather he published an apparition, on the substance of which he subsisted very comfortably for a month. He often makes a good meal upon a monster. A rape has often afforded him great satisfaction, but a murder—an out-and-out murder—if well timed, is board, lodging, and washing, with a feast of nectared sweets for many a day.’”
Shaking the Shallow.—Tossing in a hat. Three or more coins are shaken together in the hat, then cast out on the table, most heads or most tails being the winner or loser, according to the calling of the players.
Sharps.—Persons ready to take you in on all occasions.
Shell Out.—Subscribe, or club their pence together.
Shirk.—To skulk or get off.
Shove in the Mouth.—A glass of gin.
Shoulder Knot.—A man-trap or bailiff.
Six and Eight-pence.—A lawyer of the first order of Sharks, whose whole object in commencing an action is to make a “bill of costs.”
Sketch-Room.—The—in Corinthian House which was principally dedicated to the productions of the late George Morland, Jerry was rather more if not quite at home, almost skipping with rapture as his eye ran over the subjects of that unrivalled genius of the pencil. Nature was seen so strongly at every touch that Jerry nearly fancied himself again at Hawthorn Hall, looking at his dogs, pigs, and horses.
“It was the opinion of Corinthian Tom, in his remarks to Jerry, when the latter first entered this apartment, that if Morland had only painted half the number of subjects which are now before the public, their value might have been enhanced twice as much; and finished pictures, instead of sketches, most likely would have been the result. This was the reason Tom assigned to Jerry for having it called the Sketch-Room. ‘Nine times out of ten,’ said Tom, ‘dull matter-of-fact calculation is not allied with genius.’ Money, to George Morland, was a colour that he did not paint with; and, therefore, respecting its value, he seemed to know nothing. Embarrassment and the Catchpoles first drew up the curtain and showed him the iron bars which stopped his thoughtless career. They also explained to him, in the most feeling manner, the uses of a strong lock. They likewise pointed out to George the difference in his prospects,—not in an artist-like manner to his ‘mind’s eye,’ but in a clear distinct way of business, that twenty shillings make a Pound. For the moment, he keenly felt the disgusting cramped situation of Carey Street,40 which compelled him to peep at his objects, through the rails of his apartment: for the moment, also, he felt the immediate necessity of procuring the gold talismanic key to give him once more liberty, again to wander amidst the beauties of nature: it was then that Morland painted for money: it was then that Genius was in fetters: it was then that rapid exertions got the better of his taste. ‘The sooner you paint me a picture, Mr. Morland,’ said the leary Bum-trap, ‘the sooner the door will be open to you. Freedom is in view,—and I’ll discharge your debt.’ No skilful angler ever threw his line into waters with more coaxing bait to hook the poor fish, than Mr. Screw ‘tried it on’ with his prisoner. It was plausible: it was better,—it gave no trouble to his acquaintance: it also prevented shyness or Refusal from his friends. The lock-up-house, by such means lost its terror. Employment was found for the mind and pencil of Morland. He experienced no shiverings of the body—no feverish parched-up tongue, waiting with the most anxious suspense for the return of the messenger to bring the No, which ultimately sent him to jail, or the delightful Yes, that set the prisoner once more at liberty. On the contrary, George was quite at home. He did as his inclinations prompted him. Jolly fellows called on him in abundance; and the song and the glass went round with the freedom of a tavern. All his wants were supplied, and the misery of a spunging-house was not seen in Morland’s apartments. In fact, he was better attended than when out of it. From the top screw to the stamper cleaner, all of them felt an interest in waiting upon the ‘Great Genius,’ as he was termed, in order to take a sly peep at his paintings. Here George set no price to his pictures, but when he was tired of his companions, and his confined situation, he then industriously, and in a short time, painted himself out of the lock-up house. Lumbering him, never afterwards gave Morland any horrors: and, whenever he was in trouble, the same kind of judgment was repeated, time and often, till Mr. Screw had realized a tolerable collection of valuable paintings. This officer was rather fond of paintings himself; but when any gentleman took a fancy to purchase any of them, Mr. Screw never betrayed a want of knowledge of their value—by the prices he affixed to them. Morland died at the premature age of 41, in October 29, 1804—dissipated habits proved his quietus.”
Slang.—St. Giles’s Greek—a conversational expression of an irregular, more or less vulgar, type, familiar to and in vogue among a certain class.
Slavey.—Servants of all work, in allusion to their laborious employment and hard work.
Slipped Cover.—Got away.
Sluice.—To drink. Sluice your whistle, wet your throat.
Sly.—Contraband. On the sly, concealed, unlawful.
Smart Blunt.—Forfeit money.
Smash your Countenance.—To give a thump on the face.
Smell a Rat.—To suspect or discover any concealed thing, a la Hamlet. Vide Old Polonius behind the arras: “A rat, a rat; dead, for a ducat, dead.”
Smeller.—The nose. A smeller, a blow on the nose.
Smokey.—Suspicious.
Sneezer.—The Conk or nose.
Snicker.—A small tumbler.
Snip.—Mr. Snip a tailor.—Come in, taylor, here you may warm your goose.—Macbeth.
Snowball.—A Negro, or chimney sweeper.
