THE NEW CUT.
At nine o'clock on the same evening, Mr. Greenwood, muffled in a cloak,
alighted from a hackney-cab in the Waterloo Road at the corner of the
New Cut.
That wide thoroughfare which connects the Waterloo and Blackfriars'
Roads, is one of the most busy and bustling, after its own fashion, in
all London.
Nowhere are the shops of a more miscellaneous nature: nowhere are the
pathways so thronged with the stalls and baskets of itinerant venders.
The ingenuity of those petty provision-dealers adapts the spoilt
articles of the regular fishmongers and butchers to serviceable purposes
in the free market of the New Cut. The fish is cut in slices and fried
in an oil or butter whose rancid taste obviates the putrid flavour and
smell of the comestible; and the refuse scraps from the butchers shops
are chopped up to form a species of sausage-balls called "faggots." Then
the grease, in which the racy slices of fish and savoury compounds of
lights and liver have been alike cooked, serves to fry large rounds of
bread, which, when thus prepared, are denominated "sop in the pan." Of
course these culinary refinements are prepared by the venders in their
own cellars or garrets hard by; but when conveyed to the miscellaneous
market in the New Cut, the luxuries impart a greasy and sickening odour
to the air.
It is perfectly wonderful to behold the various methods in which the
poor creatures in that thoroughfare endeavour to obtain an honest
livelihood; and although their proceedings elicit a smile—still, God
pity them! they had better ply their strange trades thus than rob or
beg!
There may be seen, for instance, a ragged urchin holding a bundle of
onions in his hand, and shouting at the top of his shrill voice, "Here's
a ha'porth!"—and, no matter how finely dressed the passer-by, he is sure
to thrust the onions under his or her very nose, still vociferating,
"Here's a ha'porth!" Poor boy! he thinks every one _must_ want onions!
The immediate vicinity of the Victoria Theatre is infested with women
who offer play-bills for sale, and who seem to fancy it impossible that
the passers-by can be going elsewhere than to the play.
Here an orange-girl accosts a gentleman with two or three of the fruit
in her hand, but with a significant look which gives the assurance that
her real trade is of a less innocent nature:—there a poor woman with an
array of children before her, offers lucifer matches, but silently
appeals for alms.
A little farther on is a long barrow covered with toys; and a tall man
without a nose, shouts at intervals, "Only a penny each! only a penny
each!" Some of these gimcracks excite astonishment by their extreme
cheapness; but they are chiefly made by the convicts in Holland, and are
exported in large quantities to England.
In the middle of the road a man with stentorian voice offers "A hundred
songs for a penny;" and, enumerating the list, he is sure to announce
the "Return of the _H_admiral" amongst the rest.
Nearly opposite the Victoria Theatre there is an extensive cook's-shop;
and around the window stands a hungry crowd feasting their eyes on the
massive joints which are intended to feast the stomach.
In front of the butchers' shops the serving-men keep up a perpetual
vociferation of "Buy! buy!"—a sort of running fire that denotes the
earnestness with which competition is carried on amongst rivals in that
delectable trade.
Perhaps a new baker's shop is opened in the New Cut; and then a large
placard at the window announces that "a glass of gin will be given to
every purchaser of a quartern loaf." The buyers do not pause to reflect
that the price of the cordial is deducted from the weight of the bread.
The pawnbrokers' shops seem to drive a most bustling trade in the New
Cut; and the fronts of their establishments present a more extensive and
miscellaneous assortment of second-hand garments, blankets,
handkerchiefs, and sheets, than is to be seen elsewhere.
The influx and efflux of people at the public-houses and gin-shops
constitute not the least remarkable feature of that neighbourhood, where
every thing is dirty and squalid, yet where every one appears able to
purchase intoxicating liquor!
On the southern side of the New Cut there are a great many second-hand
furniture shops, the sheds wherein the articles are principally exposed
being built against the houses in a fashion which gives the whole, when
viewed by the glaring of the gas-lights, the appearance of a bazaar or
fair.
The New Cut is always crowded; but the multitude is not entirely in
motion. Knots of men congregate here, and groups of women there—the
posts at the corners of the alleys and courts, or the doors of the
gin-shops, being the most favourite points of such assembly.
The edges of the pathways are not completely devoted to provision
dealers. Penny peep-shows, emblazoned with a coloured drawing
representing the last horrible murder,—itinerant quacks with "certain
remedies for the toothache,"—stalls covered with odd numbers of cheap
periodical publications,—old women seated on stools, behind little trays
containing combs, papers of needles, reels of cotton, pack-thread,
stay-laces, bobbin, and such-like articles,—men with cutlery to sell,
and who flourish in their hands small knives with innumerable blades
sticking out like the quills on a porcupine,—these are also prominent
features in that strange market.
