THE OLD HAG AND THE RESURRECTION MAN.
The Old Hag, who has so frequently figured in former portions of our
narrative, had latterly become more prosperous, if not more respectable,
than when we first introduced her to our readers.
From having been the occupant of only one room in the house in the court
leading from Golden Lane, she had become the lessee of the entire
dwelling. The commencement of this success was owing to her connexion
with Lady Cecilia Harborough in the intrigue of the "living statue;" and
from that moment affairs seemed to have taken a new turn with her. At
all events her "business" increased; and the sphere of her infamy became
enlarged.
She would have taken another and better house, in some fashionable
quarter, and re-commenced the avocation of a first-rate
brothel-keeper—the pursuit of the middle period of her life;—but she
reasoned that she was known to a select few where she was—that the
obscurity of her dwelling was favourable to many of the nefarious
projects in which her aid was required—and that she was too old to dream
of forming a new connexion elsewhere.
It would be impossible to conceive a soul more diabolically hardened,
more inveterately depraved, than that of this old hag.
In order to increase her resources, and occupy, as she said, "her
leisure time," she had hired or bought some half-dozen young girls,
about ten or twelve years old;—hired or bought them, whichever the
reader pleases, of their parents, a "consideration" having been given
for each, and the said parents comforting themselves with the idea that
their children were well provided for!
These children of tender age were duly initiated by the old hag in all
the arts and pursuits of prostitution. They were sent in pairs to parade
Aldersgate Street, Fleet Street, and Cheapside; and their special
instructions were to practise their allurements upon elderly men, whose
tastes might be deemed more vitiated and eccentric than those of the
younger loungers of the great thoroughfares where prostitution most
thrives.
A favourite scheme of the old woman's was this:—One of her juvenile
emissaries succeeded, we will suppose, in alluring to the den in Golden
Lane an elderly man whose outward respectability denoted a well-filled
purse, and ought to have been associated with better morals. When the
wickedness was consummated, and the elderly gentleman was about to
depart, the old hag would meet him and the young girl on the stairs,
and, affecting to treat the latter as a stranger who had merely used her
house as a common place of such resort, would seem stupefied at the idea
"_of so youthful a creature having been brought to her abode for such a
purpose_." She would then question the girl concerning her age; and the
reply would be "_under twelve_" of course. Thus the elderly voluptuary
would suddenly find himself liable to punishment for a misdemeanour, for
intriguing with a girl beneath the age of twelve; and the virtuous
indignation of the old hag would be vented in assertions that though she
kept a house of accommodation for grown-up persons, she abhorred the
encouragement of juvenile profligacy. The result would be that the hoary
old sinner found himself compelled to pay a considerable sum as
hush-money.
We might occupy many pages with the details of the tricks and artifices
which the old hag taught these young girls. And of a surety, they were
subjects sufficiently plastic to enable her to model them to all her
infamous purposes. Born of parents who never took the trouble to
inculcate a single moral lesson, even if they knew any, those poor
creatures had actually remained ignorant of the meaning of right and
wrong until they were old enough to take an interest in the events that
were passing around them. Then, when they missed some lad of their
acquaintance, and, on inquiry, learnt that he had been sent to prison
for taking something which did not belong to him, they began to
understand that it was _dangerous_ to do such an act—but it did not
strike them that it was _wrong_. Again, if by accident they heard that
another boy whom they knew, had got a good place, was very industrious,
and in a fair way to prosper, they would perceive some _utility_ in such
conduct, but would still remain unable to appreciate its _rectitude_.
Most of the girls whom the old hag had enlisted in her service, had been
born and reared in that dirty warren which constitutes Golden Lane,
Upper Whitecross Street, Playhouse Yard, Swan Street, and all their
innumerable courts, alleys, and obscure nooks, swarming with a ragged
and degraded population. Sometimes in their infancy they creeped out
from their loathsome burrows, and even ventured into Old Street,
Barbican, or Beech Street. But those excursions were not frequent.
During their childhood they rolled half-naked in the gutters,—eating the
turnip-parings and cabbage-stalks which were tossed out into the street
with other offal,—poking about in the kennels to find lost halfpence,—or
even plundering the cat's-meat-man and the tripe-shop for the means of
satisfying their hunger! This mode of life was but little
varied;—unless, indeed, it were by the more agreeable recreations of
particular days in the year. Thus, for instance, November was welcomed
as the time for making a Guy-Fawkes, and carrying it round in procession
amidst the pestilential mazes of the warren; August gave them "oyster
day," to be signalised by the building of shell-grottoes, which were an
excuse for importuning passengers for alms; and the December season had
its "boxing-day," on which occasion the poor ragged creatures would be
seen thronging the doors of the oil-shops to beg for Christmas-candles!
These had been the only holidays which characterised the childhood of
those unfortunate, lost, degraded girls whose lot we are describing.
Sunday was not marked by cleanlier apparel, nor better food: if it were
singled out at all from the other days of the week, the distinguishing
sign was merely the extra drunkenness of the fathers of the families.
