CHAPTER I. THE IDLE APPRENTICE.

JACK SHEPPARD

Volume I. (of III.)

A Romance

By W. Harrison Ainsworth

1839

_“Upon my word, friend,” said I, “you have almost made me

long to try what a robber I should make.” “There is a great

art in it, if you did,” quoth he. “Ah! but,” said I,

“there's a great deal in being hanged.”_

_Life and Actions of Guzman d'Alfarache._

[Illustration:008]

[Illustration:009]

ILLUSTRATIONS:

Portrait of the Author to face the Title

Mr. Wood offers to adopt little Jack Sheppard

Jonathan Wild discovers Darrell in the Loft

The Murder on the Thames

The Storm

The Name on the Beam

“May I be cursed if ever I try to be honest again”

Jack Sheppard exhibits a vindictive character

Jack Sheppard accuses Thames Darrell of Theft

EPOCH THE FIRST, 1703, JONATHAN WILD

CHAPTER I. THE WIDOW AND HER CHILD.

On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour

of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure

quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was

opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the

threshold. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired

in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a

very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching

to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with

round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver

buckles. He wore a three-cornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig,

and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. His clothes

had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with

the dust of the workshop. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly

the air of one well-to-do in the world. In stature, he was short and

stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed,

and demure.

Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken

woman, whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and

comfortable physiognomy. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff

gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem,

from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there

tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms

a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.

Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something

of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had

it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual

dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from

the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. She could not be

more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the

work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom

and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor

thinned her raven hair. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and

anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting

words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had

something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to

communicate.

“Well, good night, Mr. Wood,” said she, in the deep, hoarse accents

of consumption; “and may God Almighty bless and reward you for your

kindness! You were always the best of masters to my poor husband; and

now you've proved the best of friends to his widow and orphan boy.”

“Poh! poh! say no more about it,” rejoined the man hastily. “I've

done no more than my duty, Mrs. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor

desire your thanks. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;'

that's my comfort. And such slight relief as I can afford should have

been offered earlier, if I'd known where you'd taken refuge after

your unfortunate husband's--”

“Execution, you would say, Sir,” added Mrs. Sheppard, with a deep

sigh, perceiving that her benefactor hesitated to pronounce the word.

“You show more consideration to the feelings of a hempen widow, than

there is any need to show. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune,

and am grown callous to both; but I'm _not_ used to compassion, and

know not how to take it. My heart would speak if it could, for it

is very full. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would

have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity

like yours, Mr. Wood; but they never come now. I have never wept

since that day.”

“And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor

soul,” replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few

drops from his eyes, “unless it be tears of joy. Pshaw!” added he,

making an effort to subdue his emotion, “I can't leave you in this

way. I must stay a minute longer, if only to see you smile.”

So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed

by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips,

apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate.

The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and

miserable look. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the

boards of the floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare

walls were scored all over with grotesque designs, the chief of

which represented the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar. The rest were

hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. The

ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed;

and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered

with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. Over an old crazy

bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the

counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the

cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some

other articles of female attire. On a small shelf near the foot of

the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a

brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout,

a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled

“_Rosa Solis_.” Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be said

to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor

and filth.

Over the chimney-piece was pasted a handbill, purporting to be “_The

last Dying Speech and Confession of_ TOM SHEPPARD, _the Notorious

Housebreaker, who suffered at Tyburn on the 25th of February, 1703._”

This placard was adorned with a rude wood-cut, representing the

unhappy malefactor at the place of execution. On one side of the

handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned

over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen

eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the

queen. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint

George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait,

James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was

not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism.

Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall,

formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced

the words, “_Paul Groves, cobler;_” and under the name, traced in

charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate,

“_Hung himsel' in this rum for luv off licker;_” accompanied by

a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. A

farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon

the table, which, owing to the provident kindness of Mr. Wood, was

much better furnished with eatables than might have been expected,

and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a meat-pie, and a flask of

wine.

“You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Wood, glancing

round the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame.

“It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir,” rejoined the widow; “but, poor

as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets.”

“Of course--of course,” returned Wood, hastily; “anything's

better than that. But take a drop of wine,” urged he, filling a

drinking-horn and presenting it to her; “it's choice canary, and'll

do you good. And now, come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have

a little quiet chat together. When things are at the worst, they'll

mend. Take my word for it, your troubles are over.”

“I hope they are, Sir,” answered Mrs. Sheppard, with a faint smile

and a doubtful shake of the head, as Wood drew her to a seat beside

him, “for I've had my full share of misery. But I don't look for

peace on this side the grave.”

“Nonsense!” cried Wood; “while there's life there's hope. Never be

down-hearted. Besides,” added he, opening the shawl in which the

infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon

its sickly, but placid features, “it's sinful to repine while you've

a child like this to comfort you. Lord help him! he's the very image

of his father. Like carpenter, like chips.”

“That likeness is the chief cause of my misery,” replied the widow,

shuddering. “Were it not for that, he would indeed be a blessing and

a comfort to me. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do,

but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you

see him now. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how

like he is to his father,--when I think of that father's shameful

ending, and recollect how free from guilt _he_ once was,--at such

times, Mr. Wood, despair will come over me; and, dear as this babe is

to me, far dearer than my own wretched life, which I would lay down

for him any minute, I have prayed to Heaven to remove him, rather

than he should grow up to be a man, and be exposed to his father's

temptations--rather than he should live as wickedly and die as

disgracefully as his father. And, when I have seen him pining

away before my eyes, getting thinner and thinner every day, I have

sometimes thought my prayers were heard.”

“Marriage and hanging go by destiny,” observed Wood, after a pause;

“but I trust your child is reserved for a better fate than either,

Mrs. Sheppard.”

The latter part of this speech was delivered with so much

significance of manner, that a bystander might have inferred that

Mr. Wood was not particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial

connections.

“Goodness only knows what he's reserved for,” rejoined the widow in a

desponding tone; “but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night

at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in

his bed.”

“Save us!” exclaimed Wood. “And who is this Van Gal--Gal--what's his

outlandish name?”

“Van Galgebrok,” replied the widow. “He's the famous Dutch conjuror

who foretold King William's accident and death, last February but

one, a month before either event happened, and gave out that another

prince over the water would soon enjoy his own again; for which he

was committed to Newgate, and whipped at the cart's tail. He went by

another name then,--Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself.

His fellow-prisoners nicknamed him the gallows-provider, from a habit

he had of picking out all those who were destined to the gibbet. He

was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jail-fever

in consequence. He singled out my poor husband from a crowd of other

felons; and you know how right he was in that case, Sir.”

“Ay, marry,” replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did

not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination

to predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever

opinion he might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into

the grounds of the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant.

“What did the old fellow judge from, eh, Joan?” asked he.

“From a black mole under the child's right ear, shaped like a coffin,

which is a bad sign; and a deep line just above the middle of the

left thumb, meeting round about in the form of a noose, which is a

worse,” replied Mrs. Sheppard. “To be sure, it's not surprising

the poor little thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the

women-felons' ward in Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at

least such light as ever finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had

nothing, whether sleeping or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and

coffins, and such like horrible visions, for ever dancing round me!

And then, you know, Sir--but, perhaps, you don't know that little

Jack was born, a month before his time, on the very day his poor

father suffered.”

“Lord bless us!” ejaculated Wood, “how shocking! No, I did _not_ know

that.”

“You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir,”

urged the widow.

“See the devil!--not I,” cried Wood impatiently. “I didn't think

you'd been so easily fooled, Joan.”

“Fooled or not,” returned Mrs. Sheppard mysteriously, “old Van told

me _one_ thing which has come true already.”

“What's that?” asked Wood with some curiosity.

“He said, by way of comfort, I suppose, after the fright he gave

me at first, that the child would find a friend within twenty-four

hours, who would stand by him through life.”

“A friend is not so soon gained as lost,” replied Wood; “but how has

the prediction been fulfilled, Joan, eh?”

“I thought you would have guessed, Sir,” replied the widow, timidly.

“I'm sure little Jack has but one friend beside myself, in the world,

and that's more than I would have ventured to say for him yesterday.

However, I've not told you all; for old Van _did_ say something about

the child saving his new-found friend's life at the time of meeting;

but how that's to happen, I'm sure I can't guess.”

“Nor any one else in his senses,” rejoined Wood, with a laugh. “It's

not very likely that a babby of nine months old will save _my_ life,

if I'm to be his friend, as you seem to say, Mrs. Sheppard. But I've

not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an

honest lad,--mind that. Of all crafts,--and it was the only craft his

poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that

ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,--of all

crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. As long as

your son observes that precept I'll befriend him, but no longer.”

“I don't desire it, Sir,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, meekly.

“There's an old proverb,” continued Wood, rising and walking towards

the fire, “which says,--'Put another man's child in your bosom, and

he'll creep out at your elbow.' But I don't value that, because I

think it applies to one who marries a widow with encumbrances; and

that's not my case, you know.”

“Well, Sir,” gasped Mrs. Sheppard.

“Well, my dear, I've a proposal to make in regard to this babby of

yours, which may, or may not, be agreeable. All I can say is, it's

well meant; and I may add, I'd have made it five minutes ago, if

you'd given me the opportunity.”

[Illustration: 034]

“Pray come to the point, Sir,” said Mrs. Sheppard, somewhat alarmed

by this preamble.

“I _am_ coming to the point, Joan. The more haste, the worse

speed--better the feet slip than the tongue. However, to cut a

long matter short, my proposal's this:--I've taken a fancy to your

bantling, and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your

concurrence and that of Mrs. Wood, (for I never do anything without

consulting my better half,) I'll take the boy, educate him, and bring

him up to my own business of a carpenter.”

The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her

breast.

“Well, Joan,” said the benevolent mechanic, after he had looked at

her steadfastly for a few moments, “what say you?--silence gives

consent, eh?”

Mrs. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by

emotion.

“Shall I take the babby home with me!” persisted Wood, in a tone

between jest and earnest.

“I cannot part with him,” replied the widow, bursting into tears;

“indeed, indeed, I cannot.”

“So I've found out the way to move her,” thought the carpenter;

“those tears will do her some good, at all events. Not part with

him!” added he aloud. “Why you wouldn't stand in the way of his

good fortune _surely_? I'll be a second father to him, I tell you.

Remember what the conjuror said.”

“I _do_ remember it, Sir,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, “and am most

grateful for your offer. But I dare not accept it.”

“Dare not!” echoed the carpenter; “I don't understand you, Joan.”

“I mean to say, Sir,” answered Mrs. Sheppard in a troubled voice,

“that if I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world.

I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband--I have

only _him_.”

“If I ask you to part with him, my good woman, it's to better his

condition, I suppose, ain't it?” rejoined Wood angrily; for, though

he had no serious intention of carrying his proposal into effect,

he was rather offended at having it declined. “It's not an offer,”

continued he, “that I'm likely to make, or you're likely to receive

every day in the year.”

And muttering some remarks, which we do not care to repeat,

reflecting upon the consistency of the sex, he was preparing once

more to depart, when Mrs. Sheppard stopped him.

“Give me till to-morrow,” implored she, “and if I _can_ bring myself

to part with him, you shall have him without another word.”

“Take time to consider of it,” replied Wood sulkily, “there's no

hurry.”

“Don't be angry with me, Sir,” cried the widow, sobbing bitterly,

“pray don't. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were

to tell you what hardships I have undergone--to what frightful

extremities I have been reduced--and to what infamy I have submitted,

to earn a scanty subsistence for this child's sake,--if you could

feel what it is to stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all

who have ever loved me, and shunned by all who have ever known me,

except the worthless and the wretched,--if you knew (and Heaven grant

you may be spared the knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love,

and how much more dear to me my child has become for every sacrifice

I have made for him,--if you were told all this, you would, I am

sure, pity rather than reproach me, because I cannot at once consent

to a separation, which I feel would break my heart. But give me till

to-morrow--only till to-morrow--I may be able to part with him then.”

The worthy carpenter was now far more angry with himself than he had

previously been with Mrs. Sheppard; and, as soon as he could command

his feelings, which were considerably excited by the mention of her

distresses, he squeezed her hand warmly, bestowed a hearty execration

upon his own inhumanity, and swore he would neither separate her from

her child, nor suffer any one else to separate them.

“Plague on't!” added he: “I never meant to take your babby from you.

But I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you

pretended. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. However,

confession of a fault makes half amends for it. A time _may_ come

when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall

never want a friend in Owen Wood.”

As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object

of his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally

aroused him from his slumbers. Opening a pair of large black eyes,

the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed

by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however,

was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he

extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection.

“I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him,”

observed Mrs. Sheppard, smiling through her tears.

“I don't think he would,” acquiesced the carpenter. “No friend like

the mother, for the babby knows no other.”

“And that's true,” rejoined Mrs. Sheppard; “for if I had _not_ been a

mother, I would not have survived the day on which I became a widow.”

“You mustn't think of that, Mrs. Sheppard,” said Wood in a soothing

tone.

“I can't help thinking of it, Sir,” answered the widow. “I can

never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the

Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless

I manage to stupify myself somehow. The dismal tolling of St.

Sepulchre's bell is for ever ringing in my ears--oh!”

“If that's the case,” observed Wood, “I'm surprised you should like

to have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the

chimney-piece.”

“I'd good reasons for placing it there, Sir; but don't question

me about them now, or you'll drive me mad,” returned Mrs. Sheppard

wildly.

“Well, well, we'll say no more about it,” replied Wood; “and, by way

of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to

strong waters for consolation, Joan. One nail drives out another,

it's true; but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. Gin

Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard.”

“It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey,

I care not,” retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be

roused into sudden eloquence. “To those who, like me, have never been

able to get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is

indeed a refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. The spirit

I drink may be poison,--it may kill me,--perhaps it _is_ killing

me:--but so would hunger, cold, misery,--so would my own thoughts. I

should have gone mad without it. Gin is the poor man's friend,--his

sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. It comforts him when

he is most forlorn. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of

future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient.

When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with

curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows

from every gateway where I have sought shelter,--when I have crept

into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a

bulk, in the vain hope of repose,--or, worse than all, when, frenzied

with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal

in the only way I could earn one,--when I have felt, at times like

these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have

at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. Old thoughts, old

feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have

fancied myself happy,--as happy as I am now.” And she burst into a

wild hysterical laugh.

