THE
MYSTERIES OF LONDON.
BY
GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,
AUTHOR OF "PICKWICK ABROAD," "THE MODERN LITERATURE OF FRANCE,"
"ROBERT MACAIRE," ETC.
WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS
BY G. STIFF.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
GEORGE VICKERS, 3, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
MDCCCXLVI.
LONDON:
Printed by J. J. WILKINSON, "Bonner House," Seacoal Lane.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
PAGE
CHAPTER CXXXVII.—Rat's Castle 1
CXXXVIII.—A Public Functionary 4
CXXXIX.—The Confidence 7
CXL.—Incidents in the Gipsy Palace 10
CXLI.—The Subterranean 13
CXLII.—Gibbet 15
CXLIII.—Morbid Feelings 18
CXLIV.—The unfinished Letter 20
CXLV.—Hypocrisy 23
CXLVI.—The Bath.—The Housekeeper 25
CXLVII.—The Rector's new Passion 28
CXLVIII.—The Old Hag's Intrigue 31
CXLIX.—The Masquerade 34
CL.—Mrs. Kenrick 36
CLI.—A mysterious Deed 39
CLII.—The Death-bed 42
CLIII.—Proceedings in Castelcicala 45
CLIV.—Reflections.—The New Prison 47
CLV.—Patriotism 50
CLVI.—The Decision 52
CLVII.—The Trial of Catherine Wilmot 54
CLVIII.—A happy Party 58
CLIX.—The Interview 60
CLX.—The Rector in Newgate 63
CLXI.—Lady Cecilia Harborough 66
CLXII.—The Bequest 69
CLXIII.—The Zingarees 71
CLXIV.—The Executioner's History 75
CLXV.—The Trace 79
CLXVI.—The Thames Pirates 82
CLXVII.—An Arrival at the Wharf 84
CLXVIII.—The Plague Ship 86
CLXIX.—The Pursuit 90
CLXX.—The Black Veil 93
CLXXI.—Mr. Greenwood's Dinner-party 95
CLXXII.—The Mysteries of Holmesford House 96
CLXXIII.—The Adieux 100
CLXXIV.—Castelcicala 103
CLXXV.—Montoni 107
CLXXVI.—The Club-house 111
CLXXVII.—The History of an Unfortunate Woman 115
CLXXVIII.—The Tavern at Friuli 133
CLXXIX.—The Journey 135
CLXXX.—The "Boozing-ken" once more 138
CLXXXI.—The Resurrection Man again 142
CLXXXII.—Mr. Greenwood's Journey 144
CLXXXIII.—Kind Friends 147
CLXXXIV.—Estella 150
CLXXXV.—Another New-Year's Day 155
CLXXXVI.—The New Cut 158
CLXXXVII.—The forged Bills 162
CLXXXVIII.—The Battles of Piacere and Abrantani 165
CLXXXIX.—The Battle of Montoni 172
CXC.—Two of our old Acquaintances 174
CXCI.—Crankey Jem's History 176
CXCII.—The Mint.—The Forty Thieves 187
CXCIII.—Another Visit to Buckingham Palace 192
CXCIV.—The Royal Breakfast 197
CXCV.—The Aristocratic Villain and the low Miscreant 200
CXCVI.—The old Hag and the Resurrection Man 203
CXCVII.—Ellen and Catherine 206
CXCVIII.—A gloomy Visitor 208
CXCIX.—The Orphan's filial Love 211
CC.—A Maiden's Love 214
CCI.—The handsome Stranger.—Disappointment 218
CCII.—The Princess Isabella 220
CCIII.—Ravensworth Hall 223
CCIV.—The Bride and Bridegroom 226
CCV.—The Breakfast 228
CCVI.—The Patrician Lady and the Unfortunate Woman 231
CCVII.—The Husband, the Wife, and the Unfortunate Woman 235
CCVIII.—The Resurrection Man's House in Globe Town 238
CCIX.—Alderman Sniff.—Tomlinson and Greenwood 240
CCX.—Holford's Duties 245
CCXI.—The Deed 248
CCXII.—The Examination at the Home Office 251
CCXIII.—The Tortures of Lady Ravensworth 253
CCXIV.—The Duellists 255
CCXV.—The Voices in the Ruins 259
CCXVI.—The Progress of Lydia Hutchinson's Vengeance 262
CCXVII.—The Prisoner in the Subterranean 267
CCXVIII.—The veiled Visitor 269
CCXIX.—The Murder 272
CCXX.—The Effect of the Oriental Tobacco 275
CCXXI.—The Return to England 277
CCXXII.—The Arrival at Home 281
CCXXIII.—The Marriage 285
CCXXIV.—Mr. Banks's House in Globe Lane 288
CCXXV.—The Old Hag's History 292
CCXXVI.—The Marquis of Holmesford 299
CCXXVII.—Coldbath Fields' Prison 303
CCXXVIII.—A desperate Achievement 306
CCXXIX.—The Widow 309
CCXXX.—Bethlem Hospital 314
CCXXXI.—Mr. Greenwood and Mr. Vernon 317
CCXXXII.—Scenes at Ravensworth Hall 319
CCXXXIII.—A welcome Friend 322
CCXXXIV.—A Midnight Scene of Mystery 324
CCXXXV.—Plots and Counterplots 327
CCXXXVI.—Woman as she ought to be 332
CCXXXVII.—The Jugglers 335
CCXXXVIII.—The Performance 339
