TWO OF OUR OLD ACQUAINTANCES.
We must again transport our readers to the great metropolis of England.
It was late in the evening of the 24th of January, 1841,—with Byron, we
"like to be particular in dates,"—that a man, of herculean form,
weather-beaten countenance, and whose age was apparently somewhat past
forty, was passing down Drury Lane.
He was dressed like a labourer, with a smock frock and a very
broad-brimmed straw hat, which was slouched as much as possible over his
face.
Passing into Blackmoor Street, he continued his way towards Clare
Market; whence he turned abruptly into Clements' Lane, and entered a
public-house on the right hand side of this wretched scene of squalor
and poverty.
No one possessing the least feeling of compassion for the suffering
portion of the industrious millions—(and how large is that portion!)—can
pass along the miserable thoroughfare called Clements' Lane without
being shocked at the internal misery which the exterior appearance of
many of the dwellings bespeaks. There is ever a vile effluvium in that
narrow alley—a miasma as of a crowded churchyard!
Entering the parlour of the public-house, the man with the
weather-beaten countenance and slouched hat was immediately recognised
by a lad seated apart from the other inmates of the room.
This youth was about eighteen or nineteen years of age, very short in
stature, but well made. On a former occasion we have stated that his
countenance was effeminate and by no means bad-looking; his eyes were
dark and intelligent; his teeth good; and his voice soft and agreeable.
His manners were superior to his condition; and his language was
singularly correct for one who was almost entirely self-taught, and who
had filled menial employments since his boyhood.
He was dressed in a blue jacket and waistcoat, and dark brown trousers;
and that attire, together with a boy's cap, contributed towards the
extreme youthfulness of his appearance.
A pint of porter stood, untouched, upon a table at which he was sitting.
The man with the weather-beaten countenance proceeded to take his seat
next to this lad: he then rang the bell, and having ordered some liquor
and a pipe, entered into conversation with his young companion.
"Have you heard any thing more of that villain Tidkins, Harry?" asked
the man.
"Nothing more since I saw you yesterday morning, Jem," replied Holford.
"I have lost all trace of him."
"But are you sure that it was him you saw the day before yesterday?"
demanded Crankey Jem—for _he_ was the individual with the weather-beaten
countenance and slouched hat.
"Don't you think I know him well enough, after all I have told you
concerning him?" said Henry Holford, smiling. "When you and I
accidentally met for the first time, the day before yesterday, in this
parlour, and when in the course of the conversation that sprang up
between us, I happened to mention the name of Tidkins, I saw how you
fired—how you coloured—how agitated you became. What injury has he done
you, that you are so bitter against him?"
"I will tell you another time, Harry," answered Crankey Jem. "My history
is a strange one—and you shall know it all. But I _must_ find out the
lurking-hole of this miscreant Tidkins. You say he was well dressed?"
"As well as a private person can be," answered Holford. "But did the
Resurrection Man put on the robes of the greatest monarch in the
world, he could not mitigate the atrocious expression of his
cadaverous—hang-dog countenance. I confess that I am afraid of that
man:—yes—I am afraid of him!"
"He was well-dressed, and was stepping into a cab at the stand under the
Charterhouse wall, you said?" observed Crankey Jem.
"Yes—and he said, '_To the Mint—Borough_,'" replied Holford: "those were
his very words—and away the cab went."
"And you have since been to see if you could recognise the cab, and pump
the cab-man?" continued Jem.
"By your request I have done so," answered Holford; "and my researches
have been altogether unsuccessful. I could not find the particular cab
which he took."
"Why didn't you question the waterman and the drivers?" asked Jem.
"So I did; but I could glean nothing. Now if you really want to find the
Resurrection Man, I should advise you to go over to the Mint, and hunt
him out amongst the low public-houses in that district. Depend upon it,"
added Holford, "he has business there; for he is not a man to run about
in cabs for nothing."
"The fact is, Harry," returned Jem, "that it doesn't suit my schemes to
look after Tidkins myself. He would only get out of my way; and—as I
have missed my aim _once_—I must take care to _thrust home_ the next
time I fall in with him."