“Poor creature!” ejaculated Wood. “Do you call this frantic glee

happiness?”

“It's all the happiness I have known for years,” returned the

widow, becoming suddenly calm, “and it's short-lived enough, as you

perceive. I tell you what, Mr. Wood,” added she in a hollow voice,

and with a ghastly look, “gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty,

vice, and ill-usage exist, it will be drunk.”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Wood, fervently; and, as if afraid of

prolonging the interview, he added, with some precipitation, “But I

must be going: I've stayed here too long already. You shall hear from

me to-morrow.”

“Stay!” said Mrs. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. “I've just

recollected that my husband left a key with me, which he charged me

to give you when I could find an opportunity.”

“A key!” exclaimed Wood eagerly. “I lost a very valuable one some

time ago. What's it like, Joan?”

“It's a small key, with curiously-fashioned wards.”

“It's mine, I'll be sworn,” rejoined Wood. “Well, who'd have thought

of finding it in this unexpected way!”

“Don't be too sure till you see it,” said the widow. “Shall I fetch

it for you, Sir?”

“By all means.”

“I must trouble you to hold the child, then, for a minute, while I

run up to the garret, where I've hidden it for safety,” said Mrs.

Sheppard. “I think I _may_ trust him with you, Sir,” added she,

taking up the candle.

“Don't leave him, if you're at all fearful, my dear,” replied Wood,

receiving the little burthen with a laugh. “Poor thing!” muttered

he, as the widow departed on her errand, “she's seen better days and

better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. Strange, I

could never learn her history. Tom Sheppard was always a close file,

and would never tell whom he married. Of this I'm certain, however,

she was much too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman

carpenter's wife, still less what is she now. Her heart's in the

right place, at all events; and, since that's the case, the rest

may perhaps come round,--that is, if she gets through her present

illness. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. If that's true, she's

not long for this world. As to this little fellow, in spite of the

Dutchman, who, in my opinion, is more of a Jacobite than a conjurer,

and more of a knave than either, he shall never mount a horse foaled

by an acorn, if I can help it.”

The course of the carpenter's meditations was here interrupted by

a loud note of lamentation from the child, who, disturbed by the

transfer, and not receiving the gentle solace to which he was

ordinarily accustomed, raised his voice to the utmost, and exerted

his feeble strength to escape. For a few moments Mr. Wood dandled his

little charge to and fro, after the most approved nursery fashion,

essaying at the same time the soothing influence of an infantine

melody proper to the occasion; but, failing in his design, he soon

lost all patience, and being, as we have before hinted, rather

irritable, though extremely well-meaning, he lifted the unhappy

bantling in the air, and shook him with so much good will, that he

had well-nigh silenced him most effectually. A brief calm succeeded.

But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the

carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of

scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out.

CHAPTER II. THE OLD MINT.

Mrs. Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings,

called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part

lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and

along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and

neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. The

neighbouring houses were tenanted by the lowest order of insolvent

traders, thieves, mendicants, and other worthless and nefarious

characters, who fled thither to escape from their creditors, or to

avoid the punishment due to their different offenses; for we may

observe that the Old Mint, although it had been divested of some of

its privileges as a sanctuary by a recent statute passed in the reign

of William the Third, still presented a safe asylum to the debtor,

and even continued to do so until the middle of the reign of George

the First, when the crying nature of the evil called loudly for a

remedy, and another and more sweeping enactment entirely took away

its immunities. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to

dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the

Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative)

the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis.

Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was,

perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and

the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. And yet,

on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we

have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the

fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn--on this

spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles

Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well

of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. Suffolk

House, as Brandon's palace was denominated, was subsequently

converted into a mint by his royal brother-in-law, Henry the Eighth;

and, after its demolition, and the removal of the place of coinage to

the Tower, the name was still continued to the district in which it

had been situated.

Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of

desolation and misery. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived.

The roof was partially untiled; the chimneys were tottering; the

side-walls bulged, and were supported by a piece of timber propped

against the opposite house; the glass in most of the windows was

broken, and its place supplied with paper; while, in some cases, the

very frames of the windows had been destroyed, and the apertures were

left free to the airs of heaven. On the groundfloor the shutters

were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and

presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with

the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops,

the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul

Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded.

It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs.

Sheppard was enabled to take possession of the premises. In a fit of

despondency, superinduced by drunkenness, he made away with himself;

and when the body was discovered, after a lapse of some months,

such was the impression produced by the spectacle--such the alarm

occasioned by the crazy state of the building, and, above all, by

the terror inspired by strange and unearthly noises heard during

the night, which were, of course, attributed to the spirit of the

suicide, that the place speedily enjoyed the reputation of being

haunted, and was, consequently, entirely abandoned. In this state

Mrs. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed her, she at once took

up her abode there; nor was she long in discovering that the dreaded

sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols of a legion of rats.

A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main

thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse,

stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return.

As Mrs. Sheppard did not make her appearance quite so soon as

he expected, the carpenter became a little fidgetty, and, having

succeeded in tranquillizing the child, he thought proper to walk

so far down the entry as would enable him to reconnoitre the upper

windows of the house. A light was visible in the garret, feebly

struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and

overcast. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at

one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another

shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the

casement. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he

recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if

she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a

loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance,

had fallen upon the floor.

Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his

attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the

swiftness of desperation. This individual apparently met with some

impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many

steps when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in

which Wood stood.

Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations,--for he was completely

out of breath,--the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the

carpenter, and, regardless of the consternation he excited in the

breast of that personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment,

he began to divest himself of a heavy horseman's cloak, which he

threw over Wood's shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen

intently for the approach of his pursuers.

The appearance of the new-comer was extremely prepossessing; and,

after his trepidation had a little subsided, Wood began to regard him

with some degree of interest. Evidently in the flower of his age,

he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than

for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and

unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to

the higher ranks of society. His figure was tall and commanding, and

the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his

recent exertion) was resolute and stern.

At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered

by the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs

as Wood altered the position of the bundle. The stranger turned his

head at the sound.

“By Heaven!” cried he in a tone of surprise, “you have an infant

there?”

“To be sure I have,” replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the

intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned,

he thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit.

“It's very well you haven't crushed the poor little thing to

death with this confounded clothes'-bag. But some people have no

consideration.”

“That child may be the means of saving me,” muttered the stranger, as

if struck by a new idea: “I shall gain time by the expedient. Do you

live here?”

“Not exactly,” answered the carpenter.

“No matter. The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to

enter. Ha!” exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations

resounded at no great distance along the thoroughfare, “not a moment

is to be lost. Give me that precious charge,” he added, snatching the

bundle from Wood. “If I escape, I will reward you. Your name?”

“Owen Wood,” replied the carpenter; “I've no reason to be ashamed of

it. And now, a fair exchange, Sir. Yours?”

The stranger hesitated. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen

flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring

houses.

“My name is Darrell,” said the fugitive hastily. “But, if you

are discovered, answer no questions, as you value your life. Wrap

yourself in my cloak, and keep it. Remember! not a word!”

So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood's shoulders, dashed

the lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light. A moment

afterwards, the door was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found

himself alone.

“Mercy on us!” cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his

frame. “The Dutchman was right, after all.”

This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a

pistol was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears.

“I have him!” cried a voice in triumph.

A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter

by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. This person

was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried

flambeaux.

“Mur--der!” roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his

assailant, by whom he was half strangled.

“Damnation!” exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious

tone, snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light

full upon the face of the carpenter; “this is not the villain, Sir

Cecil.”

“So I find, Rowland,” replied the other, in accents of deep

disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp. “I

could have sworn I saw him enter this passage. And how comes his

cloak on this knave's shoulders?”

“It is his cloak, of a surety,” returned Rowland “Harkye, sirrah,”

continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; “where is the person from

whom you received this mantle?”

“Throttling a man isn't the way to make him answer questions,”

replied the carpenter, doggedly. “You'll get nothing out of me, I can

promise you, unless you show a little more civility.”

“We waste time with this fellow,” interposed Sir Cecil, “and may lose

the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this

building. Let us search it.”

Just then, the infant began to sob piteously.

“Hist!” cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. “Do you hear that! We

are not wholly at fault. The dog-fox cannot be far off, since the cub

is found.”

With these words, he tore the mantle from Wood's back, and,

perceiving the child, endeavoured to seize it. In this attempt he

was, however, foiled by the agility of the carpenter, who managed to

retreat to the door, against which he placed his back, kicking the

boards vigorously with his heel.

“Joan! Joan!” vociferated he, “open the door, for God's sake, or I

shall be murdered, and so will your babby! Open the door quickly, I

say.”

“Knock him on the head,” thundered Sir Cecil, “or we shall have the

watch upon us.”

“No fear of that,” rejoined Rowland: “such vermin never dare to show

themselves in this privileged district. All we have to apprehend is a

rescue.”

The hint was not lost upon Wood. He tried to raise an outcry, but his

throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland.

“Another such attempt,” said the latter, “and you are a dead man.

Yield up the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested.”

“I will yield it to no one but its mother,” answered Wood.

“'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?” cried Rowland fiercely.

“Give me the child, or--”

As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Sheppard staggered

forward. She looked paler than ever; but her countenance, though

bewildered, did not exhibit the alarm which might naturally have been

anticipated from the strange and perplexing scene presented to her

view.

“Take it,” cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; “take it, and

fly.”

Mrs. Sheppard put out her arms mechanically. But before the child

could be committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by

Rowland.

“These people are all in league with him,” cried the latter. “But

don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. Enter the house with your men. I'll

dispose of the brat.”

This injunction was instantly obeyed. The knight and his followers

crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them.

“Davies,” said Rowland, delivering the babe, with a meaning look, to

his attendant.

“I understand, Sir,” replied Davies, drawing a little aside. And,

setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat.

“My God! will you see your child strangled before your eyes, and not

so much as scream for help?” said Wood, staring at the widow with a

look of surprise and horror. “Woman, your wits are fled!”

And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur

distractedly, “I can't find the key.”

“Devil take the key!” ejaculated Wood. “They're about to murder your

child--_your_ child, I tell you! Do you comprehend what I say, Joan?”

“I've hurt my head,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her

temples.

And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood

coursing slowly down her cheek.

At this moment, Davies, who had completed his preparations,

extinguished the torch.

“It's all over,” groaned Wood, “and perhaps it's as well her senses

are gone. However, I'll make a last effort to save the poor little

creature, if it costs me my life.”

And, with this generous resolve, he shouted at the top of his voice,

“Arrest! arrest! help! help!” seconding the words with a shrill

and peculiar cry, well known at the time to the inhabitants of the

quarter in which it was uttered.

In reply to this summons a horn was instantly blown at the corner of

the street.

“Arrest!” vociferated Wood. “Mint! Mint!”

“Death and hell!” cried Rowland, making a furious pass at the

carpenter, who fortunately avoided the thrust in the darkness; “will

nothing silence you?”

“Help!” ejaculated Wood, renewing his cries. “Arrest!”

“Jigger closed!” shouted a hoarse voice in reply. “All's bowman, my

covey. Fear nothing. We'll be upon the ban-dogs before they can shake

their trotters!”

And the alarm was sounded more loudly than ever.

Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the

thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a

fourth, and more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. The whole

neighbourhood was disturbed. A garrison called to arms at dead of

night on the sudden approach of the enemy, could not have been more

expeditiously, or effectually aroused. Rattles were sprung; lanterns

lighted, and hoisted at the end of poles; windows thrown open; doors

unbarred; and, as if by magic, the street was instantaneously filled

with a crowd of persons of both sexes, armed with such weapons as

came most readily to hand, and dressed in such garments as could be

most easily slipped on. Hurrying in the direction of the supposed

arrest, they encouraged each other with shouts, and threatened the

offending parties with their vengeance.

Regardless as the gentry of the Mint usually were (for, indeed, they

had become habituated from their frequent occurrence to such scenes,)

of any outrages committed in their streets; deaf, as they had been,

to the recent scuffle before Mrs. Sheppard's door, they were always

sufficiently on the alert to maintain their privileges, and to assist

each other against the attacks of their common enemy--the sheriff's

officer. It was only by the adoption of such a course (especially

since the late act of suppression, to which we have alluded,) that

the inviolability of the asylum could be preserved. Incursions were

often made upon its territories by the functionaries of the

law; sometimes attended with success, but more frequently with

discomfiture; and it rarely happened, unless by stratagem or bribery,

that (in the language of the gentlemen of the short staff) an

important caption could be effected. In order to guard against

accidents or surprises, watchmen, or scouts, (as they were styled,)

were stationed at the three main outlets of the sanctuary ready to

give the signal in the manner just described: bars were erected,

which, in case of emergency; could be immediately stretched across

the streets: doors were attached to the alleys; and were never opened

without due precautions; gates were affixed to the courts, wickets to

the gates, and bolts to the wickets. The back windows of the

houses (where any such existed) were strongly barricaded, and kept

constantly shut; and the fortress was, furthermore, defended by

high walls and deep ditches in those quarters where it appeared most

exposed. There was also a Maze, (the name is still retained in

the district,) into which the debtor could run, and through the

intricacies of which it was impossible for an officer to follow him,

without a clue. Whoever chose to incur the risk of so doing might

enter the Mint at any hour; but no one was suffered to depart without

giving a satisfactory account of himself, or producing a pass from

the Master. In short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise

was resorted to by this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from

danger or molestation. Whitefriars had lost its privileges; Salisbury

Court and the Savoy no longer offered places of refuge to the debtor;

and it was, therefore, doubly requisite that the Island of Bermuda

(as the Mint was termed by its occupants) should uphold its rights,

as long as it was able to do so.

Mr. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. Aware that not a moment

was to be lost, if he meant to render any effectual assistance to the

child, he ceased shouting, and defending himself in the best way he

could from the attacks of Rowland, by whom he was closely pressed,

forced his way, in spite of all opposition, to Davies, and dealt him

a blow on the head with such good will that, had it not been for

the intervention of the wall, the ruffian must have been prostrated.

Before he could recover from the stunning effects of the blow, Wood

possessed himself of the child: and, untying the noose which had

been slipped round its throat, had the satisfaction of hearing it cry

lustily.

At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the

threshold.

“He has escaped!” exclaimed the knight; “we have searched every

corner of the house without finding a trace of him.”