CCXXXIX.—The Resurrection Man's Return Home 345
CCXL.—A new Epoch 347
CCXLI.—Crockford's 350
CCXLII.—The Aunt 355
CCXLIII.—The Fight.—The ruined Gamester 358
CCXLIV.—The History of a Gamester 360
CCXLV.—The Excursion 372
CCXLVI.—The Party at Ravensworth Hall 378
CCXLVII.—The Stranger who discovered the Corpse 382
CCXLVIII.—An unpleasant Exposure 384
CCXLIX.—The Resurrection Man's last Feat at Ravensworth 388
Hall
CCL.—Egerton's last Dinner-party 391
CCLI.—The obstinate Patient 397
CCLII.—Death of the Marquis of Holmesford 400
CCLIII.—The Ex-Member for Rottenborough 403
CCLIV.—Further Misfortunes 407
CCLV.—Gibbet at Markham Place 410
CCLVI.—Eliza Sydney and Ellen.—The Hospital 412
CCLVII.—The Revenge 415
CCLVIII.—The Appointment kept 419
CCLIX.—Conclusion 423
EPILOGUE 424
ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.
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THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER CXXXVII.
RATS' CASTLE.
Richard Markham, though perfectly unpretending in manner and somewhat
reserved or even sedate in disposition, possessed the most undaunted
courage. Thus was it that, almost immediately recovering himself from
the sudden check which he had experienced at the hands of the
Resurrection Man, he hurried in pursuit of the miscreant, followed by
the policeman and the people whom the alarm which he had given had
called to his aid.
The people were, however, soon tired of running gratuitously for an
object which they could scarcely comprehend; but the police-officer kept
close to Markham; and they were speedily reinforced by two other
constables, who, seeing that something was the matter, and with
characteristic officiousness, immediately joined them.
From an inquiry put to the waterman of the adjacent cab-stand, who had
seen a person running furiously along a moment or two before, Markham
felt convinced that the object of his pursuit had plunged into the maze
of Saint Giles's; and, though well aware of the desperate character of
that individual, and conscious that should he encounter him alone in
some dark alley or gloomy court, a fearful struggle must ensue between
them, he did not hesitate, unarmed as he was, to dash into that thicket
of dangerous habitations.
Soon outstripping the officers, who vainly begged him to keep with them,
as they were unacquainted with the person of whom he was in
pursuit,—forgetting every measure of precaution in the ardour of the
chase, Richard rushed headlong through the dark and ill-paved streets,
following the echo of every retreating footstep which he heard, and
stopping only to scrutinise the countenances of those who, in the
obscurity of the hour and place, seemed at first sight to resemble the
exterior of the Resurrection Man.
Vain was his search. At length, exhausted, he sate down on the steps of
a door-way to recover his breath, after having expended an hour in his
fruitless search up one street, down another, and in every nook and
corner of that district which we have before described as the Holy Land.
Accident shortly led the officers, who had originally entered upon the
chase with him, to the spot where he was seated.
"Here is the gentleman himself," said one, turning the glare of his
bull's-eye full upon our hero.
"No luck, I suppose, sir?" observed another. "You had much better have
remained with us and given us some idea of the person that you want."
"Fool that I was!" exclaimed Markham, now perceiving his imprudence in
that respect: "I have left you to pursue a shadow, instead of depicting
to you the substance. But surely the name of Anthony Tidkins——"
"The Resurrection Man, as they call him," hastily remarked one of the
constables.
"The same," answered Markham.
"Why—he blew himself up, along with some others and a number of our men,
last year, down in Bethnal Green," said the constable who had last
spoken.