Good Friday brought the little victims no hot-cross buns, nor Christmas
Day its festivities, nor Shrove Tuesday its pancakes:—they had no
knowledge of holy periods nor sacred ceremonies;—no seasonable luxury
reminded them of the anniversaries of the birth, the death, or the
resurrection of a Redeemer.
No—in physical privations and moral blindness had they passed their
infancy:—and thus, having gone through a complete initiation into the
miseries and sufferings of life, they were prepared at the age of ten to
commence an apprenticeship of crime. And the old hag was an excellent
mistress: were there an University devoted to graduates in Wickedness,
this horrible wretch would have taken first-class Degrees in its
schools.
Thus, be it understood, up to the age of ten or eleven, when those poor
girls were transferred by their unfeeling parents (who were glad to get
rid of them) to the care of the old woman, they had scarcely ever been
out of the warren where they were born. Now a new world, as it were,
dawned upon them. They laid aside their fetid rags, and put on garments
which appeared queenly robes in their eyes. They were sent into streets
lined with splendid shops, and beheld gay carriages and equipages of all
kinds. Hitherto the principal gin-shop in their rookery had appeared the
most gorgeous palace in the world in their eyes, with its revolving
burners, its fine windows, and its meretriciously-dressed bar-girls:—now
they could feast their gaze with the splendours of the linen-drapers'
and jewellers' establishments on Ludgate Hill. Their existence seemed to
be suddenly invested with charms that they had never before dreamt of;
and they adored the old hag as the authoress of their good fortune. Thus
she established a sovereign dominion over her poor ignorant victims
through the medium of their mistaken gratitude; and when she told them
to sin, they sinned—sinned, too, before they even knew the meaning of
virtue!
Such was the history—not of one only—but of all the young girls whom
this atrocious old hag had bought from their parents!
To many—to most of our readers, the details of this description may seem
improbable,—nay, impossible.
The picture is, alas! too true.
Poor fallen children! the world scorns you—society contemns you—the
unthinking blame you. But, just heaven! are ye more culpable than that
community which took no precaution to prevent your degradation, and
which now adopts no measures to reclaim you?
As for ourselves, we declare most solemnly that we believe no age to
have been more disgraced than the present one, and no country more
culpable than our own. In this age of Bibles and country of glorious
civilisation,—in this epoch of missions and land of refinement,—in this
period of grand political reform, and nation of ten thousand
philanthropic institutions,—in the middle of the nineteenth century, and
with all the advantages of profound peace,—and, what is worst of all, in
that great city which vaunts itself the metropolis of the civilised
world, there are thousands of young children whose neglected, hopeless,
and miserable condition can only be looked upon as an apprenticeship
calculated to fill our streets with prostitutes of finished depravity—to
people our gaols, hulks, and penal colonies with villains familiar with
every phase of crime—and to supply our scaffolds with victims for the
diversion of a rude and ruthless mob!
It was nine o'clock in the evening; and the old hag was seated in the
same room where we have before frequently seen her.
She was, however, surrounded by several additional comforts. She no
longer burnt turf in her grate, but good Wall's End coals. She no longer
placed her feet on an old mat, but on a thick carpet. She no longer
bought her gin by the quartern or half pint, but by the bottle. She
sweetened her tea with lump sugar, instead of moist; and in the place of
a stew of tripe or cow-heel, she had a joint cooked at the bake-house,
or a chicken boiled on her own fire.
Her select patrons had contributed much towards this improvement in her
circumstances; but the luxuries in which she could now indulge, were
provided for her by the prostitution of her young victims.
She was now dozing in her arm-chair, with her great cat upon her lap;
but even in the midst of her semi-slumber, her ears were awake to the
least motion of the knocker of the house-door—that sound which was the
indication of business!
Thus, when, true to the time appointed in his note, the Resurrection Man
arrived at the house, not many moments elapsed ere he was admitted into
the hag's parlour.
"So you have discovered the address of Katherine Wilmot," said the hag.
"Where does she reside?"
"No matter where," returned the Resurrection Man; "it is sufficient that
I can communicate with her, or bring her up to London, when it suits me.
I have come now to have a full understanding with you on the subject;
and if we play our cards well, we may obtain a round sum of money from
this girl—that is, supposing she is really the child of the Harriet
Wilmot whom you knew."
"There can be no doubt of it—there can be no doubt of it," exclaimed the
old hag, rocking herself to and fro. "She is the daughter of that
Harriet Wilmot whom I knew, and whose image sometimes haunts me in my
dreams."
"But what proofs have you of the fact?" demanded the Resurrection Man.
"It will not suit me to take any more trouble in the matter, unless I
know for certain that I am not running a wild-goose chase."
"I shall not tell you how I came to know Harriet Wilmot seventeen years
ago, nor any thing more about her than I can help," said the old hag
resolutely. "I was, however, well acquainted with her—I knew all about
her. With her own lips she told me her history. She was for some time
engaged to be married to a young man—young at that period—at
Southampton. His name was Smithers. Circumstances separated them before
the realisation of their hopes and wishes; and she came to London with
her father, who soon afterwards died of a broken heart through
misfortunes in business."