“Back!” cried Rowland. “Don't you hear those shouts? Yon fellow's

clamour has brought the whole horde of jail-birds and cut-throats

that infest this place about our ears. We shall be torn in pieces if

we are discovered. Davies!” he added, calling to the attendant, who

was menacing Wood with a severe retaliation, “don't heed him; but,

if you value a whole skin, come into the house, and bring that woman

with you. She may afford us some necessary information.”

Davies reluctantly complied. And, dragging Mrs. Sheppard, who made no

resistance, along with him, entered the house, the door of which was

instantly shut and barricaded.

A moment afterwards, the street was illumined by a blaze of

torchlight, and a tumultuous uproar, mixed with the clashing of

weapons, and the braying of horns, announced the arrival of the first

detachment of Minters.

Mr. Wood rushed instantly to meet them.

“Hurrah!” shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head.

“Saved!”

“Ay, ay, it's all bob, my covey! You're safe enough, that's certain!”

responded the Minters, baying, yelping, leaping, and howling around

him like a pack of hounds when the huntsman is beating cover; “but,

where are the lurchers?”

“Who?” asked Wood.

“The traps!” responded a bystander.

“The shoulder-clappers!” added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join

the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether

habiliments for her own petticoats.

“The ban-dogs!” thundered a tall man, whose stature and former

avocations had procured him the nickname of “The long drover of the

Borough market.”

“Where are they?”

“Ay, where are they?” chorussed the mob, flourishing their various

weapons, and flashing their torches in the air; “we'll starve 'em

out.”

Mr. Wood trembled. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be

very difficult, if not impossible, to allay. He knew not what to say,

or what to do; and his confusion was increased by the threatening

gestures and furious looks of the ruffians in his immediate vicinity.

“I don't understand you, gentlemen,” stammered he, at length.

“What does he say?” roared the long drover.

“He says he don't understand flash,” replied the lady in gentleman's

attire.

“Cease your confounded clutter!” said a young man, whose swarthy

visage, seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a

Mulatto. “You frighten the cull out of his senses. It's plain he

don't understand our lingo; as, how should he? Take pattern by me;”

and as he said this he strode up to the carpenter, and, slapping him

on the shoulder, propounded the following questions, accompanying

each interrogation with a formidable contortion of countenance.

“Curse you! Where are the bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your

tongue? Devil seize you! you could bawl loud enough a moment ago!”

“Silence, Blueskin!” interposed an authoritative voice, immediately

behind the ruffian. “Let me have a word with the cull!”

“Ay! ay!” cried several of the bystanders, “let Jonathan kimbaw the

cove. He's got the gift of the gab.”

The crowd accordingly drew aside, and the individual, in whose behalf

the movement had been made immediately stepped forward. He was a

young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything

remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable

person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading

his countenance. His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as

sly-looking as those of a fox. A physiognomist, indeed, would have

likened him to that crafty animal, and it must be owned the general

formation of his features favoured such a comparison. The nose was

long and sharp, the chin pointed, the forehead broad and flat, and

connected, without any intervening hollow, with the eyelid; the teeth

when displayed, seemed to reach from ear to ear. Then his beard was

of a reddish hue, and his complexion warm and sanguine. Those who had

seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. But

this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary

vigilance. Certain it was, that the slightest sound aroused him.

This astute personage was somewhat under the middle size, but

fairly proportioned, inclining rather to strength than symmetry, and

abounding more in muscle than in flesh.

It would seem, from the attention which he evidently bestowed upon

the hidden and complex machinery of the grand system of villany at

work around him, that his chief object in taking up his quarters

in the Mint, must have been to obtain some private information

respecting the habits and practices of its inhabitants, to be turned

to account hereafter.

Advancing towards Wood, Jonathan fixed his keen gray eyes upon him,

and demanded, in a stern tone whether the persons who had taken

refuge in the adjoining house, were bailiffs.

“Not that I know of,” replied the carpenter, who had in some degree

recovered his confidence.

“Then I presume you've not been arrested?”

“I have not,” answered Wood firmly.

“I guessed as much. Perhaps you'll next inform us why you have

occasioned this disturbance.”

“Because this child's life was threatened by the persons you have

mentioned,” rejoined Wood.

“An excellent reason, i' faith!” exclaimed Blueskin, with a roar of

surprise and indignation, which was echoed by the whole assemblage.

“And so we're to be summoned from our beds and snug firesides,

because a kid happens to squall, eh? By the soul of my grandmother,

but this is too good!”

“Do you intend to claim the privileges of the Mint?” said Jonathan,

calmly pursuing his interrogations amid the uproar. “Is your person

in danger?”

“Not from my creditors,” replied Wood, significantly.

“Will he post the cole? Will he come down with the dues? Ask him

that?” cried Blueskin.

“You hear,” pursued Jonathan; “my friend desires to know if you

are willing to pay your footing as a member of the ancient and

respectable fraternity of debtors?”

“I owe no man a farthing, and my name shall never appear in any such

rascally list,” replied Wood angrily. “I don't see why I should be

obliged to pay for doing my duty. I tell you this child would have

been strangled. The noose was at its throat when I called for help.

I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse

to stratagem.”

“Well, Sir, I must say you deserve some credit for your ingenuity, at

all events,” replied Jonathan, repressing a smile; “but, before you

put out your foot so far, it would have been quite as prudent to

consider how you were to draw it back again. For my own part, I don't

see in what way it is to be accomplished, except by the payment

of our customary fees. Do not imagine you can at one moment

avail yourself of our excellent regulations (with which you seem

sufficiently well acquainted), and the next break them with impunity.

If you assume the character of a debtor for your own convenience,

you must be content to maintain it for ours. If you have not been

arrested, we have been disturbed; and it is but just and reasonable

you should pay for occasioning such disturbance. By your own showing

you are in easy circumstances,--for it is only natural to

presume that a man who owes nothing must be in a condition to pay

liberally,--and you cannot therefore feel the loss of such a trifle

as ten guineas.”

However illogical and inconclusive these arguments might appear to

Mr. Wood, and however he might dissent from the latter proposition,

he did not deem it expedient to make any reply; and the orator

proceeded with his harangue amid the general applause of the

assemblage.

“I am perhaps exceeding my authority in demanding so slight a sum,”

continued Jonathan, modestly, “and the Master of the Mint may not be

disposed to let you off so lightly. He will be here in a moment or

so, and you will then learn his determination. In the mean time, let

me advise you as a friend not to irritate him by a refusal, which

would be as useless as vexatious. He has a very summary mode of

dealing with refractory persons, I assure you. My best endeavours

shall be used to bring you off, on the easy terms I have mentioned.”

“Do you call ten guineas easy terms?” cried Wood, with a look of

dismay. “Why, I should expect to purchase the entire freehold of the

Mint for less money.”

“Many a man has been glad to pay double the amount to get his head

from under the Mint pump,” observed Blueskin, gruffly.

“Let the gentleman take his own course,” said Jonathan, mildly. “I

should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment

might disapprove.”

“Exactly my sentiments,” rejoined Blueskin. “I wouldn't force him

for the world: but if he don't tip the stivers, may I be cursed if he

don't get a taste of the _aqua pompaginis_. Let's have a look at the

kinchen that _ought_ to have been throttled,” added he, snatching the

child from Wood. “My stars! here's a pretty lullaby-cheat to make a

fuss about--ho! ho!”

“Deal with me as you think proper, gentlemen,” exclaimed Wood;

“but, for mercy's sake don't harm the child! Let it be taken to its

mother.”

“And who is its mother?” asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper. “Tell

me frankly, and speak under your breath. Your own safety--the child's

safety--depends upon your candour.”

While Mr. Wood underwent this examination, Blueskin felt a small

and trembling hand placed upon his own, and, turning at the summons,

beheld a young female, whose features were partially concealed by a

loo, or half mask, standing beside him. Coarse as were the ruffian's

notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the

surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited

his attention. Her figure was, in some measure, hidden by a large

scarf, and a deep hood drawn over the head contributed to her

disguise; still it was evident, from her lofty bearing, that she had

nothing in common, except an interest in their proceedings, with the

crew by whom she was surrounded.

Whence she came,--who she was,--and what she wanted,--were questions

which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about

to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a

gesture of silence from the lady.

“Hush!” said she, in a low, but agitated voice; “would you earn this

purse?”

“I've no objection,” replied Blueskin, in a tone intended to be

gentle, but which sounded like the murmuring whine of a playful bear.

“How much is there in it!”

“It contains gold,” replied the lady; “but I will add this ring.”

“What am I to do to earn it?” asked Blueskin, with a disgusting

leer,--“cut a throat--or throw myself at your feet--eh, my dear?”

“Give me that child,” returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming

the loathing inspired by the ruffian's familiarity.

“Oh! I see!” replied Blueskin, winking significantly, “Come nearer,

or they'll observe us. Don't be afraid--I won't hurt you. I'm always

agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse

into my hand. Bravo!--the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have

done it better. And now for the fawney--the ring I mean. I'm no great

judge of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to

palm off paste upon me.”

“It is a diamond,” said the lady, in an agony of distress,--“the

child!”

“A diamond! Here, take the kid,” cried Blueskin, slipping the infant

adroitly under her scarf. “And so this is a diamond,” added he,

contemplating the brilliant from the hollow of his hand: “it does

sparkle almost as brightly as your ogles. By the by, my dear, I

forgot to ask your name--perhaps you'll oblige me with it now? Hell

and the devil!--gone!”

He looked around in vain. The lady had disappeared.

CHAPTER III. THE MASTER OF THE MINT.

Jonathan, meanwhile, having ascertained the parentage of the child

from Wood, proceeded to question him in an under tone, as to the

probable motives of the attempt upon its life; and, though he failed

in obtaining any information on this point, he had little difficulty

in eliciting such particulars of the mysterious transaction as have

already been recounted. When the carpenter concluded his recital,

Jonathan was for a moment lost in reflection.

“Devilish strange!” thought he, chuckling to himself; “queer

business! Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another

person's brat stand the brunt for his own--capital! ha! ha! Won't

do, though. He must be a sly fox to get out of the Mint without my

knowledge. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll

ferret him out. These bloods will pay well for his capture; if

not, _he'll_ pay well to get out of their hands; so I'm safe either

way--ha! ha! Blueskin,” he added aloud, and motioning that worthy,

“follow me.”

Upon which, he set off in the direction of the entry. His progress,

however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of

the Master of the Mint and his train.

Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a “goodly portly

man, and a corpulent,” whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection

he entertained for good liquor and good living. He had a quick,

shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled

by good humour. It was easy to discover that he was a knave, but

equally easy to perceive that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination

of qualities by no means of rare occurrence. So far as regards his

attire, Baptist was not seen to advantage. No great lover of state or

state costume at any time, he was generally, towards the close of

an evening, completely in dishabille, and in this condition he now

presented himself to his subjects. His shirt was unfastened, his vest

unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of

pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head

into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a

gold-edged hat. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the

apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like

a rolling-pin.

The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost

as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements.

The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have

passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of

his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. It consisted of a

close jerkin of brown frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass

buttons; loose Dutch slops, made very wide in the seat and very tight

at the knees; red stockings with black clocks, and a fur cap. The

owner of this dress had a broad weather-beaten face, small twinkling

eyes, and a bushy, grizzled beard. Though he walked by the side

of the governor, he seldom exchanged a word with him, but appeared

wholly absorbed in the contemplations inspired by a broadbowled Dutch

pipe.

Behind the illustrious personages just described marched a troop of

stalwart fellows, with white badges in their hats, quarterstaves,

oaken cudgels, and links in their hands. These were the Master's

body-guard.

Advancing towards the Master, and claiming an audience, which was

instantly granted, Jonathan, without much circumlocution, related

the sum of the strange story he had just learnt from Wood, omitting

nothing except a few trifling particulars, which he thought it

politic to keep back; and, with this view, he said not a word of

there being any probability of capturing the fugitive, but, on the

contrary, roundly asserted that his informant had witnessed that

person's escape.

The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and,

at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the

side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at

his phlegmatic companion. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in

reply, coughed as only a Dutchman _can_ cough, and raising his hand

from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious

ceremonial as the Master.

Putting his own construction upon this mute interchange of opinions,

Jonathan ventured to observe, that it certainly was a very perplexing

case, but that he thought something _might_ be made of it, and, if

left to him, he would undertake to manage the matter to the Master's

entire satisfaction.

“Ja, ja, Muntmeester,” said the Dutchman, removing the pipe from his

mouth, and speaking in a deep and guttural voice, “leave the affair

to Johannes. He'll settle it bravely. And let ush go back to our

brandewyn, and hollandsche genever. Dese ere not schouts, as you

faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow

Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving

it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its

laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. Myn

Got! hanging runs in some families, Muntmeester. It's hereditary,

like de jigt, vat you call it--gout--haw! haw!”

“If the child _is_ destined to the gibbet, Van Galgebrok,” replied

the Master, joining in the laugh, “it'll never be choked by a

footman's cravat, that's certain; but, in regard to going back

empty-handed,” continued he, altering his tone, and assuming

a dignified air, “it's quite out of the question. With Baptist

Kettleby, to engage in a matter is to go through with it. Besides,

this is an affair which no one but myself can settle. Common offences

may be decided upon by deputy; but outrages perpetrated by men of

rank, as these appear to be, must be judged by the Master of the Mint

in person. These are the decrees of the Island of Bermuda, and I

will never suffer its excellent laws to be violated. Gentlemen of the

Mint,” added he, pointing with his truncheon towards Mrs. Sheppard's

house, “forward!”

“Hurrah!” shouted the mob, and the whole phalanx was put in motion

in that direction. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding

from cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and

cat-gut, with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and,

enlivened by this harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its

destination in the best possible spirits for an encounter.

“Let us in,” said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively

against the boards, “or we'll force an entrance.”

But as no answer was returned to the summons, though it was again,

and more peremptorily, repeated, Baptist seized a mallet from a

bystander and burst open the door. Followed by Van Galgebrok and

others of his retinue, he then rushed into the room, where Rowland,

Sir Cecil, and their attendants, stood with drawn swords prepared to

receive them.

“Beat down their blades,” cried the Master; “no bloodshed.”

“Beat out their brains, you mean,” rejoined Blueskin with a

tremendous imprecation; “no half measures now, Master.”