"No—he lives, he lives," exclaimed Richard, impatiently. "My God! I know
him but too well."
"And it was after him that you gave the alarm just now in Tottenham
Court Road?"
"It was. I knew him at once—I could not be mistaken: his voice, laden
with a curse, still rings in my ears."
"Well, since the gentleman's so positive, I 'spose it must be so," said
the constable: "we musn't sleep upon it, mates. Ten to one that Tidkins
has taken to burrow in one of the low cribs about here; and he means to
lie quiet for two or three days till the alarm's blown over. I know the
dodges of these fellers. You two go the round of Plumptre Street; and me
and this gentleman will just take a promiscuous look into the kens about
here."
The two constables to whom these words were addressed, immediately
departed upon the mission proposed to them, and Richard signified his
readiness to accompany the officer who had thus settled the plan of
proceedings.
"We'll go first to Rats' Castle, sir, if you please," said the
policeman: "that is the most likely place for a run-away to take refuge
in at random."
"What is Rats' Castle?" asked Markham, as he walked by the officer's
side down a wretched alley, almost as dark as pitch, and over the broken
pavement of which he stumbled at every step.
"The night-house where all kind of low people meet to sup and lodge,"
was the reply. "But here we are—and you'll see all about it in an
instant."
They had stopped at the door of a house with an area protected by thick
wooden palings. All the upper part of the dwelling appeared to be
involved in total darkness: but lights streamed through the chinks of
the rude shutters of the area-windows; and from the same direction
emanated boisterous merriment, coarse laughter, and wild hurrahs.
"You knock at the door, sir, if you please," said the policeman, "while
I stand aside. I'll slip in after you; for if they twig my coat, and
Tidkins really happens to be there, they'd give him the office to bolt
before we could get in."
"Well thought of," returned Markham. "But upon what plea am I to claim
admittance?"
"As a stranger, impelled by curiosity. You carry the silver key in your
pocket."
The policeman withdrew a few paces; and our hero knocked boldly at the
door.
A gruff voice challenged the visitor from the area.
"Who's here?"
"No one that will do you any harm," replied Richard. "I am anxious to
witness the interior of this establishment; and here is half-a-crown for
you if you can gratify my curiosity."
"That's English, any how," said the voice, softening in its tone. "Stop
a minute."
Markham heard a door close in the area below; and in a few moments the
bolts were drawn back inside the one at which he was standing.
"Now then, my ben-cull—in with you," said a man, as he opened the front
door, and held a candle high up above his head at the same time.
Markham stepped into a narrow passage, and placed his foot against the
door in such a way as to keep it open. But the precaution was
unnecessary, for the policeman had glided in almost simultaneously with
himself.
"Now, no noise, old feller," said the constable, in a hasty whisper to
the man who had opened the door: "our business isn't with any of your
set."
"Wery good," returned the porter of Rats' Castle: "you know best—it
isn't for me to say nothink."
"Go first, sir," whispered the officer to Markham. "You seem to know
_him_ better than me, for I never saw him but once—and then only for a
minute or two."
"Which way?" demanded Richard.
"Straight on—and then down stairs. You keep behind us, old feller,"
added the policeman, turning to the porter.
Markham descended a flight of narrow and precipitate steps, and at the
bottom found himself in a large room formed of two kitchens thrown into
one.
Two long tables running parallel to each other the entire length of the
place, were laid out for supper,—the preparations consisting of a number
of greasy napkins spread upon either board, and decorated with knives
and forks all chained to the tables. Iron plates to eat off, galley-pots
and chipped tea-cups filled with salt, three or four pepper-boxes, and
two small stone jars containing mustard, completed the preparations for
the evening meal.
The room was lighted by means of a number of candles disposed in tin
shades around the walls; and as no one gave himself the trouble to snuff
them, the wicks were long, and infested with what housewives denominate
"thieves," while the tallow streamed down in large flakes, dripping on
the floor, the seats, or the backs of the guests.
Crowded together at the two tables, and anxiously watching the
proceedings of an old blear-eyed woman, who was occupied at an immense
fire at the farther end of the room, were about thirty or forty persons,
male and female. And never did Markham's eyes glance upon a more
extraordinary—a more loathsome—a more revolting spectacle than that
assemblage of rags, filth, disease, deformity, and ugliness.