Soho Bazaar, The.—The first of its kind in England, was established by John Trotter, Esq., to whose family it still belongs. The building covers a space of 300 feet by 150, and extends from the Square to Dean Street on the one hand, and to Oxford Street on the other. The bazaar occupies two floors, and has counter accommodation for upwards of 160 tenants. The two principal rooms in the building are about ninety feet long, and in them the visitor may find almost every trade represented. One large room is set apart for the sale of books, another for furniture, and another for birds, cages, &c.; and at one end of the latter room is a large recess, occupied with a rustic aviary, through which runs a stream of water. Connected with the bazaar are offices for the registration of governesses and the hire of servants, &c.; and the scene that here presents itself during business hours is one well worthy of a visit. The bazaar has been frequently patronised by royalty.
The Soho Bazaar.
Ladies in furs, and gemmen in spurs,
Who lollop and lounge about all day:
The Bazaar in Soho is completely the go—
Walk into the shop of Grimaldi!
Come from afar, here’s the Bazaar!—
But if you won’t deal with us, stay where you are.
Here’s rouge to give grace to an old woman’s face,
Trowsers of check for a sailor;
Here’s a cold ice, if you pay for it twice,
And here’s a hot goose for a tailor.
Soho Bazaar, come from afar:
Sing ri fal de riddle, and tal de ral la.
Here’s a cock’d hat, or an opera flat—
Here’s a broad brim for a Quaker;
Here’s a white wig for a Chancery prig,
And here’s a light weight for a baker.
Soho Bazaar, &c.
A fringed parasol, or a toad-in-the-hole.
A box of japan to hold backy;
Here’s a relief for a widow in grief—
A quartern of Hodge’s jacky.
Soho Bazaar, &c.
Here, long enough, is a lottery puff
(I was half-drunk when it caught me);
It promised, my eyes! what a capital prize:
And here’s all the rhino it brought me.
Soho Bazaar, &c.
“Put it down to the bill,” is the fountain of ill
This has the shopkeepers undone;
Bazaars never trust—so down with your dust,
And help us to diddle all London.
Soho Bazaar, &c.
Something Short.—A drop of summat short. A glass of spirits, neat, unmixed—straight!
Some Tune.—A large amount.
Spavined.—Damaged, injured.
Speeling.—Gambling generally.
Spellken.—A playhouse:—Lord Byron in his Don Juan, Canto xi., stanza 19, uses the word in that sense, and then by way of a foot note, adds—
The advance of science and of language has rendered it unnecessary to translate the above good and true English, spoken in its original purity by the select nobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza of a song which was very popular, at least in my early days:—
On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle,
In spite of each gallows old scout:
If you at the spellken can’t hustle,
You’ll be hobbled in making a clout.
Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty
When she hears of your scaly mistake,
She’ll surely turn snitch for the forty,
That her Jack may be regular weight.
If there be any gem’men so ignorant as to require a translation, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of Pugilism; who, I trust, still retains the strength and symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good humour, and athletic as well as mental accomplishments.
Spike Hotel.—The King’s Bench, the Fleet, or any other prison.
Spree.—A bit of fun.
Stand.—To treat. Stand the nonsense, to pay the reckoning, very great nonsense when there’s no occasion for it. Stand Sammy, to pay for other people.
Stand Still.—A table.
Stark Naked.—Pure gin, neat without water.
Staunch.—Bang up to the neck, the thing!
Steamer.—A pipe. A swell steamer, a long pipe—Churchwarden.
Stiffener.—A letter.
Straw Chipper.—A straw bonnet maker.
St. Giles’ Greek.—Cant language. See Cant.
Street Solicitors.—Mendicity Societies’ clients, a class of beings that, as before mentioned, Bodkin makes it a point to take care of, in other words—beggars.
String of Onions.—Costermongers, and others of the lower class.
Stringer.—A mace cove, or line man, in plain English a cheat.
Stumpy.—Money.
Stunning Joe Banks.—Who was in all that’s flash, “bang-up to the knocker,” and for many years a very popular and much respected London character. He kept a renowned lush-crib called the “Hare and Hounds,” formerly the “Beggar in the Bush;” in No. 1, Buckeridge Street, within the classic region the “Holy Land,” or more frequently termed the Rookery in the heart of St. Giles’. Joe Banks, “mine host” of this boosing-ken; was a civil, rough, good natured, and very elaborate specimen of the genus homo, possessing a flow of spirits as extensive as his person. Good nature and conviviality were his leading characteristics, although his regular customers were composed of the veriest cadgers both male and female. The girls without shoes or stockings, clad in rags and jags. The male cadgers seldom or never used a comb or a pocket handkerchief:—
No small tooth-trap their locks disposes
No ’kerchiefs white attack their noses.
It was the fashion of the day for all the lively spirits—flash kiddies and country cousins curious in such matters to visit Stunning Joe Banks’ “City of the Cadgers” on such occasions, the persons and property of all were sacred while under his roof, and escorted through the intricacies of the “Rookery,” by Joe himself—or in his temporary absence by a well and truly trusted aide-de-camp! in order that they might not be in any way molested after leaving his house.
In conclusion we may add that “Stunning Joe Banks’s” drum was the resort of all classes, from the aristocratic marquis—especially he, who before he mizzled, hailed from Waterford!—to the downy vagabond, whose way of living was a puzzle to himself.
Sufferer.—A tailor or creditor.
Suspicion of Debt.—Owing two or three thousand pounds.
Swag.—Money, from its appetency to make its possessor swagger. Bag the Swag, to collect money.
Swaddies.—Soldiers.
Swallow-tail.—A dress, or tail coat.
Swell.—A dashing buck.
Swill Tub.—A drunkard, a sot.
Syntax.—A schoolmaster.