"You mean to say that you have poniarded him once, and that he escaped
death?" whispered Holford.
"Yes: but I will tell you all about it presently, Harry," said Crankey
Jem; "and then, perhaps, you will be induced to assist me in hunting out
the Resurrection Man."
"I certainly have an old score to settle with him," returned Holford;
"for—as I told you—he once laid a plot against my life. To-night you
shall tell me how you came to be so bitter against him: to-morrow night
I will visit the Mint, and make the inquiries you wish concerning him;
and the night afterwards I must devote to particular business of my
own."
"And what particular business can such a younker as you have in hand?"
asked Crankey Jem, with as much of a smile as his grim countenance could
possibly relax itself into.
"I now and then visit a place where I can contemplate, at my ease, a
beautiful lady—without even my presence being suspected," answered
Holford, in a mysterious tone.
"A beautiful lady! Are you in love with her, then?" demanded Crankey
Jem.
"The mere idea is so utterly absurd—so extravagant—so preposterous,"
replied Holford, "that my lips dare not speak an affirmative. To
acknowledge that I love this lady of whom I speak, would be almost a
crime—an atrocity—a diabolical insult,—so highly is she placed above me!
And yet," he added mournfully, "the human heart _has_ strange
susceptibilities—_will_ indulge in the idlest phantasies! My chief
happiness is to gaze upon this lady—and my blood boils when I behold him
on whom all her affection is bestowed."
"She is married, then?" said Crankey Jem, interrogatively.
"Yes—married to one who is handsome and young, and who perhaps loves her
all the more because he owes so much—so very much to her! But I actually
shudder—I feel alarmed—I tremble, while I thus permit my tongue to touch
upon such topics,—topics as sacred as a religion—as holy as a worship."
"You have either indulged in some very foolish and most hopeless
attachment, Harry," said his companion; "or else your wits are going
a-wool-gathering."
"May be both your remarks apply to me," muttered Holford, a cloud
passing over his countenance. "But—no—no: I am in the perfect possession
of my senses—my intellects are altogether unimpaired. It is a fancy—a
whim of my mine to introduce myself into the place I before alluded to,
and, from my concealment, contemplate the lady of whom I have spoken. It
gives me pleasure to look upon her—I know not why. Then—when I am
alone—I brood upon her image, recall to mind all I have heard her say or
seen her do, and ponder on her features—her figure—her dress—her whole
appearance, until I become astonished at myself—alarmed at my own
presumption—terrified at my own thoughts. For weeks and weeks—nay, for
months—I remain away from the place where she often dwells;—but at
length some imperceptible and unknown impulse urges me thither; I rove
about the neighbourhood, gazing longingly upon the building;—I endeavour
to tear myself away—I cannot;—then I ascend the wall—I traverse the
garden—I enter the dwelling—I conceal myself—I behold _her_ again—_him_
also,—and my pleasures and my tortures are experienced all over again!"
"You're a singular lad," said Crankey Jem, eyeing the youth with no
small degree of astonishment, and some suspicion that he was not
altogether right in his upper storey. "But who is this lady that you
speak of? and why are you so frightened even to think of her? A cat may
look at a king—aye, and _think_ of him too, for that matter. Human
nature is human nature; and one isn't always answerable for one's
feelings."
"There I agree with you, Jem," said Holford. "I have often struggled
hard against that impulse which urges me towards the place where the
lady dwells—but all in vain!"
"Who is she, once more?" demanded Jem.
"That is a secret—never to be revealed," answered Harry.
Crankey Jem had commenced an observation in reply, when one of the
persons who were sitting drinking at another table, suddenly struck up a
chant in so loud and boisterous a tone that it completely drowned the
voice of Holford's companion:—
FLARE UP.
Flare up, I say, my jolly friends,
And pass the bingo gaily;—
Who cares a rap if all this ends
Some morn at the Old Bailey?
"A short life and a merry one"
Should be our constant maxim;
And he's a fool that gives up fun
Because remorse attacks him.