In some conspicuous place most likely stands a caravan, surmounted by a
picture representing a colossal giant and a giantess to match, with an
assurance in large letters that the originals may be seen inside:—then,
as the eye wanders from the enormous canvass to the caravan itself, and
compares their sizes, the mind is left in a pleasing state of surprise
how even _one_ of the Brobdingnag marvels—let alone _two_—could possibly
stow itself away in that diminutive box.
Branching off from the New Cut, on either side, are numerous narrow
streets,—or rather lanes, of a very equivocal reputation; their chief
characteristics being houses of ill-fame, gin-shops, beer-shops,
marine-store dealers, pawnbrokers, and barbers' establishments.
There are two facts connected with low neighbourhoods which cannot fail
to attract the attention of even the most superficial observers in their
wanderings amidst the mazes of the modern Babylon. The first is that the
corner shops of nearly all the narrow and dirty streets are occupied by
general dealers or people in the chandlery-line; and the second is that
all the barbers' establishments are ornamented with a blind or placard
conveying an assurance that each is "_the original shaving shop_." Here,
again, the mind enjoys the excitement of uncertainty, as in the matter
of the caravan and the giants; for it is impossible to arrive at any
satisfactory decision whether the aforesaid placard means you to infer
that the shop to which it belongs was the _first_ ever opened in the
world for tonsorial purposes, or only the _first_ that shed the light of
its civilisation upon that especial neighbourhood. We may also observe
that some of the proprietors of those establishments are not altogether
unacquainted with the mysteries of puffing; inasmuch as we frequently
read upon their shop-fronts the truly exhilarating and inspiring words,
"_Hair-dresser to the Queen_."
Such are the New Cut and its tributary lanes.
And it was now along the New Cut that Mr. Greenwood, enveloped in his
cloak, was pursuing his way.
He scarcely noticed the turmoil, bustle, and business of that strange
thoroughfare; for he was too much absorbed in his own meditations.
The truth was, that his affairs—once so gloriously prosperous—were now
rendered desperate by various reverses; and he was about to seek a
desperate means of retrieving them.
The reader cannot have failed to observe that the characters of George
Montague Greenwood and Richard Markham stand out from our picture of
London Life in strong contrast with each other; and it is not the less
remarkable that while the former was rising rapidly to wealth, rank, and
eminence, the latter was undergoing persecutions and sinking into
comparative poverty. Now—at the epoch which we are describing—the tables
seem to have turned; for while George Montague Greenwood is about to
seek a desperate remedy for his desperate affairs, Richard Markham is
leading a gallant army over the fertile plains of Castelcicala.
The former, then, may be deemed the personification of vice, the latter
the representative of virtue.
They had chosen separate paths:—the sequel will fully demonstrate which
of the two characters had selected the right one.
In the meantime we will continue our narrative.
Mr. Greenwood pursued his way, and, having crossed over to the southern
side of the New Cut, repaired to a small row of private houses of which
this famous thoroughfare can boast at the extremity joining the
Blackfriars' Road.
There he stopped for a moment beneath a lamp to consult a memorandum in
his pocket-book; and, having thereby refreshed his memory in respect to
the address of which he was in search, he proceeded to knock at the door
of a house close by.
A dirty servant-girl opened it just as far as a chain inside would
permit; and protruding her smutty face, said, with strange abruptness,
"Well, what is it?"
"Does Mr. Pennywhiffe live here?" demanded Greenwood.
"No—he don't; and, if he did, you wouldn't come in—'cos I know it's all
your gammon," returned that most uninteresting specimen of the
female-domestic race.
"Why not?" exclaimed Greenwood, indignantly. "Whom do you take me for?"
"For what you are," replied the girl.
"And what am I, then?"
"Why—a execution, to be sure."
And, with these words, the girl banged the door in Mr. Greenwood's face.
"I must have taken down the wrong number in my memorandum," thought the
Member of Parliament, as he turned away from the house, which was
evidently in a state of siege. "This is very provoking!"
He then knocked at the door of the next house.
A woman with a child in her arms answered the summons; and, without
waiting for any question, said abruptly, "You had better walk in."
Greenwood entered accordingly, supposing that the woman had overheard
his inquiry next door, and that he had now found the abode of the person
whom he sought.
The woman led the way into a back room, almost completely denuded of
furniture, smelling awfully of tobacco-smoke, and very feebly lighted
with a single candle that wanted snuffing.