Mendicants, vagabonds, impostors, and rogues of all kinds were gathered
in that room, the fetid heat of which was stifling. The horrible
language of which they made use,—their frightful curses,—their obscene
jests,—their blasphemous jokes, were calculated to shock the mind of the
least fastidious:—it was indeed a scene from which Markham would have
fled as from a nest of vipers, had not a stern duty to society and to
himself urged him to penetrate farther into that den.
The appearance of himself and the policeman did not produce any
remarkable degree of sensation amongst the persons assembled: they were
accustomed to the occasional visits of well-dressed strangers, who
repaired thither to gratify curiosity; and the presence of the officers
of justice was a matter of frequent occurrence when any great robbery
had been perpetrated in the metropolis, and while the culprits remained
undiscovered.
"He is not here," whispered Markham to his companion, after casting a
hasty but penetrating glance around.
"He may come: this is the most likely place in Saint Giles's for him to
visit," returned the policeman. "We will wait half-an-hour."
Richard would gladly have retired; but he was ashamed to exhibit a
disgust which the officer might mistake for fear. He accordingly seated
himself at a small side-table, in compliance with a sign from his
companion.
A waiter, wearing an apron which, by its colour, seemed also to do the
duty of dish-cloth, now accosted them, and said, "Please to order
anythink, gen'lemen?"
"Two glasses of brandy-and-water," replied the constable.
This command was speedily complied with; and, a few minutes afterwards,
supper was served up on the two long tables before described. The old
woman who presided over the culinary department of the establishment had
amply catered for those present. Legs of mutton, both roasted and
boiled,—rounds of beef, flanked with carrots,—huge pies,—boiled legs of
pork,—immense quantities of sausages,—and sheep's heads, constituted the
staple of the banquet. These viands, accompanied by piles of smoking
potatoes "in their jackets" and heaps of cabbages, were all served up on
iron dishes, from which no thrifty hand ever removed the rust.
Then commenced the clattering of the knives and forks, the din of which
upon the iron platters was strangely blended with the rattling of the
chains that held them to the tables. The boisterous merriment and coarse
conversation were for a time absorbed in the interest occasioned by the
presence of the repast.
"What a strange assembly," whispered Markham to the constable.
"Strange to _you_, sir—no doubt," was the answer, also delivered in a
tone audible only to him to whom the words were addressed. "That sturdy
feller sitting at the head of the nearest table, with the great cudgel
between his legs, is one of the class that don't take the trouble to
clothe themselves in rags, but trust to their insolence to extort alms
from females walking alone in retired parts. That feller next to him,
all in tatters, but who laughs louder than any one else, is one of them
whining, shivering, snivelling wretches that crouch up in doorways on
rainy days, and on fine ones sit down on the pavement with '_Starving,
but dare not beg_,' chalked on the stone before them. The man over there
in sailor's clothes tumbled down an area when he was drunk, and broke
his leg: he was obliged to have it cut off; and so he now passes himself
off as one of Nelson's own tars, though he never saw the sea in his
life. That chap almost naked who's just come in, is going to put on his
coat and shoes before he sits down to supper; he always goes out begging
in that state on rainy days, and is a gentleman on fine ones."
"I do not understand you," said Markham, astonished at this last
observation.
"Why, sir," replied the policeman, "there's certain beggars that always
turn out half-naked, on rainy days, or when the snow's on the ground;
and people pity them so much on those occasions that the rogues get
enough to keep them all through the fine weather. If they have wives and
children to go out with them, so much the better: but that feller there
isn't married; and so he goes with a woman who frequents this place, and
they hire three or four children from the poor people in this
neighbourhood, at the rate of two-pence a day each child, and its grub.
To see them go shivering and whining through the streets, with no shoes
or stockings, you'd think they were the most miserable devils on the
face of the earth; and then, to make the scene complete, the man and
woman always pinch the little children that they carry in their arms, to
make them cry, whenever they pass a window when several ladies are
looking out."
"Is this possible?" whispered Markham, his face flushing with
indignation.
"Possible, sir! Don't I see it all every day of my life? Look at them
men and women blowing their hides out with all that good meat; and now
look at the pots of porter that's coming in. Every soul there has sworn
a hundred times during the day that he hasn't tasted food for
forty-eight hours, and will repeat the same story to-morrow. But they
all had good suppers here last night, and good breakfasts here this
morning; and you see how they are faring this evening."
"But there are real cases deserving of charity?" said Markham,
interrogatively,—for he almost felt disposed to doubt the fact.
"Certainly there are, sir," was the reply; "but it's very difficult for
such as you to decide between the true and the false. Look at that man
who carves at the second table: he can see well enough to cut himself
the tit-bits; but to-morrow he will be totally blind in one of the
fashionable squares."