Here Ned has forks so precious fly,
And Bill can smash the flimsies;[13]
No trap to Tom could e'er come nigh,
For he so fleet of limbs is.
Bob is the best to crack a crib,
And Dick to knap a fogle;[14]
And I can wag my tongue so glib
A beak would wipe his ogle.
Who are so happy then as we—
Each with such useful knowledge?
For Oxford University
Can't beat the Floating College.[15]
To parish prigs one gives degrees,
To lumber-lags[16] the latter:
But I would sooner cross the seas,
Than in a humbox[17] patter.[18]
Each state in life has its mishaps:—
Kings fear a revolution;
The knowing covey dreads the traps—
And _both_ an execution.
Death will not long pass any by—
Each chance is duly raffled;
What matters whether we must die
In bed or on the scaffold?
Flare up, I say, then, jolly friends,
And pass the bingo gaily;
Who cares a rap if all this ends
Some morn at the Old Bailey?
"A short life and a merry one"
Should be our constant maxim;
And he's a fool that gives up fun
Because remorse attacks him.
"Now let us be moving, young sprig," said Crankey Jem, when the song was
brought to a conclusion. "You shall come with me to my lodging, where
we'll have a bit of supper together; and then I'll tell you my story. It
is a strange one, I can assure you."
Holford rose, and followed Crankey Jem from the public-house.
The latter led the way to a court in Drury Lane; and introduced the lad
into a small back chamber, which was tolerably neat and comfortable.
On a table near the window, were small models of ships, executed with
considerable taste; various tools; blocks of wood, not yet shaped;
paint-pots, brushes, twine, little brass cannon and anchors,—in a word,
all the articles necessary for the miniature vessels which are seen in
the superior toy-shops.
"That is the way I get my living, Harry," said Jem, pointing towards the
work-table. "I have been a sad fellow in my time: but if any one who has
gone through all I have suffered, doesn't change, I don't know who the
devil would. Sit down, Harry—the fire will soon blaze up."
Jem stirred the fire, and then busied himself to spread a small round
table standing in the middle of the room, with some cold meat, a
substantial piece of cheese, and a quartern loaf. He also produced from
his cupboard a bottle of spirits, and when there was a good blaze in the
grate, he placed the kettle to boil.
"You have got every thing comfortable enough here, Jem," said Holford,
when these preparations were concluded.
"Yes; I can earn a good bit of money when I choose," was the answer.
"But I waste a great deal of time in making inquiries after Tidkins—yes,
and in brooding on my vengeance, as you, Harry, do upon your love."
"Love!" ejaculated Holford. "My God! if you only knew of whom you were
speaking!"
"Well—well," cried Jem, laughing; "I see it is a sore point—I won't
touch on it any more. So now fall to, and eat, Harry. You're sincerely
welcome. Besides, you can and will serve me, I know, in ferretting out
this villain Tidkins. If you behave well, I'll teach you how to make
those pretty ships; and you can earn six times as much at that work, as
ever you will obtain as pot-boy at a public."
"Oh! if you would really instruct me, Jem, in your business," exclaimed
Holford, "how much I should be obliged to you! The very name of a
pot-boy is odious to my ears. Yes—I will serve you faithfully and truly,
Jem," continued the lad: "I will go over to the Mint to-morrow evening;
and if Tidkins is _there_, you shall know _where_."
"That's what I call business, Harry," said Jem. "Serve me in this—and
you can't guess all I'll do for you."
They ate their supper with a good appetite. Jem—who was somewhat
methodical after a fashion—cleared away the things, and placed two clean
tumblers and a bowl full of sugar upon the table.
When the grog was duly mixed, and "every thing was comfortable," as the
man termed it, he commenced his truly remarkable history, which we have
corrected and improved as to language, in the following manner.
-----
Footnote 13:
Pass fictitious Bank-Notes.
Footnote 14:
Handkerchief.
Footnote 15:
The Hulks.
Footnote 16:
Transports.
Footnote 17:
Pulpit.
Footnote 18:
Preach.