In the midst of a dense cloud of that vapour, a man without a coat was
sitting on a trunk; but the moment Greenwood entered, this individual
threw down his clay-pipe, and advancing towards the visitor, exclaimed
in a ferocious voice, "So you're going your rounds at this hour, are
you? Well—I'm as far off from having the tin as I have been all along;
and as I am going away to-morrow, I don't mind if I give you a good
drubbing to teach you how to pester a gentleman with shabby bits of
paper in future."
Thus speaking, the ferocious individual advanced towards Greenwood,
squaring away like clock-work.
"Really, sir—you must labour under some mistake," exclaimed the Member
of Parliament. "I have never called here before in my life."
"Then who the devil are you?" demanded the pugilistic phenomenon.
"That is quite another question," said Greenwood. "I——"
"Do you mean to tell me, then," exclaimed the man, "that you ain't the
Water Rates?"
"No—I am not," answered Greenwood, unable to suppress a smile. "I
thought that a Mr. Pennywhiffe lived here."
"Then he don't—that's all," was the rejoinder. "Blowed if I don't
believe it's a plant, after all. Come—ain't you a bum? no lies, now!"
Greenwood turned indignantly away from the room, and left the house,
muttering to himself, "This is most extraordinary! Every one appears to
be in difficulties in this street."
He was not, however, disheartened: it was highly necessary for him to
see the person of whom he was in search; and he accordingly knocked at
another door.
"Tell him I'll send round the money to-morrow," shouted a masculine
voice inside. "I know it's the collector, because he's rapping at every
house."
Greenwood did not wait for the door to be opened; he knew very well that
Mr. Pennywhiffe could not live there.
The fourth house at which he knocked was the right one.
A decent-looking servant girl replied in the affirmative to his inquiry;
and he was forthwith conducted to a well-furnished room on the first
floor, where he found Mr. Pennywhiffe seated at a table covered with
papers.
This individual was about fifty years of age. In person he was short,
thin, and by no means prepossessing in countenance. His eyes were deeply
set, grey, and restless; and his forehead was contracted into a thousand
wrinkles. He was dressed in a suit of black, and wore a white
neckcloth—no doubt to enhance the respectability of his appearance. This
was, however, a difficult task; for had he figured in the dock of a
criminal tribunal, the jury would have had no trouble in coming to a
verdict, a more hang-dog countenance being seldom seen, even in a city
where the face is so often the mirror of the mind.
"Ah! Mr. Greenwood," exclaimed Mr. Pennywhiffe, rising to welcome his
visitor; "this is an unexpected honour. What can I do for you? Pray be
seated; and speak plainly. There's no listeners here."
"I require your aid in a most important business," answered Greenwood,
taking a chair, and throwing back his cloak. "To-morrow I must raise
twenty or twenty-five thousand pounds, for three or four months—upon
bills—_good bills_, Mr. Pennywhiffe."
"To be deposited?" asked that individual.
"To be deposited," replied Greenwood.
"Shall you withdraw them in time?"
"Decidedly. I will convert the money I shall thereby raise into a
hundred thousand," exclaimed Greenwood.
"My commission will be heavy for such a business," observed Pennywhiffe;
"and _that_, you know is ready money."
"I am aware of it, and am come provided. Name the amount you require."
"Will two hundred hurt you?" said Pennywhiffe. "Remember—the affair is a
serious one."
"You shall have two hundred pounds," exclaimed the Member of Parliament,
laying his pocket-book upon the table.
"That is what I call coming to the point."
Mr. Pennywhiffe rose from his seat, and opening an iron safe, took
thence a memorandum-book and a small tin box.
Returning to his seat, he handed the memorandum-book to Greenwood,
saying, "There is my list of noblemen, wealthy gentlemen, and great
mercantile firms, _whose names are familiar to me_. Choose which you
will have; and make notes of the various sums the bills are to be drawn
for. Let them be for the most part uneven ones, with fractions: it looks
so much better."
While Greenwood was employed in examining the memorandum-book, which
contained upwards of five hundred names of peers, and great landowners,
in addition to those of the chief commercial firms of London,
Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Glasgow, and other
places,—besides several belonging to Paris, Lyons, Bordeaux, Havre, and
Lille; Brussels, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Hamburgh; New York, the West
Indian Islands, and Montreal; Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras;—while Mr.
Greenwood, we say, was examining this strange register, and copying
several of the best names of noblemen, gentlemen, and merchants, upon a
slip of paper, Mr Pennywhiffe opened his tin-case.
The contents thereof were numerous paid checks, and bills of exchange,
respectively bearing the signatures of the persons or firms whose names
were entered in the memorandum-book.
How Mr. Pennywhiffe became possessed of such important documents,—which,
seeing that they had all been duly honoured at maturity, ought to have
remained in the hands of those who took them up,—was a mystery which he
kept to himself. Whether he had collected them by degrees, or had
obtained them in a heap by robbery, or any other means, he never
condescended to acquaint his clients.