“Hadn't you better hold a moment's parley with the gentlemen before

proceeding to extremities?” suggested Jonathan.

“Agreed,” responded the Master. “Surely,” he added, staring at

Rowland, “either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is--”

“You are not mistaken, Baptist,” returned Rowland with a gesture of

silence; “it is your old friend. I'm glad to recognise you.”

“And I'm glad your worship's recognition doesn't come too late,”

observed the Master. “But why didn't you make yourself known at

once?”

“I'd forgotten the office you hold in the Mint, Baptist,” replied

Rowland. “But clear the room of this rabble, if you have sufficient

authority over them. I would speak with you.”

“There's but one way of clearing it, your worship,” said the Master,

archly.

“I understand,” replied Rowland. “Give them what you please. I'll

repay you.”

“It's all right, pals,” cried Baptist, in a loud tone; “the gentlemen

and I have settled matters. No more scuffling.”

“What's the meaning of all this?” demanded Sir Cecil. “How have you

contrived to still these troubled waters?”

“I've chanced upon an old ally in the Master of the Mint,” answered

Rowland. “We may trust him,” he added in a whisper; “he is a staunch

friend of the good cause.”

“Blueskin, clear the room,” cried the Master; “these gentlemen would

be private. They've _paid_ for their lodging. Where's Jonathan?”

Inquiries were instantly made after that individual, but he was

nowhere to be found.

“Strange!” observed the Master; “I thought he'd been at my elbow all

this time. But it don't much matter--though he's a devilish shrewd

fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any

occurred. Hark ye, Blueskin,” continued he, addressing that

personage, who, in obedience to his commands, had, with great

promptitude, driven out the rabble, and again secured the door, “a

word in your ear. What female entered the house with us?”

“Blood and thunder!” exclaimed Blueskin, afraid, if he admitted

having seen the lady, of being compelled to divide the plunder he

had obtained from her among his companions, “how should I know? D'ye

suppose I'm always thinking of the petticoats? I observed no female;

but if any one _did_ join the assault, it must have been either

Amazonian Kate, or Fighting Moll.”

“The woman I mean did not join the assault,” rejoined the Master,

“but rather seemed to shun observation; and, from the hasty glimpse I

caught of her, she appeared to have a child in her arms.”

“Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard,” answered Blueskin,

sulkily.

“Right,” said the Master, “I didn't think of her. And now I've

another job for you.”

“Propose it,” returned Blueskin, inclining his head.

“Square accounts with the rascal who got up the sham arrest; and, if

he don't tip the cole without more ado, give him a taste of the pump,

that's all.”

“He shall go through the whole course,” replied Blueskin, with a

ferocious grin, “unless he comes down to the last grig. We'll lather

him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with

_aqua pompaginis_. Master, your humble servant.--Gentlemen, your most

obsequious trout.”

Having effected his object, which was to get rid of Blueskin, Baptist

turned to Rowland and Sir Cecil, who had watched his proceedings with

much impatience, and remarked, “Now, gentlemen, the coast's clear;

we've nothing to interrupt us. I'm entirely at your service.”

CHAPTER IV. THE ROOF AND THE WINDOW.

Leaving them to pursue their conference, we shall follow the

footsteps of Jonathan, who, as the Master surmised, and, as we have

intimated, had unquestionably entered the house. But at the beginning

of the affray, when he thought every one was too much occupied with

his own concerns to remark his absence, he slipped out of the room,

not for the purpose of avoiding the engagement (for cowardice was

not one of his failings), but because he had another object in view.

Creeping stealthily up stairs, unmasking a dark lantern, and glancing

into each room as he passed, he was startled in one of them by the

appearance of Mrs. Sheppard, who seemed to be crouching upon the

floor. Satisfied, however, that she did not notice him, Jonathan

glided away as noiselessly as he came, and ascended another short

flight of stairs leading to the garret. As he crossed this chamber,

his foot struck against something on the floor, which nearly threw

him down, and stooping to examine the object, he found it was a key.

“Never throw away a chance,” thought Jonathan. “Who knows but this

key may open a golden lock one of these days?” And, picking it up, he

thrust it into his pocket.

Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to

pass through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the

floor, which appeared to have been recently dislodged. “He _has_

passed this way,” cried Jonathan, exultingly; “I have him safe

enough.” He then closed the lantern, mounted without much difficulty

upon the roof, and proceeded cautiously along the tiles.

The night was now profoundly dark. Jonathan had to feel his way. A

single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if

he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen

through it. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches

were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the

building. The venturous climber gazed for a moment at the assemblage

beneath, to ascertain that he was not discovered; and, having

satisfied himself in this particular, he stepped out more boldly. On

gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a

pause, and again unmasked his lantern. Nothing, however, could be

discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. “Confusion!” ejaculated

Jonathan: “can he have escaped? No. The walls are too high, and

the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a

supposition. He can't be far off. I shall find him yet. Ah! I have

it,” he added, after a moment's deliberation; “he's there, I'll be

sworn.” And, once more enveloping himself in darkness, he pursued his

course.

He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof,

approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story

loftier than its neighbours. Apparently, Jonathan was well acquainted

with the premises; for, feeling about in the dark, he speedily

discovered a ladder, up the steps of which he hurried. Drawing a

pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he

then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft.

The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude

of defence, with the child in his arms.

[Illustration: 093]

“Aha!” exclaimed Jonathan, acting upon the information he had

obtained from Wood; “I have found you at last. Your servant, Mr.

Darrell.”

“Who are you!” demanded the fugitive, sternly.

“A friend,” replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in

his pocket.

“How do I know you are a friend?” asked Darrell.

“What should I do here alone if I were an enemy? But, come, don't let

us waste time in bandying words, when we might employ it so much more

profitably. Your life, and that of your child, are in my power. What

will you give me to save you from your pursuers?”

“_Can_ you do so?” asked the other, doubtfully.

“I can, and will. Now, the reward?”

“I have but an ill-furnished purse. But if I escape, my gratitude--”

“Pshaw!” interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. “Your gratitude will

vanish with your danger. Pay fools with promises. I must have

something in hand.”

“You shall have all I have about me,” replied Darrell.

“Well--well,” grumbled Jonathan, “I suppose I must be content.

An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run.

However, come along. I needn't tell you to tread carefully. You know

the danger of this breakneck road as well as I do. The light would

betray us.” So saying, he closed the lantern.

“Harkye, Sir,” rejoined Darrell; “one word before I move. I know not

who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you

an injustice. But there is something in your voice that makes me

distrust you. If you attempt to play the traitor, you will do so at

the hazard of your life.”

“I have already hazarded my life in this attempt to save you,”

returned Jonathan boldly, and with apparent frankness; “this ought

to be sufficient answer to your doubts. Your pursuers are below. What

was to hinder me, if I had been so inclined, from directing them to

your retreat?”

“Enough,” replied Darrell. “Lead on!”

Followed by Darrell, Jonathan retraced his dangerous path. As

he approached the gable of Mrs. Sheppard's house, loud yells and

vociferations reached his ears; and, looking downwards, he perceived

a great stir amid the mob. The cause of this uproar was soon

manifest. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump.

The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. His

hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. His shouts for

help were answered by roars of mockery and laughter. He continued

alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until

he was borne out of sight. The spectacle seemed to afford as much

amusement to Jonathan as to the actors engaged in it. He could not

contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with

delight.

“By Heaven!” cried Darrell, “it is the poor fellow whom I placed in

such jeopardy a short time ago. I am the cause of his ill-usage.”

“To be sure you are,” replied Jonathan, laughing. “But, what of that?

It'll be a lesson to him in future, and will show him the folly of

doing a good-natured action!”

But perceiving that his companion did not relish his pleasantry and

fearing that his sympathy for the carpenter's situation might betray

him into some act of imprudence, Jonathan, without further remark,

and by way of putting an end to the discussion, let himself drop

through the roof. His example was followed by Darrell. But, though

the latter was somewhat embarrassed by his burthen, he peremptorily

declined Jonathan's offer of assistance. Both, however, having safely

landed, they cautiously crossed the room, and passed down the first

flight of steps in silence. At this moment, a door was opened below;

lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil

were distinguished at the foot of the stairs.

Darrell stopped, and drew his sword.

“You have betrayed me,” said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion;

“but you shall reap the reward of your treachery.”

“Be still!” returned Jonathan, in the same under tone, and with great

self-possession: “I can yet save you. And see!” he added, as the

figures drew back, and the lights disappeared; “it's a false alarm.

They have retired. However, not a moment is to be lost. Give me your

hand.”

He then hurried Darrell down another short flight of steps, and

entered a small chamber at the back of the house. Closing the door,

Jonathan next produced his lantern, and, hastening towards the

window, undrew a bolt by which it was fastened. A stout wooden

shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron

bars. This obstacle, which appeared to preclude the possibility of

egress in that quarter, was speedily got rid of. Withdrawing another

bolt, and unhooking a chain suspended from the top of the casement,

Jonathan pushed the iron framework outwards. The bars dropped

noiselessly and slowly down, till the chain tightened at the staple.

“You are free,” said he, “that grating forms a ladder, by which you

may descend in safety. I learned the trick of the place from one Paul

Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine. He used

to call it his fire-escape--ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for

my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good

account. And now, Sir, have I kept faith with you?”

“You have,” replied Darrell. “Here is my purse; and I trust you will

let me know to whom I am indebted for this important service.”

“It matters not who I am,” replied Jonathan, taking the money. “As I

said before, I have little reliance upon _professions_ of gratitude.”

“I know not how it is,” sighed Darrell, “but I feel an unaccountable

misgiving at quitting this place. Something tells me I am rushing on

greater danger.”

“You know best,” replied Jonathan, sneeringly; “but if I were in your

place I would take the chance of a future and uncertain risk to avoid

a present and certain peril.”

“You are right,” replied Darrell; “the weakness is past. Which is the

nearest way to the river?”

“Why, it's an awkward road to direct you,” returned Jonathan. “But

if you turn to the right when you reach the ground, and keep close

to the Mint wall, you'll speedily arrive at White Cross Street; White

Cross Street, if you turn again to the right, will bring you into

Queen Street; Queen Street, bearing to the left, will conduct you

to Deadman's Place; and Deadman's Place to the water-side, not fifty

yards from Saint Saviour's stairs, where you're sure to get a boat.”

“The very point I aim at,” said Darrell as he passed through the

outlet.

“Stay!” said Jonathan, aiding his descent; “you had better take my

lantern. It may be useful to you. Perhaps you'll give me in return

some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we

meet again. Your glove will suffice.”

“There it is;” replied the other, tossing him the glove. “Are you

sure these bars touch the ground?”

“They come within a yard of it,” answered Jonathan.

“Safe!” shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. “Good

night!”

“So,” muttered Jonathan, “having started the hare, I'll now unleash

the hounds.”

With this praiseworthy determination, he was hastening down stairs,

with the utmost rapidity, when he encountered a female, whom he took,

in the darkness, to be Mrs. Sheppard. The person caught hold of his

arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him.

“Where is he?” asked she, in an agitated whisper. “I heard his voice;

but I saw them on the stairs, and durst not approach him, for fear of

giving the alarm.”

“If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back

window,” replied Jonathan.

“Thank Heaven!” she gasped.

“Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say,” observed

Jonathan, sarcastically. “You thank Heaven for the escape of the man

who did his best to get your child's neck twisted.”

“What do you mean?” asked the female, in astonishment.

“I mean what I say,” replied Jonathan. “Perhaps you don't know that

this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken

for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight

cravat, I can assure you. However, the scheme answered well enough,

for Darrell has got off with his own brat.”

“Then this is not my child?” exclaimed she, with increased

astonishment.

“If you have a child there, it certainly is not,” answered Jonathan,

a little surprised; “for I left your brat in the charge of Blueskin,

who is still among the crowd in the street, unless, as is not

unlikely, he's gone to see your other friend disciplined at the

pump.”

“Merciful providence!” exclaimed the female. “Whose child can this

be?”

“How the devil should I know!” replied Jonathan gruffly. “I suppose

it didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's

flesh and blood?” asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried

out with pain.

“My child! my child!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, rushing from the

adjoining room. “Where is it?”

“Are you the mother of this child?” inquired the person who had first

spoken, addressing Mrs. Sheppard.

“I am--I am!” cried the widow, snatching the babe, and pressing it to

her breast with rapturous delight “God be thanked, I have found it!”

“We have both good reason to be grateful,” added the lady, with great

emotion.

“'Sblood!” cried Jonathan, who had listened to the foregoing

conversation with angry wonder, “I've been nicely done here.

Fool that I was to part with my lantern! But I'll soon set myself

straight. What ho! lights! lights!”

And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs.

“Where shall I fly?” exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror.

“They will kill me, if they find me, as they would have killed my

husband and child. Oh God! my limbs fail me.”

“Make an effort, Madam,” cried Mrs. Sheppard, as a storm of furious

voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the

stairs; “they are coming!--they are coming!--fly!--to the roof! to

the roof.”

“No,” cried the lady, “this room--I recollect--it has a back window.”

“It is shut,” said Mrs. Sheppard.

“It is open,” replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing

through the outlet.

“Where is she?” thundered Jonathan, who at this moment reached Mrs.

Sheppard.

“She has flown up stairs,” replied the widow.

“You lie, hussy!” replied Jonathan, rudely pushing her aside, as

she vainly endeavoured to oppose his entrance into the room; “she is

here. Hist!” cried he, as a scream was heard from without. “By G--!

she has missed her footing.”

There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few

feeble groans.

Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room

rushed to the window with a torch.

He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a

blanched cheek, to Rowland.

“Your sister is dead,” said he, in a deep whisper.

“Her blood be upon her own head, then,” replied Rowland, sternly.

“Why came she here?”

“She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither,”

replied Sir Cecil, mournfully.

“Descend and take charge of the body,” said Rowland, conquering

his emotion by a great effort, “I will join you in a moment. This

accident rather confirms than checks my purpose. The stain upon our

family is only half effaced: I have sworn the death of the villain

and his bastard, and I will keep my oath. Now, Sir,” he added,

turning to Jonathan, as Sir Cecil and his followers obeyed his

injunctions, “you say you know the road which the person whom we seek

has taken?”

“I do,” replied Jonathan. “But I give no information gratis!”

“Speak, then,” said Rowland, placing money in his hand.