"Broken heart!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man contemptuously: "who ever
died of a broken heart? But never mind—go on."
"Harriet was alone in the world—an orphan—unprotected—and without
friends or resources," continued the hag. "She was accordingly compelled
to go out to service. A wealthy gentleman saw her, and fell in love with
her—but I shall not tell you all about _that_! No—I shall not tell you
about _that_! Harriet's was a strange fate—a sad fate; and I do not like
to think of the part I acted in some respects towards her," added the
old woman, shaking her head, as if it were in regret of the past.
"Go on," said the Resurrection Man. "If you have got any thing
unpleasant in your memory, all the shakings of heads in the world won't
drive it out."
"Alack! you speak the truth—you speak the truth," muttered the old
woman. "It was the blackest deed I ever committed—I wish it had never
occurred: it troubles me very often; and when I cannot sleep at night, I
am constantly thinking of Harriet Wilmot."
"What is all this to lead to?" demanded Tidkins, impatiently.
"I shall not trouble you with many more of my reflections," said the
hag. "Harriet became a mother: she had a daughter, on whom she bestowed
the name of Katherine. Three or four years afterwards I lost sight of
her, and never beheld her more. From that time all traces of herself and
her child were gone until last year, when the murder of Reginald Tracy's
housekeeper placed the name of Katherine Wilmot before the public. That
name immediately struck me: the newspapers said she was sixteen years
old—precisely the age that Harriet's daughter must have been. Then the
name of Smithers was mixed up in the proceedings which ensued: I saw it
all—Harriet must be dead, and Smithers had adopted her child as his
niece! But, to convince myself still further, I went to the Old Bailey—I
saw Katherine in the dock: you might have knocked me down with a
feather, so strong was the resemblance between the young girl and her
deceased mother! I came home—I was very ill: methought I had seen the
ghost of one whom I had deeply, deeply injured!"
"And now you have so far forgotten your remorse that you are desirous to
turn your knowledge of Katherine's parentage to a good account?" said
the Resurrection Man, with a sneering laugh. "But how do you know that
she is not well informed on that head already?"
"She cannot be—she cannot be," answered the old hag; "she would not bear
the name of _Wilmot_ if she was. Besides, I have since ascertained that
her mother died when she was only four years old; and therefore
Katherine was too young to receive any revelation from her parent's
lips. No—no: I have good reason to believe that Katherine knows nothing
of her paternal origin."
"I am now perfectly satisfied, from all you have told me, that Katherine
Wilmot is the daughter of the Harriet whom you knew," said the
Resurrection Man; "and as you seem so positive that she is unaware of
many important particulars concerning her birth, I will proceed in the
business you have proposed to me."
"Where is she living?" inquired the old woman.
"If I tell you that," said Tidkins, "what guarantee have I got that you
will not post off alone to her, extort the purchase-money for your
secrets, and chouse me out of my reglars? Look you—I have been at the
trouble and expense of finding her out—which you never could have
done—and I must go halves with you in the produce of the affair."
"So you shall—so you may," returned the old woman. "But I will not speak
to her in your hearing. I don't know how it is that I have a strange
superstitious awe in connexion with all that concerns Harriet Wilmot's
memory and the existence of her child. I cannot help the feeling—I
cannot help it."
"By Satan," exclaimed the Resurrection Man, darting a furious glance
upon the hag, "you are either a drivelling fool, or you are deceiving
me. You entertain compunction about these Wilmots—and yet you purpose to
obtain money from the girl. Now is this consistent? Take care how you
play with me; for—if I catch you out in any of your tricks—I will hang
you up to your own bedpost as readily as I would wring the neck of that
damned old cat."
"You shall see whether I will deceive you—you shall see," cried the old
hag, with some degree of alarm. "Arrange the business as you will, so
long as I may have speech of Katherine without being overheard; but you
shall be present when she pays me for the secret which I have to
communicate."
"Let that be the understanding, and I am agreeable," observed the
Resurrection Man. "Will it suit you to go a few miles out of town with
me to-morrow."
"Is it to see Katherine?" inquired the hag.
"What the devil else do you think I want your company for?" cried
Tidkins: "to take you to dine at Greenwich or Blackwall—eh? Not quite
such a fool as that! However, to-morrow morning you may expect me at
seven o'clock——"
"It is not light at that hour," observed the hag.
"I prefer the dusk of either morning or evening," answered the
Resurrection Man. "It suits me better—because I have a few enemies in
London. But, as I was saying, I shall call for you at seven to-morrow
morning; a friend of mine—one Banks of Globe Town—has a covered
spring-cart and a capital bit of horse-flesh. He will drive us to where
we have to go, in no time. So don't keep us waiting—as the vehicle will
be at the bottom of the lane by a quarter to seven."
The old hag promised to be punctual; and the Resurrection Man took his
departure from her den.