"I have chosen eleven names," said Greenwood; "and have appended to them
the various sums for which I require the bills to be drawn. The
aggregate is twenty-three thousand two hundred and seventeen pounds,
nine shillings, and sevenpence halfpenny."
"A good total, _that_," observed Mr. Pennywhiffe,—"an excellent
total—sounds uncommon well. Nothing could be better. Am I to provide the
stamps?"
"If you please. I will pay you extra for them."
Mr. Pennywhiffe once more had recourse to his iron safe, and returned to
his seat with a small paste-board box, long and narrow, and containing a
vast number of bill-stamps adapted to sums of all amounts. As the usual
formula of such documents was printed (though in various ways, they
having been procured at different stationers' shops) the process of
filling them up was by no means a tedious one.
[Illustration]
But now the ingenuity of Mr. Pennywhiffe mainly exhibited itself. Each
bill was filled up with a different ink and a different pen; and so
skilful a caligrapher was he, that the most astute judge of writing
could not possibly have perceived that they were all written by the same
hand. Then, by the aid of red ink, a few flourishes, and little circles
containing initial letters or figures as if each document corresponded
with some particular entry in some particular leger or bill-book, the
papers speedily assumed a very business-like appearance.
And now the most difficult and delicate part of the entire process was
to commence—the signatures. But Mr. Pennywhiffe went to work with the
air of one who fully understood what he was about; and with the
originals before him as a copy, he perfected acceptance after acceptance
in so masterly a manner, that Greenwood, when he compared the fictitious
signatures with the genuine, was astounded at the caligraphic
proficiency of that man whose dangerous agency he was now rendering
available to his purposes.
"So far, all goes well," said Mr. Pennywhiffe.
"The bills are excellent in every point save one," observed Greenwood.
"Which is that?" demanded the caligrapher.
"They look _too new_—the paper is too clean."
"I know it," returned Mr. Pennywhiffe; "but the process is not entirely
complete."
He rose and threw a quantity of small coal upon the fire, so as to
smother the flame, and create a dense smoke. He then passed each bill
several times through the smoke, until the documents acquired a slightly
dingy hue. Lastly, he placed them between the leaves of a portfolio
scented with musk, so as to take off the odour of the smoke; and the
entire process was terminated.
Mr. Greenwood now counted upon the table bank-notes to the aggregate
amount of the two hundred pounds promised, and the price of the stamps;
and in exchange he received the bills for twenty-three thousand two
hundred and seventeen pounds, nine shillings, and sevenpence halfpenny.
"This seems to be a most extraordinary neighbourhood, Mr. Pennywhiffe,"
said Greenwood, as he placed the bills in his pocket-book. "I knocked by
mistake at three houses before I came to yours, and the inmates of each
seemed to be in difficulties."
"No doubt of it, my dear sir. This part of London swarms with members of
the Swell Mob, broken-down tradesmen, fraudulent bankrupts, insolvents
playing at hide-and-seek with the sheriff's-officers, railway
projectors, and swindlers of all kinds. I have got a very queer kind of
a lodger in my attic: he has no visible means of living, but is out
nearly all day long; and he dresses uncommonly well—gold chain—polished
boots—figured silk waistcoat—and so forth. He only pays me—or ought to
pay me—five shillings a week for his furnished bed-room; and he is six
months in arrears. But what is more remarkable still, I don't even know
his name; and he never receives any letters, nor has any friends to
call. He is about thirty-six or thirty-eight years old, a good-looking
fellow enough, and an Irishman."
"Perhaps he also is some railway projector," said Mr. Greenwood, rising
to take his departure.
At this moment a double knock at the front-door was heard.
"That must be my lodger," exclaimed Mr. Pennywhiffe.
Urged by curiosity to catch a glimpse of the mysterious gentleman
alluded to, Greenwood hurried on his cloak, took leave of the
caligrapher, and left the room.
On the stairs he met the lodger, who was ascending to his attic, with a
brass candlestick, containing an inch of the commonest candle, in his
hand.
The moment he and Greenwood thus encountered each other, an ejaculation
of surprise issued from the lips of each.
"Hush! not a word!" said the gentleman, placing his fore-finger upon his
lip. "And, of course, Greenwood," he continued, in a whisper, "you will
never mention _this_ to a soul."
"Never—on my honour!" answered Greenwood.
They then shook hands, and parted—the gentleman continuing his way to
the attic, and Greenwood hastening to leave the house.
"Wonders will never cease!" thought the latter, as he proceeded towards
the cab-stand near Rowland Hill's chapel in the Blackfriars Road: "who
would have thought of one of the Irish Members of Parliament living in
an attic in the New Cut?"