“You'll find him at St. Saviours's stairs,” answered Jonathan. “He's

about to cross the river. You'd better lose no time. He has got five

minutes' start of you. But I sent him the longest way about.”

The words were scarcely pronounced, when Rowland disappeared.

“And now to see the end of it,” said Jonathan, shortly afterwards

passing through the window. “Good night, Master.”

Three persons only were left in the room. These were the Master of

the Mint, Van Galgebrok, and Mrs. Sheppard.

“A bad business this, Van,” observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake

of the head.

“Ja, ja, Muntmeester,” said the Hollander, shaking his head in

reply;--“very bad--very.”

“But then they're staunch supporters of our friend over the water,”

continued Baptist, winking significantly; “so we must e'en hush it up

in the best way we can.”

“Ja,” answered Van Galgebrok. “But--sapperment!--I wish they hadn't

broken my pipe.”

“JONATHAN WILD promises well,” observed the Master, after a pause:

“he'll become a great man. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so.”

“He'll be hanged nevertheless,” replied the Hollander, giving his

collar an ugly jerk. “Mind, I, Rykhart Van Galgebrok predict it. And

now let's go back to the Shovels, and finish our brandewyn and bier,

Muntmeester.”

“Alas!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, relieved by their departure, and giving

way to a passionate flood of tears; “were it not for my child, I

should wish to be in the place of that unfortunate lady.”

CHAPTER V. THE DENUNCIATION.

For a short space, Mrs. Sheppard remained dissolved in tears. She

then dried her eyes, and laying her child gently upon the floor,

knelt down beside him. “Open my heart, Father of Mercy!” she

murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, “and make me

sensible of the error of my ways. I have sinned deeply; but I have

been sorely tried. Spare me yet a little while, Father! not for my

own sake, but for the sake of this poor babe.” Her utterance was

here choked by sobs. “But if it is thy will to take me from him,” she

continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,--“if he must be

left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother's

feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be

to him what I would have been. Let him not bear the weight of my

punishment. Spare him!--pity me!”

With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed

down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened,

and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house.

“Halloa, widow!” shouted a rough voice from below, “where the devil

are you?”

Mrs. Sheppard returned no answer.

“I've got something to say to you,” continued the speaker, rather

less harshly; “something to your advantage; so come out o' your

hiding-place, and let's have some supper, for I'm infernally

hungry.--D'ye hear?”

Still the widow remained silent.

“Well, if you won't come, I shall help myself, and that's

unsociable,” pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he

made, suiting the action to the word. “Devilish nice ham you've got

here!--capital pie!--and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary.

You're in luck to-night, widow. Here's your health in a bumper, and

wishing you a better husband than your first. It'll be your own

fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the

bargain. Here's his health likewise. What! mum still. You're the

first widow I ever heard of who could withstand that lure. I'll

try the effect of a jolly stave.” And he struck up the following

ballad:--

[Illustration: 111]

[Illustration: 112]

[Illustration: 113]

[Illustration: 114]

SAINT GILES'S BOWL.*

* At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners

conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be

executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were

presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their

last refreshing in this life.--_Strype's Stow._ Book. IX.

ch. III.

I. Where Saint-Giles' church stands, once a la-zar-house

stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a ves-sel of wood; A

broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who

pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might

tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown, in a

sea of good li-quor, all fear! For nothing the

tran-sit to Ty-burn beguiles, So well as a

draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!

II. By many a highwayman many a draught

Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft,

Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down,

And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown.

_Where the robber may cheer_

_His spirit with beer,_

_And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear!_

_For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_

_So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!_

III. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth,

OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth:

There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up,

And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup!

_For a can of ale calms,_

_A highwayman's qualms,_

_And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms_

_And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_

_So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles!_

“Singing's dry work,” observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull

at the bottle. “And now, widow,” he continued, “attend to the next

verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours.”

IV. When gallant TOM SHEPPARD to Tyburn was led,--

“Stop the cart at the Crown--stop a moment,” he said.

He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled,

Crying, “Keep it till call'd for by JONATHAN WILD!

“_The rascal one day,_

“_Will pass by this way,_

“_And drink a full measure to moisten his clay!_

“_And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled_

“_Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as_ JONATHAN WILD!”

V. Should it e'er be _my_ lot to ride backwards that way,

At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay;

I'll summon the landlord--I'll call for the Bowl,

And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul!

_Whatever may hap,_

_I'll taste of the tap,_

_To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap!_

_For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles_

_So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Giles!_

“Devil seize the woman!” growled the singer, as he brought his ditty

to a close; “will nothing tempt her out? Widow Sheppard, I say,” he

added, rising, “don't be afraid. It's only a gentleman come to offer

you his hand. 'He that woos a maid',--fol-de-rol--(hiccupping).--I'll

soon find you out.”

Mrs. Sheppard, whose distress at the consumption of the provisions

had been somewhat allayed by the anticipation of the intruder's

departure after he had satisfied his appetite, was now terrified in

the extreme by seeing a light approach, and hearing footsteps on the

stairs. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was

about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the

unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of

ascending the ladder from without. Uttering a faint scream, she

sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the

interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the

room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other.

“Oh, you're here, are you?” said the ruffian, with an exulting laugh:

“I've been looking for you everywhere.”

“Let me go,” implored Mrs. Sheppard,--“pray let me go. You hurt the

child. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?”

“Throttle the kid!” rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. “If you don't stop

its squalling, I will. I hate children. And, if I'd my own way, I'd

drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies.”

Well knowing the savage temper of the person she had to deal with,

and how likely he was to put his threat into execution, Mrs. Sheppard

did not dare to return any answer; but, disengaging herself from his

embrace, endeavoured meekly to comply with his request.

“And now, widow,” continued the ruffian, setting down the candle, and

applying his lips to the bottle neck as he flung his heavy frame upon

a bench, “I've a piece o' good news for you.”

“Good news will be news to me. What is it?”

“Guess,” rejoined Blueskin, attempting to throw a gallant expression

into his forbidding countenance.

Mrs. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his

meaning too well, she answered,--“I can't guess.”

“Well, then,” returned the ruffian, “to put you out o' suspense, as

the topsman remarked to poor Tom Sheppard, afore he turned him off,

I'm come to make you an honourable proposal o' marriage. You won't

refuse me, I'm sure; so no more need be said about the matter.

To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. Don't shake so.

What I said about your brat was all stuff. I didn't mean it. It's my

way when I'm ruffled. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were

my own flesh and blood afore long.--I'll give him the edication of a

prig,--teach him the use of his forks betimes,--and make him, in the

end, as clever a cracksman as his father.”

“Never!” shrieked Mrs. Sheppard; “never! never!”

“Halloa! what's this?” demanded Blueskin, springing to his feet. “Do

you mean to say that if I support your kid, I shan't bring him up how

I please--eh?”

“Don't question me, but leave me,” replied the widow wildly; “you had

better.”

“Leave you!” echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; “--not

just yet.”

“I am not unprotected,” rejoined the poor woman; “there's some one at

the window. Help! help!”

But her cries were unheeded. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had

looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed

louder than ever.

“It won't do, widow,” said he, drawing near her, while she shrank

from his approach, “so you may spare your breath. Come, come, be

reasonable, and listen to me. Your kid has already brought me good

luck, and may bring me still more if his edication's attended to.

This purse,” he added, chinking it in the air, “and this ring, were

given me for him just now by the lady, who made a false step on

leaving your house. If I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild,

that accident wouldn't have happened.”

As he said this, a slight noise was heard without.

“What's that?” ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the

window. “Who's there?--Pshaw! it's only the wind.”

“It's Jonathan Wild,” returned the widow, endeavouring to alarm him.

“I told you I was not unprotected.”

“_He_ protect _you_,” retorted Blueskin, maliciously; “you haven't

a worse enemy on the face of the earth than Jonathan Wild. If you'd

read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death

at Jonathan's door,--and with reason too, as I can testify.”

“Man!” screamed Mrs. Sheppard, with a vehemence that shook even the

hardened wretch beside her, “begone, and tempt me not.”

“What should I tempt you to?” asked Blueskin, in surprise.

“To--to--no matter what,” returned the widow distractedly. “Go--go!”

“I see what you mean,” rejoined Blueskin, tossing a large case-knife,

which he took from his pocket, in the air, and catching it

dexterously by the haft as it fell; “you owe Jonathan a grudge;--so

do I. He hanged your first husband. Just speak the word,” he added,

drawing the knife significantly across his throat, “and I'll put it

out of his power to do the same by your second. But d--n him! let's

talk o' something more agreeable. Look at this ring;--it's a diamond,

and worth a mint o' money. It shall be your wedding ring. Look at it,

I say. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely

read it. A-L-I-V-A--Aliva--T-R-E-N--Trencher that's it. Aliva

Trencher.”

“Aliva Trenchard!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, hastily; “is that the

name?”

“Ay, ay, now I look again it _is_ Trenchard. How came you to know it?

Have you heard the name before?”

“I think I have--long, long ago, when I was a child,” replied

Mrs. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; “but my memory is

gone--quite gone. Where _can_ I have heard it!”

“Devil knows,” rejoined Blueskin. “Let it pass. The ring's yours, and

you're mine. Here, put it on your finger.”

Mrs. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all

her force to repel his advances.

“Set down the kid,” roared Blueskin, savagely.

“Mercy!” screamed Mrs. Sheppard, struggling to escape, and holding

the infant at arm's length; “have mercy on this helpless innocent!”

And the child, alarmed by the strife, added its feeble cries to its

mother's shrieks.

“Set it down, I tell you,” thundered Blueskin, “or I shall do it a

mischief.”

“Never!” cried Mrs. Sheppard.

Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between

his teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. In

the struggle her cap fell off. The ruffian caught hold of her hair,

and held her fast. The chamber rang with her shrieks. But her cries,

instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury.

Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with

one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. The child was

now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed

his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the

ground.

When Mrs. Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that

prostrated her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild

kneeling beside the body of Blueskin. He was holding the ring to the

light, and narrowly examining the inscription.

“Trenchard,” he muttered; “Aliva Trenchard--they were right, then,

as to the name. Well, if she survives the accident--as the blood, who

styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do--this ring will make my

fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in

this strange affair.”

“Is the poor lady alive?” asked Mrs. Sheppard, eagerly.

“'Sblood!” exclaimed Jonathan, hastily thrusting the ring into his

vest, and taking up a heavy horseman's pistol with which he had

felled Blueskin,--“I thought you'd been senseless.”

“Is she alive?” repeated the widow.

“What's that to you?” demanded Jonathan, gruffly.

“Oh, nothing--nothing,” returned Mrs. Sheppard. “But pray tell me if

her husband has escaped?”

“Her husband!” echoed Jonathan scornfully. “A _husband_ has little

to fear from his wife's kinsfolk. Her _lover_, Darrell, has embarked

upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for

it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his

throat cut by his pursuers--ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the

river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't

refused to take me. However, as things have turned up, it's fortunate

that I came back.”

“It is, indeed,” replied Mrs. Sheppard; “most fortunate for me.”

“For _you_!” exclaimed Jonathan; “don't flatter yourself that I'm

thinking of you. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat

before I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited

my purposes to do so, and _he_ hadn't incurred my displeasure. I

never forgive an injury. Your husband could have told you that.”

“How had he offended you?” inquired the widow.

“I'll tell you,” answered Jonathan, sternly. “He thwarted my schemes

twice. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time,

when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow

who visited you to-night,--Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,--he

betrayed me. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was

as good as my word.”

“You were so,” replied Mrs Sheppard; “and for that wicked deed you

will one day be brought to the gallows yourself.”

“Not before I have conducted your child thither,” retorted Jonathan,

with a withering look.

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Sheppard, paralysed by the threat.

“If that sickly brat lives to be a man,” continued Jonathan, rising,

“I'll hang him upon the same tree as his father.”

“Pity!” shrieked the widow.

“I'll be his evil genius!” vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy

her torture.

“Begone, wretch!” cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his

taunts; “or I will drive you hence with my curses.”

“Curse on, and welcome,” jeered Wild.

Mrs. Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon

her tongue. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal

tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she

extended her arms over her child.

“A mother's prayers--a mother's blessings,” she cried, with the

fervour almost of inspiration, “will avail against a fiend's malice.”

“We shall see,” rejoined Jonathan, turning carelessly upon his heel.

And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon

the floor.

CHAPTER VI. THE STORM.

As soon as he was liberated by his persecutors, Mr. Wood set off at

full speed from the Mint, and, hurrying he scarce knew whither (for

there was such a continual buzzing in his ears and dancing in his

eyes, as almost to take away the power of reflection), he held on at

a brisk pace till his strength completely failed him.

On regaining his breath, he began to consider whither chance had led

him; and, rubbing his eyes to clear his sight, he perceived a sombre

pile, with a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him.

This structure at once satisfied him as to where he stood. He knew it

to be St. Saviour's Church. As he looked up at the massive tower,

the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. The solemn strokes were

immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the

Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly

distinguishable. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the

carpenter as the sounds died away. He trembled, not from any

superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching

danger. The peculiar appearance of the sky was not without some

influence in awakening these terrors. Over one of the pinnacles of

the tower a speck of pallid light marked the position of the moon,

then newly born and newly risen. It was still profoundly dark; but

the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the

clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging

nearer the earth. Sometimes the moon was totally eclipsed; at others,

it shed a wan and ghastly glimmer over the masses rolling in the

firmament. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead,

streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to

determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to

the ominous and threatening appearance of the night.

Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much

exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot,

Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise

refresh himself. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on

the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which

hung the sign of the “Welsh Trumpeter.”

“Let me have a glass of brandy,” said he, addressing the host.

“Too late, master,” replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly

tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; “just

shut up shop.”

“Zounds! David Pugh, don't you know your old friend and countryman?”

exclaimed the carpenter.

“Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?” cried David in astonishment. “What the

devil makes you out so late? And what has happened to you, man,

eh?--you seem in a queer plight.”

“Give me the brandy, and I'll tell you,” replied Wood.

“Here, wife--hostess--fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in

the corner cupboard.--There, Mr. Wood,” cried David, pouring out a

glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, “that'll warm

the cockles of your heart. Don't be afraid, man,--off with it. It's

right Nantz. I keep it for my own drinking,” he added in a lower

tone.