"Totally blind!" said Richard, more and more astonished at what he
heard.
"Yes, sir—totally blind; led by a dog, and with a placard upon his
chest. He keeps his eyes fast shut, and colours the lids with carmine
and vermilion. But that is nothing. That feller next to him, who uses
his knife and fork so well, will to-morrow have lost his right arm at
the battle of Salamanca."
"But how can that imposture be effected?"
"His right arm is concealed under his clothes, and the coat-sleeve hangs
down loose," replied the constable. "That tall stout man who has just
jumped so nimbly over the form in his way back to his place, has walked
on crutches in the streets for the last twenty years; and when you see
him so, you would think he could hardly drag himself along. The feller
over there is a frozen-out gardener in winter, and a poor Spitalfields'
weaver in summer. The one next to him will have a black patch over his
left eye to-morrow; and yet you may see that it is as good as his right.
The short man opposite to him bends his left leg back, and has a wooden
one to support the knee, when he is in the street. That woman there has
been dressed in widows' weeds for the last fifteen years, and always has
a troop of six children with her; but the children never grow any
bigger, for she hires fresh ones every year or so."
"This is the most extraordinarily combined mass of contradictions and
deceptions I ever gazed upon," whispered Markham.
"You may well say that, sir," said the policeman. "The ragged feller
down at the bottom of the second table sits as upright as you or me:
well, in the streets he crawls along the ground with two iron supporters
in his hands. He is the most insolent feller in London. The man next to
him goes about on a sort of van, or chaise, and the world believes that
he has no legs at all; but they are all the time concealed in the body
of the vehicle, and the stumps of the thighs which are seen are false.
Those three hulking chaps over there, sitting with the three women that
laugh so much, are begging-letter impostors. The eldest of the three men
has been seventeen years at the business, and has been in prison
twenty-eight times. One day he is a bricklayer who has fallen from a
scaffold, and broken his leg, and has a wife and eleven young children
dependent on him; another day he is a licensed clergyman of the Church
of England, but unemployed for two years—wife and six children totally
dependent on him. Then he changes into a stanch Tory, ruined by his
attachment to the cause, and proscribed by all his friends on account of
his principles: in this shape he addresses himself to the old Tory
noblemen, and makes a good harvest. The very next day he becomes a
determined and stanch Reformer, who lost his employment through giving
his vote for the Tower Hamlets to the liberal candidate at the last
election, and has since met with an uninterrupted series of
misfortunes—sold up by a Tory landlord,—his wife been dead only a
fortnight, and seven motherless children left dependent on him. This
kind of letter always draws well. Then he becomes a paralytic with an
execution in his house; or a Spitalfields' weaver, with nine children,
two of which are cripples, and one blind; or else a poor Scotch
schoolmaster, come to London on business, and robbed by designing knaves
of the means of returning to his own country. The women are just as bad.
They are either wives with husbands in hospitals and bed-ridden mothers;
or daughters with helpless parents and sick brothers and sisters
dependent on them;—and so on."
"But if you be aware of all these monstrous impositions, why do you not
interfere to protect the public?" inquired Markham.
"Lord, sir!" said the constable, "if we took up all persons that we know
to be impostors, we should have half London in custody. We only
interfere when specially called upon, or when we see cases so very
flagrant that we can't help taking notice of them. Some of these chaps
that are eating here so hearty now, will seem to be dying in the streets
to-morrow."
"Merciful heavens, what a city of deceit and imposture is this!"
observed Richard, painfully excited by the strange details which he had
just heard. "Were the interior of this den but once exposed to general
view, charity would be at an end, and the deserving poor would suffer
for the unprincipled impostor."
"True enough, sir. And now look—the cloth is removed, and every one is
ordering in something strong to wash down the supper. There goes a
crown-bowl of punch—that's for the begging-letter impostors: and there's
glasses of punch, and cold spirits and water, and shrub, and negus.
That's the way they do it, you see, sir."
Markham did indeed see, and wondered more and more at what he so
saw—until his feelings of surprise changed into sentiments of ineffable
abhorrence and disgust; and he longed to leave that odious den.
"The person whom we seek does not appear to come," he said, after a long
interval of silence. "Two hours have elapsed—and we are only wasting
time here."
"He must have taken refuge in some other crib, sir," returned the
constable. "Let us leave this one, and make the round of the other
lodging-houses in this street."
Markham was glad to hurry away from Rats' Castle, the mysteries of which
had so painfully shocked his generous feelings.