Mr. Wood having disposed of the brandy, and pronounced himself much

better, hurried close to the fire-side, and informed his friend in a

few words of the inhospitable treatment he had experienced from

the gentlemen of the Mint; whereupon Mr. Pugh, who, as well as the

carpenter, was a descendant of Cadwallader, waxed extremely wrath;

gave utterance to a number of fierce-sounding imprecations in the

Welsh tongue; and was just beginning to express the greatest anxiety

to catch some of the rascals at the Trumpeter, when Mr. Wood cut

him short by stating his intention of crossing the river as soon as

possible in order to avoid the storm.

“A storm!” exclaimed the landlord. “Gadzooks! I thought something was

coming on; for when I looked at the weather-glass an hour ago, it had

sunk lower than I ever remember it.”

“We shall have a durty night on it, to a sartinty, landlord,”

observed an old one-eyed sailor, who sat smoking his pipe by the

fire-side. “The glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a

hurricane follerin', I've knowed it often do so in the West Injees.

Moreover, a souple o' porpusses came up with the tide this mornin',

and ha' bin flounderin' about i' the Thames abuv Lunnun Bridge all

day long; and them say-monsters, you know, always proves sure fore

runners of a gale.”

“Then the sooner I'm off the better,” cried Wood; “what's to pay,

David?”

“Don't affront me, Owen, by asking such a question,” returned the

landlord; “hadn't you better stop and finish the bottle?”

“Not a drop more,” replied Wood. “Enough's as good as a feast. Good

night!”

“Well, if you won't be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen,”

observed the landlord, “there's a waterman asleep on that bench will

help you to as tidy a craft as any on the Thames. Halloa, Ben!”

cried he, shaking a broad-backed fellow, equipped in a short-skirted

doublet, and having a badge upon his arm,--“scullers wanted.”

“Holloa! my hearty!” cried Ben, starting to his feet.

“This gentleman wants a pair of oars,” said the landlord.

“Where to, master?” asked Ben, touching his woollen cap.

“Arundel Stairs,” replied Wood, “the nearest point to Wych Street.”

“Come along, master,” said the waterman.

“Hark 'ee, Ben,” said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his

pipe upon the hob; “you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever

cross the Thames to-night.”

“And why not, old saltwater?” inquired Ben, turning a quid in his

mouth.

“'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young

freshwater,” replied the tar.

“It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip,” laughed Ben:

“the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames.

The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never

turned my back upon it.”

“May be not,” replied the old sailor, drily; “but you'll find it too

stiff for you to-night, anyhow. Howsomdever, if you _should_ reach

t'other side, take an old feller's advice, and don't be foolhardy

enough to venter back again.”

“I tell 'ee what, saltwater,” said Ben, “I'll lay you my fare--and

that'll be two shillin'--I'm back in an hour.”

“Done!” cried the old sailor. “But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you

von't live to pay me.”

“Never fear,” replied Ben, gravely; “dead or alive I'll pay you, if I

lose. There's my thumb upon it. Come along, master.”

“I tell 'ee what, landlord,” observed the old sailor, quietly

replenishing his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman

and Wood quitted the house, “you've said good-b'ye to your friend.”

“Odd's me! do you think so?” cried the host of the Trumpeter. “I'll

run and bring him back. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle

that any accident befel him.”

“Never mind,” said the old sailor, taking up a piece of blazing coal

with the tongs, and applying it to his pipe; “let 'em try. They'll be

back soon enough--or not at all.”

Mr. Wood and the waterman, meanwhile, proceeded in the direction of

St. Saviour's Stairs. Casting a hasty glance at the old and ruinous

prison belonging to the liberty of the Bishop of Winchester (whose

palace formerly adjoined the river), called the Clink, which gave its

name to the street, along which he walked: and noticing, with some

uneasiness, the melancholy manner in which the wind whistled through

its barred casements, the carpenter followed his companion down an

opening to the right, and presently arrived at the water-side.

Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing

current, as if impatient of restraint. Into one of these the

waterman jumped, and, having assisted Mr. Wood to a seat within it,

immediately pushed from land. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars,

when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. A shout

was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed

with breathless haste to the stair-head.

“Boat there!” cried a voice, which Mr. Wood fancied he recognised.

“You'll find a waterman asleep under his tilt in one of them ere

craft, if you look about, Sir,” replied Ben, backing water as he

spoke.

“Can't you take me with you?” urged the voice; “I'll make it well

worth your while. I've a child here whom I wish to convey across the

water without loss of time.”

“A child!” thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. “Hold

hard,” cried he, addressing the waterman; “I'll give the gentleman a

lift.”

“Unpossible, master,” rejoined Ben; “the tide's running down like

a mill-sluice, and the wind's right in our teeth. Old saltwater was

right. We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across. D'ye hear

how the wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch

on it ourselves presently. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a

moment longer--so here goes.” Upon which, he plunged his oars deeply

into the stream, and the bark shot from the strand.

Mr. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by

hearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting;

and, shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the

river.

“Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames

this fine night,” observed Ben. “One'd think it rained fares, as well

as blowed great guns. Why, there's another party on the stair-head

inquiring arter scullers; and, by the mass! they appear in a greater

hurry than any on us.”

His attention being thus drawn to the bank, the carpenter beheld

three figures, one of whom bore a torch, leap into a wherry of a

larger size than the others, which immediately put off from shore.

Manned by a couple of watermen, who rowed with great swiftness, this

wherry dashed through the current in the track of the fugitive,

of whom it was evidently in pursuit, and upon whom it perceptibly

gained. Mr. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying

skiff. But he could only discern a black and shapeless mass, floating

upon the water at a little distance, which, to his bewildered fancy,

appeared absolutely standing still. To the practised eye of the

waterman matters wore a very different air. He perceived clearly

enough, that the chase was moving quickly; and he was also aware,

from the increased rapidity with which the oars were urged, that

every exertion was made on board to get out of the reach of her

pursuers. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to

put to shore. But this plan (probably from its danger) was instantly

abandoned; not, however, before her momentary hesitation had been

taken advantage of by her pursuers, who, redoubling their efforts at

this juncture, materially lessened the distance between them.

Ben watched these manoeuvres with great interest, and strained every

sinew in his frame to keep ahead of the other boats.

“Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?” he

observed.

“Something worse, I fear,” Wood replied.

“Why, you don't think as how they're crimps, do you?” Ben inquired.

“I don't know what I think,” Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his

eyes upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly

from the scene.

There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible

melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. The sounds

that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all

calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation. The

ripple of the water against the boat, as its keel cleaves through

the stream--the darkling current hurrying by--the indistinctly-seen

craft, of all forms and all sizes, hovering around, and making their

way in ghost-like silence, or warning each other of their approach

by cries, that, heard from afar, have something doleful in their

note--the solemn shadows cast by the bridges--the deeper gloom of

the echoing arches--the lights glimmering from the banks--the red

reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire kindled on some stationary

barge--the tall and fantastic shapes of the houses, as discerned

through the obscurity;--these, and other sights and sounds of the

same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of one who may

choose to indulge in meditation at such a time and in such a place.

But it was otherwise with the carpenter. This was no night for the

indulgence of dreamy musing. It was a night of storm and terror,

which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible.

Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already

mentioned. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which,

hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. It was a

dead calm. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of

the blast.

Amid this portentous hush, the report of a pistol reached the

carpenter's ears; and, raising his head at the sound, he beheld a

sight which filled him with fresh apprehensions.

By the light of a torch borne at the stern of the hostile wherry, he

saw that the pursuers had approached within a short distance of the

object of their quest. The shot had taken effect upon the waterman

who rowed the chase. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat

was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. Escape was now

impossible. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in

hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their

turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver

him into their power.

They had not to tarry long. In another instant, the collision took

place. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately

shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it

fast. Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as

Rowland, spring on board the chase. A fierce struggle ensued. There

was a shrill cry, instantly succeeded by a deep splash.

“Put about, waterman, for God's sake!” cried Wood, whose humanity got

the better of every personal consideration; “some one is overboard.

Give way, and let us render what assistance we can to the poor

wretch.”

“It's all over with him by this time, master,” replied Ben, turning

the head of his boat, and rowing swiftly towards the scene of strife;

“but d--n him, he was the chap as hit poor Bill Thomson just now, and

I don't much care if he should be food for fishes.”

As Ben spoke, they drew near the opposing parties. The contest was

now carried on between Rowland and Darrell. The latter had delivered

himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. Hurled

over the sides of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery

grave. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was

running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. While the strife

raged between the principals, the watermen in the larger wherry were

occupied in stemming the force of the torrent, and endeavouring to

keep the boats, they had lashed together, stationary. Owing to this

circumstance, Mr. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot

past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought

about, the struggle had terminated. For a few minutes, Darrell seemed

to have the advantage in the conflict. Neither combatant could use

his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his

antagonist. The boat rocked violently with the struggle. Had it not

been lashed to the adjoining wherry, it must have been upset, and

have precipitated the opponents into the water. Rowland felt himself

sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. He called to the

other attendant, who held the torch. Understanding the appeal, the

man snatched his master's sword from his grasp, and passed it

through Darrell's body. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the

fugitive had been consigned to the waves.

Darrell, however, rose again instantly; and though mortally wounded,

made a desperate effort to regain the boat.

“My child!” he groaned faintly.

“Well reminded,” answered Rowland, who had witnessed his struggles

with a smile of gratified vengeance; “I had forgotten the accursed

imp in this confusion. Take it,” he cried, lifting the babe from the

bottom of the boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father.

The child fell within a short distance of Darrell, who, hearing the

splash, struck out in that direction, and caught it before it

sank. At this juncture, the sound of oars reached his ears, and he

perceived Mr. Wood's boat bearing up towards him.

“Here he is, waterman,” exclaimed the benevolent carpenter. “I see

him!--row for your life!”

“That's the way to miss him, master,” replied Ben coolly. “We must

keep still. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough.”

Ben judged correctly. Borne along by the current, Darrell was

instantly at the boat's side.

“Seize this oar,” vociferated the waterman.

“First take the child,” cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and

clinging to the oar with a dying effort.

“Give it me,” returned the carpenter; “all's safe. Now lend me your

own hand.”

“My strength fails me,” gasped the fugitive. “I cannot climb the

boat. Take my child to--it is--oh God!--I am sinking--take it--take

it!”

“Where?” shouted Wood.

Darrell attempted to reply. But he could only utter an inarticulate

exclamation. The next moment his grasp relaxed, and he sank to rise

no more.

Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his

attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the

incident just described.

[Illustration: 145]

“Confusion!” cried he; “there is another boat in our wake. They

have rescued the child. Loose the wherry, and stand to your

oars--quick--quick!”

These commands were promptly obeyed. The boat was set free, and the

men resumed their seats. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated

in a manner as unexpected as appalling.

During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. But as

Rowland sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a roar

like a volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst

its bondage. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black

as ink. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous

cauldron. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled

off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops,

and left the raging torrent blacker than before. The gale had become

a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid

waste our city. Destruction everywhere marked its course. Steeples

toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. Trees were torn up

by the roots; many houses were levelled to the ground; others were

unroofed; the leads on the churches were ripped off, and “shrivelled

up like scrolls of parchment.” Nothing on land or water was spared

by the remorseless gale. Most of the vessels lying in the river were

driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other,

or blown ashore. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. Men fled

from their tottering habitations, and returned to them scared by

greater dangers. The end of the world seemed at hand.

At this time of universal havoc and despair,--when all London quaked

at the voice of the storm,--the carpenter, who was exposed to its

utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. The boat

in which he rode was not overset. Fortunately, her course had

been shifted immediately after the rescue of the child; and, in

consequence of this movement, she received the first shock of the

hurricane, which blew from the southwest, upon her stern. Her head

dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being

swamped. Righting, however, instantly afterwards, she scudded with

the greatest rapidity over the boiling waves, to whose mercy she was

now entirely abandoned. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood

threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping

the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to

meet his fate.

While he was thus occupied, he felt a rough grasp upon his arm, and

presently afterwards Ben's lips approached close to his ear. The

waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his

voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast.

“It's all up, master,” groaned Ben, “nothin' short of a merracle

can save us. The boat's sure to run foul o' the bridge; and if

she 'scapes stavin' above, she'll be swamped to a sartainty below.

There'll be a fall of above twelve foot o' water, and think o' that

on a night as 'ud blow a whole fleet to the devil.”

Mr. Wood _did_ think of it, and groaned aloud.

“Heaven help us!” he exclaimed; “we were mad to neglect the old

sailor's advice.”

“That's what troubles me,” rejoined Ben. “I tell 'ee what, master,

if you're more fortinate nor I am, and get ashore, give old saltwater

your fare. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager

if I lost; and I should like to be as good as my word.”

“I will--I will,” replied Wood hastily. “Was that thunder?” he

faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead.

“No; it's only a fresh gale,” Ben returned: “hark! now it comes.”

“Lord have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!” ejaculated Wood, as a

fearful gust dashed the water over the side of the boat, deluging him

with spray.

The hurricane had now reached its climax. The blast shrieked, as if

exulting in its wrathful mission. Stunning and continuous, the din

seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. He, who had faced

the gale, would have been instantly stifled. Piercing through

every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the

wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. It penetrated the skin; benumbed

the flesh; paralysed the faculties. The intense darkness added to the

terror of the storm. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his

gloomiest apparel. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard

the thunder of his voice. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity,

peopled the air with phantoms. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be

trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. Awful shapes

seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and

directing its fury. The actual danger was lost sight of in these wild

apprehensions; and many timorous beings were scared beyond reason's

verge by the excess of their fears.

This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. He was roused

from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of

Ben, who roared in his ear, “The bridge!--the bridge!”

CHAPTER VII. OLD LONDON BRIDGE.

London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge.

But that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now

possesses. Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this

reverend and picturesque structure presented the appearance of a

street across the Thames. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all

its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were

stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. The houses were

older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true;

but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. Then the

bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished

(as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. In

olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath

which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where

“was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone

Bridge at London:” and it still boasted an edifice (though now in

rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,--we

mean Nonesuch House. The other buildings stood close together in

rows; and so valuable was every inch of room accounted, that, in many

cases, cellars, and even habitable apartments, were constructed in

the solid masonry of the piers.

Old London Bridge (the grandsire of the present erection) was

supported on nineteen arches, each of which

Would a Rialto make for depth and height!

The arches stood upon enormous piers; the piers on starlings, or

jetties, built far out into the river to break the force of the tide.

Roused by Ben's warning, the carpenter looked up and could just

perceive the dusky outline of the bridge looming through the

darkness, and rendered indistinctly visible by the many lights that

twinkled from the windows of the lofty houses. As he gazed at these

lights, they suddenly seemed to disappear, and a tremendous shock was

felt throughout the frame of the boat. Wood started to his feet. He

found that the skiff had been dashed against one of the buttresses of

the bridge.

“Jump!” cried Ben, in a voice of thunder.

Wood obeyed. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. Though

the starling was more than two feet above the level of the water, he

alighted with his little charge--which he had never for an instant

quitted--in safety upon it. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. Just as he

was preparing to follow, the wherry containing Rowland and his men,

which had drifted in their wake, was dashed against his boat. The

violence of the collision nearly threw him backwards, and caused

him to swerve as he sprang. His foot touched the rounded edge of the

starling, and glanced off, precipitating him into the water. As

he fell, he caught at the projecting masonry. But the stone was

slippery; and the tide, which here began to feel the influence of the

fall, was running with frightful velocity. He could not make good

his hold. But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong

torrent.

Mr. Wood heard the cry. But his own situation was too perilous to

admit of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. He

fancied, indeed, that he beheld a figure spring upon the starling at

the moment when the boats came in contact; but, as he could perceive

no one near him, he concluded he must have been mistaken.

[Illustration: 155]

In order to make Mr. Wood's present position, and subsequent

proceedings fully intelligible, it may be necessary to give some

notion of the shape and structure of the platform on which he had

taken refuge. It has been said, that the pier of each arch, or lock

of Old London Bridge, was defended from the force of the tide by a

huge projecting spur called a starling. These starlings varied in

width, according to the bulk of the pier they surrounded. But they

were all pretty nearly of the same length, and built somewhat after

the model of a boat, having extremities as sharp and pointed as

the keel of a canoe. Cased and ribbed with stone, and braced with

horizontal beams of timber, the piles, which formed the foundation of

these jetties, had resisted the strong encroachments of the current

for centuries. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the

Thames. The starling, on which the carpenter stood, was the fourth

from the Surrey shore. It might be three yards in width, and a few

more in length; but it was covered with ooze and slime, and the waves

continually broke over it. The transverse spars before mentioned

were as slippery as ice; and the hollows between them were filled

ankle-deep with water.

The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury

of the wind. But in this posture he fared worse than ever. If he

ran less risk of being blown over, he stood a much greater chance

of being washed off, or stifled. As he lay on his back, he fancied

himself gradually slipping off the platform. Springing to his feet

in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized

his worst apprehensions. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying

buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some

of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is

studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. But

this wild scheme was speedily abandoned; and, nerved by despair, the

carpenter resolved to hazard an attempt, from the execution, almost

from the contemplation, of which he had hitherto shrunk. This was to

pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the starling, and,

if possible, attain the eastern platform, where, protected by the

bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive violence of the gale.

Assured, if he remained much longer where he was, he would inevitably

perish, Wood recommended himself to the protection of Heaven, and

began his perilous course. Carefully sustaining the child which, even

in that terrible extremity, he had not the heart to abandon, he

fell upon his knees, and, guiding himself with his right hand, crept

slowly on. He had scarcely entered the arch, when the indraught was

so violent, and the noise of the wind so dreadful and astounding,

that he almost determined to relinquish the undertaking. But the love

of life prevailed over his fears. He went on.

The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide. In length

the arch exceeded seventy feet. To the poor carpenter it seemed an

endless distance. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived

midway, something obstructed his further progress. It was a huge

stone placed there by some workmen occupied in repairing the

structure. Cold drops stood upon Wood's brow, as he encountered

this obstacle. To return was impossible,--to raise himself certain

destruction. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which

he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the

gloom. He listened to the thunder of the fall now mingling with the

roar of the blast; and, driven almost frantic by what he heard

and saw, he pushed with all his force against the stone. To his

astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled over the

ledge, and sank. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that

the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. His course,

however, was no longer interrupted, and he crept on.

After encountering other dangers, and being twice, compelled to fling

himself flat upon his face to avoid slipping from the wet and slimy

pathway, he was at length about to emerge from the lock, when, to his

inexpressible horror, he found he had lost the child!

All the blood in his veins rushed to his heart, and he shook in every

limb as he made this discovery. A species of vertigo seized him.

His brain reeled. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was

cracking over head,--that the arch was tumbling upon him,--that the

torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury

him in the deafening abyss. He shrieked with agony, and clung with

desperate tenacity to the roughened stones. But calmer thoughts

quickly succeeded. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance

rushed to mind with painful distinctness. He remembered that, before

he attempted to dislodge the stone, he had placed the child in a

cavity of the pier, which the granite mass had been intended to fill.

This obstacle being removed, in his eagerness to proceed, he had

forgotten to take his little charge with him. It was still possible

the child might be in safety. And so bitterly did the carpenter

reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks,

to go back in search of it. Acting upon this humane determination, he

impelled himself slowly backwards,--for he did not dare to face the

blast,--and with incredible labour and fatigue reached the crevice.

His perseverance was amply rewarded. The child was still safe. It lay

undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess.

So overjoyed was the carpenter with the successful issue of his

undertaking, that he scarcely paused a moment to recruit himself;

but, securing the child, set out upon his return. Retracing his

steps, he arrived, without further accident, at the eastern platform

of the starling. As he anticipated, he was here comparatively

screened from the fury of the wind; and when he gazed upon the

roaring fall beneath him, visible through the darkness in a

glistening sheet of foam, his heart overflowed with gratitude for his

providential deliverance.

As he moved about upon the starling, Mr. Wood became sensible that he

was not alone. Some one was standing beside him. This, then, must be

the person whom he had seen spring upon the western platform at the

time of the collision between the boats. The carpenter well knew from

the obstacle which had interfered with his own progress, that the

unknown could not have passed through the same lock as himself. But

he might have crept along the left side of the pier, and beneath the

further arch; whereas, Wood, as we have seen, took his course upon

the right. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the

features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded

the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. Wood,

however, made known his presence to the individual by laying his hand

upon his shoulder. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke. But

his words were borne away by the driving wind.

Finding all attempts at conversation with his companion in misfortune

in vain, Wood, in order to distract his thoughts, looked up at the

gigantic structure standing, like a wall of solid darkness, before

him. What was his transport on perceiving that a few yards above him

a light was burning. The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. He took

a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered,

and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. A pane

of glass was shivered by each stone. The signal of distress was

evidently understood. The light disappeared. The window was shortly

after opened, and a rope ladder, with a lighted horn lantern attached

to it, let down.

Wood grasped his companion's arm to attract his attention to this

unexpected means of escape. The ladder was now within reach. Both

advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld,

in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern

features of Rowland.

The carpenter trembled; for he perceived Rowland's gaze fixed first

upon the infant, and then on himself.

“It _is_ her child!” shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the

howling of the tempest, “risen from this roaring abyss to torment me.

Its parents have perished. And shall their wretched offspring live to

blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!” And, with these words, he

grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him

to the very verge of the platform.

All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of

the bridge. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded

to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones.

When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand,

scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself

alone. The fatal shower, from which he and his little charge escaped

uninjured, had stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the

boiling gulf.

“It's an ill wind that blows nobody good,” thought the carpenter,

turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and

cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by

the hardships it had undergone. “Poor little creature!” he muttered,

pressing it tenderly to his breast, as he grasped the rope and

clambered up to the window: “if thou hast, indeed, lost both thy

parents, as that terrible man said just now, thou art not wholly

friendless and deserted, for I myself will be a father to thee! And

in memory of this dreadful night, and the death from which I have,

been the means of preserving thee, thou shalt bear the name of THAMES

DARRELL.”

No sooner had Wood crept through the window, than nature gave way,

and he fainted. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in

a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. His

first inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to

find that it still lived and was doing well. Every care had been

taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the

house in which he had sought shelter.

About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having

abated, he set out homewards with his little charge.

The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. London Bridge

had suffered a degree less than most places. But it was almost

choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber,

and shattered tiles. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and

looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river.

With great difficulty, Wood forced a path through the ruins. It was a

work of no slight danger, for every instant a wall, or fragment of

a building, came crashing to the ground. Thames Street was wholly

impassable. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and

ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the

tottering habitations. Grace-church Street was entirely deserted,

except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their

fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along

it. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. In some cases they were

ground almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the earth, as

if discharged from a piece of ordnance. The roofs and gables of many

of the houses had been torn off. The signs of the shops were carried

to incredible distances. Here and there, a building might be seen

with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented

by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds.

Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;--now ascending,

now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his

path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived

in Fleet Street. The hurricane appeared to have raged in this quarter

with tenfold fury. Mr. Wood scarcely knew where he was. The old

aspect of the place was gone. In lieu of the substantial habitations

which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling

scaffoldings, for such they seemed.

It was a dismal and depressing sight to see a great city thus

suddenly overthrown; and the carpenter was deeply moved by the

spectacle. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity,

a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder.

While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar,--where the

thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded

it,--an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter

one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with

bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. In vain Wood

protested his innocence. The ruffian's companions took his part. And

the infant, in all probability, would have been snatched from its

preserver, if a posse of the watch (sent out to maintain order and

protect property) had not opportunely arrived, and by a vigorous

application of their halberts dispersed his persecutors, and set him

at liberty.

Mr. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him

till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. His wife met him at

the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge.

END THE FIRST EPOCH.

EPOCH THE SECOND, 1715, THAMES DARRELL

CHAPTER I. THE IDLE APPRENTICE.

Twelve years! How many events have occurred during that long

interval! how many changes have taken place! The whole aspect of

things is altered. The child has sprung into a youth; the youth has

become a man; the man has already begun to feel the advances of

age. Beauty has bloomed and faded. Fresh flowers of loveliness

have budded, expanded, died. The fashions of the day have become

antiquated. New customs have prevailed over the old. Parties,

politics, and popular opinions have changed. The crown has passed

from the brow of one monarch to that of another. Habits and tastes

are no longer the same. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were

twelve years ago.

Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. Dare we look back upon

the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have

trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good

resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams

of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the

aspirations that fired us--the passions that consumed us then? Has

our success in life been commensurate with our own desires--with

the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in

heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt,

or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal,

towards which we pressed, further off than ever--the prospect before

us cheerless as the blank behind?--Enough of this. Let us proceed

with our tale.

Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences

detailed in the preceding division of this history. At that time, we

were beneath the sway of Anne: we are now at the commencement of the

reign of George the First. Passing at a glance over the whole of the

intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet,

--The growth untried

Of that wide gap--

we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.

One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr.

Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the

day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier

hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane;

and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of

labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of

whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting

his employment. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to

listen. But finding all continue silent, he cautiously lifted the

latch, and crept into the room, resolved to punish the offender in

case his suspicions should prove correct.

The chamber, into which he stole, like all carpenters' workshops,

was crowded with the implements and materials of that ancient and

honourable art. Saws, hammers, planes, axes, augers, adzes, chisels,

gimblets, and an endless variety of tools were ranged, like a stand

of martial weapons at an armoury, in racks against the walls.

Over these hung levels, bevels, squares, and other instruments of

measurement. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without

worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two

articles which their owner was wont to term “his right hand and his

left.” On a shelf was placed a row of paint-jars; the contents of

which had been daubed in rainbow streaks upon the adjacent closet and

window sill. Divers plans and figures were chalked upon the walls;

and the spaces between them were filled up with an almanack for the

year; a godly ballad, adorned with a rude wood-cut, purporting to be

“_The History of Chaste Susannah_;” an old print of the Seven Golden

Candlesticks; an abstract of the various Acts of Parliament against

drinking, swearing, and all manner of profaneness; and a view of the

interior of Doctor Daniel Burgess's Presbyterian meeting-house in

Russell Court, with portraits of the reverend gentleman and the

principal members of his flock. The floor was thickly strewn with

sawdust and shavings; and across the room ran a long and wide bench,

furnished at one end with a powerful vice; next to which three nails

driven into the boards served, it would appear from the lump of

unconsumed tallow left in their custody, as a substitute for a

candlestick. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust

of bread, and a slice of cheese. Attracted by the odour of the latter

dainty, a hungry cat had contrived to scratch open the paper in

which it was wrapped, displaying the following words in large

characters:--“THE HISTORY OF THE FOUR KINGS, OR CHILD'S BEST GUIDE TO

THE GALLOWS.” And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack

of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. Near the door

stood a pile of deal planks, behind which the carpenter ensconced

himself in order to reconnoitre, unobserved, the proceedings of his

idle apprentice.

[Illustration: 179]

Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with

his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster,

instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his

name upon a beam, overhead. Boys, at the time of which we write, were

attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children

of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush

breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long

pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some

one considerably his senior. Coat, on the present occasion, he had

none, it being more convenient, as well as agreeable to him, to

pursue his avocations in his shirtsleeves; but, when fully equipped,

he wore a large-cuffed, long-skirted garment, which had once been the

property of his master.

In concealing himself behind the timber, Mr. Wood could not avoid

making a slight shuffling sound. The noise startled the apprentice,

who instantly suspended his labour, and gazed anxiously in the

direction whence he supposed it proceeded. His face was that of a

quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear

olive complexion. His figure was uncommonly slim even for his age,

which could not be more than thirteen; and the looseness of his garb

made him appear thinner than he was in reality. But if his frame was

immature, his looks were not so. He seemed to possess a penetration

and cunning beyond his years--to hide a man's judgment under a

boy's mask. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly

expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery,

and resolution. In the end, resolution triumphed, as it was sure to

do, over the weaker emotions, and he laughed at his fears. The only

part of his otherwise-interesting countenance, to which one could

decidedly object, was the mouth; a feature that, more than any other,

is conceived to betray the animal propensities of the possessor. If

this is true, it must be owned that the boy's mouth showed a strong

tendency on his part to coarse indulgence. The eyes, too, though

large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken,

as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain

disposition. The cheek-bones were prominent: the nose slightly

depressed, with rather wide nostrils; the chin narrow, but

well-formed; the forehead broad and lofty; and he possessed such an

extraordinary flexibility of muscle in this region, that he could

elevate his eye-brows at pleasure up to the very verge of his sleek

and shining black hair, which, being closely cropped, to admit of his

occasionally wearing a wig, gave a singular bullet-shape to his head.

Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond

heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman

d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have

sat:--faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so

full of vivacity and enjoyment. There was all the knavery, and more

than all the drollery of a Spanish picaroon in the laughing eyes of

the English apprentice; and, with a little more warmth and sunniness

of skin on the side of the latter, the resemblance between them would

have been complete.

Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy

resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled

assiduity, the following--not inappropriate strains:--

THE NEWGATE STONE.

When Claude Du Val was in Newgate thrown,

He carved his name on the dungeon stone;

Quoth a dubsman, who gazed on the shattered wall,

“You have carved your epitaph, Claude Du Val,

_With your chisel so fine, tra la_!”

“This S wants a little deepening,” mused the apprentice, retouching

the letter in question; “ay, that's better.”

Du Val was hang'd, and the next who came

On the selfsame stone inscribed his name:

“Aha!” quoth the dubsman, with devilish glee,

“Tom Waters _your_ doom is the triple tree!

_With your chisel so fine, tra la_!”

“Tut, tut, tut,” he cried, “what a fool I am to be sure! I ought

to have cut John, not Jack. However, it don't signify. Nobody ever

called me John, that I recollect. So I dare say I was christened

Jack. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P.

Within that dungeon lay Captain Bew,

Rumbold and Whitney--a jolly crew!

All carved their names on the stone, and all

Share the fate of the brave Du Val!

_With their chisels so fine, tra la_!

“Save us!” continued the apprentice, “I hope this beam doesn't

resemble the Newgate stone; or I may chance, like the great men the

song speaks of, to swing on the Tyburn tree for my pains. No fear

o' that.--Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it

wouldn't much matter. The prospect of the gallows would never deter

me from taking to the road, if I were so inclined.

Full twenty highwaymen blithe and bold,

Rattled their chains in that dungeon old;

Of all that number there 'scaped not one

Who carved his name on the Newgate Stone.

_With his chisel so fine, tra la_!

“There!” cried the boy, leaping from the stool, and drawing back

a few paces on the bench to examine his performance,--“that'll do.

Claude du Val himself couldn't have carved it better--ha! ha!”

The name inscribed upon the beam (of which, as it has been carefully

preserved by the subsequent owners of Mr. Wood's habitation in Wych

Street, we are luckily enabled to furnish a facsimile) was

[Illustration: Jack Sheppard (signature)]

“I've half a mind to give old Wood the slip, and turn highwayman,”

cried Jack, as he closed the knife, and put it in his pocket.

“The devil you have!” thundered a voice from behind, that filled the

apprentice with dismay. “Come down, sirrah, and I'll teach you how to

deface my walls in future. Come down, I say, instantly, or I'll make

you.” Upon which, Mr. Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him

off the bench.

“And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?” continued

the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,--“rob the mails, like Jack Hall,

I suppose.”

“Yes, I will,” replied Jack sullenly, “if you beat me in that way.”

Amazed at the boy's assurance, Wood left off boxing his ears for a

moment, and, looking at him steadfastly, said in a grave tone, “Jack,

Jack, you'll come to be hanged!”

“Better be hanged than hen-pecked,” retorted the lad with a malicious

grin.

“What do you mean by that, sirrah?” cried Wood, reddening with anger.

“Do you dare to insinuate that Mrs. Wood governs me?”

“It's plain you can't govern yourself, at all events,” replied Jack

coolly; “but, be that as it may, I won't be struck for nothing.”

“Nothing,” echoed Wood furiously. “Do you call neglecting your work,

and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal,

many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed

for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these

offences. But I'll be more lenient, and content myself with merely

chastising you, on condition--”

“You may do as you please, master,” interrupted Jack, thrusting his

hand into his pocket, as if in search of the knife; “but I wouldn't

advise you to lay hands on me again.”

Mr. Wood glanced at the hardy offender, and not liking the expression

of his countenance, thought it advisable to postpone the execution of

his threats to a more favourable opportunity. So, by way of gaining

time, he resolved to question him further.

“Where did you learn the song I heard just now?” he demanded, in an

authoritative tone.

“At the Black Lion in our street,” replied Jack, without hesitation.

“The worst house in the neighbourhood--the constant haunt of

reprobates and thieves,” groaned Wood. “And who taught it you--the

landlord, Joe Hind?”

“No; one Blueskin, a fellow who frequents the Lion,” answered Jack,

with a degree of candour that astonished his master nearly as much as

his confidence. “It was that song that put it into my head to cut my

name on the beam.”

“A white wall is a fool's paper, Jack,--remember that,” rejoined

Wood. “Pretty company for an apprentice to keep!--pretty houses for

an apprentice to frequent! Why, the rascal you mention is a notorious

house-breaker. He was tried at the last Old Bailey sessions; and

only escaped the gallows by impeaching his accomplices. Jonathan Wild

brought him off.”

“Do you happen to know Jonathan Wild, master?” inquired Jack,

altering his tone, and assuming a more respectful demeanour.

“I've seen him some years ago, I believe,” answered Wood; “and,

though he must be much changed by this time, I dare say I should know

him again.”

“A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,--with a yellow beard,

and a face as sly as a fox's?”

“Hem!” replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; “the

description's not amiss. But why do you ask?”

“Because--” stammered the boy.

“Speak out--don't be alarmed,” said Wood, in a kind and encouraging

tone. “If you've done wrong, confess it, and I'll forgive you!”

“I don't deserve to be forgiven!” returned Jack, bursting into tears;

“for I'm afraid I've done very wrong. Do you know this, Sir?” he

added, taking a key from his pocket.

“Where did you find it!” asked Wood.

“It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with

Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his

eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan

Wild.”

“Where did _he_ get it?” inquired Wood, in surprise.

“That I can't say. But he promised to give me a couple of guineas if

I'd ascertain whether it fitted your locks.”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Wood; “it's my old master-key. This key,” he

added, taking it from the boy, “was purloined from me by your father,

Jack. What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now.

But before he suffered at Tyburn, he charged your mother to restore

it. She lost it in the Mint. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from

her.”

“He must,” exclaimed Jack, hastily; “but only let me have it till

to-morrow, and if I don't entrap him in a snare from which, with all

his cunning, he shall find it difficult to escape, my name's not Jack

Sheppard.”

“I see through your design, Jack,” returned the carpenter, gravely;

“but I don't like under-hand work. Even when you've a knave to deal

with, let your actions be plain, and above-board. That's my maxim;

and it's the maxim of every honest man. It would be a great matter,

I must own, to bring Jonathan Wild to justice. But I can't consent

to the course you would pursue--at least, not till I've given it

due consideration. In regard to yourself, you've had a very narrow

escape. Wild's intention, doubtless, was to use you as far as he

found necessary, and then to sell you. Let this be a caution to

you in future--with whom, and about what you deal. We're told, that

'Whoso is partner with a thief hateth his own soul.' Avoid taverns

and bad company, and you may yet do well. You promise to become

a first-rate workman. But you want one quality, without which

all others are valueless. You want industry--you want steadiness.

Idleness is the key of beggary, Jack. If you don't conquer this

disgraceful propensity in time, you'll soon come to want; and then

nothing can save you. Be warned by your father's fate. As you brew so

must you drink. I've engaged to watch over you as a son, and I _will_

do so as far as I'm able; but if you neglect my advice, what chance

have I of benefitting you? On one point I've made up my mind--you

shall either obey me, or leave me. Please yourself. Here are your

indentures, if you choose to seek another master.”

“I _will_ obey you, master,--indeed I will!” implored Jack, seriously

alarmed at the carpenter's calm displeasure.

“We shall see. Good words, without deeds, are rushes and reeds. And

now take away those cards, and never let me see them again. Drive

away the cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and

tell me why you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady

Trafford, which I particularly desired you to complete against

my return. It must be sent home this evening. She leaves town

to-morrow.”

“It shall be ready in two hours,” answered Jack, seizing a piece of

wood and a plane; “it isn't more than four o'clock. I'll engage to

get the job done by six. I didn't expect you home before that hour,

Sir.”

“Ah, Jack,” said Wood, shaking his head, “where there's a will

there's a way. You can do anything you please. I wish I could get you

to imitate Thames Darrell.”

“I'm sure I understand the business of a carpenter much better than

he does,” replied Jack, adroitly adjusting the board, and using the

plane with the greatest rapidity.

“Perhaps,” replied Wood, doubtfully.

“Thames was always your favourite,” observed Jack, as he fastened

another piece of wood on the teeth of the iron stopper.

“I've made no distinction between you, hitherto,” answered Wood; “nor

shall I do so, unless I'm compelled.”

“I've had the hard work to do, at all events,” rejoined Jack, “But I

won't complain. I'd do anything for Thames Darrell.”

“And Thames Darrell would do anything for you, Jack,” replied a

blithe voice. “What's the matter, father!” continued the new-comer,

addressing Wood. “Has Jack displeased you? If so, overlook his fault

this once. I'm sure he'll do his best to content you. Won't you,

Jack?”

“That I will,” answered Sheppard, eagerly.

“When it thunders, the thief becomes honest,” muttered Wood.

“Can I help you, Jack?” asked Thames, taking up a plane.

“No, no, let him alone,” interposed Wood. “He has undertaken to

finish this job by six o'clock, and I wish to see whether he'll be as

good as his word.”

“He'll have hard work to do it by that time, father,” remonstrated

Thames; “you'd better let me help him.”

“On no account,” rejoined Wood peremptorily. “A little extra exertion

will teach him the advantage of diligence at the proper season. Lost

ground must be regained. I need scarcely ask whether you've executed

your appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand.”

Thames turned away at the question, which he felt might be construed

into a reproach. But Sheppard answered for him.

“Darrell's job was done early this morning,” he said; “and if I'd

attended to his advice, the packing-case would have been finished at

the same time.”

“You trusted too much to your own skill, Jack,” rejoined Thames. “If

I could work as fast as you, I might afford to be as idle. See how he

gets on, father,” he added, appealing to Wood: “the box seems to grow

under his hands.”

“You're a noble-hearted little fellow, Thames,” rejoined Wood,

casting a look of pride and affection at his adopted son, whose head

he gently patted; “and give promise of a glorious manhood.”

Thames Darrell was, indeed, a youth of whom a person of far greater

worldly consequence than the worthy carpenter might have been justly

proud. Though a few months younger than his companion Jack Sheppard,

he was half a head taller, and much more robustly formed. The two

friends contrasted strikingly with each other. In Darrell's open

features, frankness and honour were written in legible characters;

while, in Jack's physiognomy, cunning and knavery were as strongly

imprinted. In all other respects they differed as materially. Jack

could hardly be accounted good-looking: Thames, on the contrary, was

one of the handsomest boys possible. Jack's complexion was that of

a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. Jack's mouth was

coarse and large; Darrell's small and exquisitely carved, with the

short, proud upper lip, which belongs to the highest order of beauty.

Jack's nose was broad and flat; Darrell's straight and fine as that

of Antinous. The expression pervading the countenance of the one

was vulgarity; of the other, that which is rarely found, except in

persons of high birth. Darrell's eyes were of that clear gray which

it is difficult to distinguish from blue by day and black at night;

and his rich brown hair, which he could not consent to part with,

even on the promise of a new and modish peruke from his adoptive

father, fell in thick glossy ringlets upon his shoulders; whereas

Jack's close black crop imparted the peculiar bullet-shape we have

noticed, to his head.

While Thames modestly expressed a hope that he might not belie the

carpenter's favourable prediction, Jack Sheppard thought fit to

mount a small ladder placed against the wall, and, springing with the

agility of an ape upon a sort of frame, contrived to sustain short

spars and blocks of timber, began to search about for a piece of wood

required in the work on which he was engaged. Being in a great hurry,

he took little heed where he set his feet; and a board giving way, he

must have fallen, if he had not grasped a large plank laid upon the

transverse beam immediately over his head.

“Take care, Jack,” shouted Thames, who witnessed the occurrence;

“that plank isn't properly balanced. You'll have it down.”

But the caution came too late. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the

equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. Losing

his presence of mind, Jack quitted his hold, and dropped upon the

frame. The plank hung over his head. A moment more and he would have

been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong

arm arrested its descent.

“Get from under it, Jack!” vociferated Thames. “I can't hold it much

longer--it'll break my wrist. Down we come!” he exclaimed, letting go

the plank, which fell with a crash, and leaping after Sheppard, who

had rolled off the frame.

All this was the work of a minute.

“No bones broken, I hope,” said Thames, laughing at Jack, who limped

towards the bench, rubbing his shins as he went.

“All right,” replied Sheppard, with affected indifference.

“It's a mercy you both escaped!” ejaculated Wood, only just finding

his tongue. “I declare I'm all in a cold sweat. How came you, Sir,”

he continued, addressing Sheppard, “to venture upon that frame. I

always told you some accident would happen.”

“Don't scold him, father,” interposed Thames; “he's been frightened

enough already.”

“Well, well, since you desire it, I'll say no more,” returned Wood.

“You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?” he added, anxiously.

“Only sprained it a little, that's all,” answered Thames; “the pain

will go off presently.”

“Then you _are_ hurt,” cried the carpenter in alarm. “Come down

stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist. She has an

excellent remedy for a sprain. And do you, Jack, attend to your work,

and mind you don't get into further mischief.”

“Hadn't Jack better go with us?” said Thames. “His shin may need

rubbing.”

“By no means,” rejoined Wood, hastily. “A little suffering will do

him good. I meant to give him a drubbing. That bruise will answer the

same purpose.”

“Thames,” said Sheppard in a low voice, as he threw a vindictive

glance at the carpenter, “I shan't forget this. You've saved my

life.”

“Pshaw! you'd do as much for me any day, and think no more about it.

It'll be your turn to save mine next.”

“True, and I shan't be easy till my turn arrives.”

“I tell you what, Jack,” whispered Thames, who had noticed Sheppard's

menacing glance, and dreaded some further indiscretion on his part,

“if you really wish to oblige me, you'll get that packing-case

finished by six o'clock. You _can_ do it, if you will.”

“And I _will_, if I can, depend upon it,” answered Sheppard, with a

laugh.

So saying, he manfully resumed his work; while Wood and Thames

quitted the room, and went down stairs.