CARRINGTON MEWS,
SHEPHERD MARKET,
_17th February._
My Dear Agatha,--So you, too, remembered! Strange, after our having
overlooked the anniversary for so long! The violets you picked for me in
your garden _that_ afternoon scented my room for days. Thank you.
Acting on your advice, I took Mrs. D. to the London Museum yesterday.
You are quite right, the place was made for children, and the old lady
thoroughly enjoyed herself.
The basement, with its long stone-paved corridors, its gloom (dispelled,
I am forced to admit, by electric light), is the right place for the
models of ancient London, old doorways, knockers, horn lanthorns, oak
panelling, relics of Newgate, prison cells, and yellowed news sheets
containing the accounts of the execution of celebrated criminals.
One catches the mood of the place when one gets to the bottom of the
stairs and sees the row of wooden figures each of which has weathered
many a storm from its post outside some shop in the London streets of a
hundred and fifty years or more ago. The grocers' Chinaman, the
tobacconists' Highlander, and the scale-makers' figure of Justice. Now
and again, at rare intervals, we may meet the Highlander outside a
tobacconist's, or the figure of Justice over the scale-maker's window,
but the Chinaman seems to have completely disappeared.
To go into the basement of the London Museum is like opening the door of
some dim, dusty lumber-room and unearthing the forgotten toys of our
childhood. Things which we greet with an indulgent smile, and now and
again a sigh. The basement is a place to visit on that sort of idle
afternoon in early Spring when one is moved to turn out old letters, to
bring to mind the playmates of one's youth, and muse, while the light
wanes, on the changes the years have brought.
Here is a shop-front of George III's time, and behind the small-paned
window a grotesque collection of ragged puppets, the property of some
long-defunct proprietor of a Punch and Judy show. Many a time must those
grimacing dolls have played in the immortal drama to an audience of our
great-great-great-grandfathers.
The oak-panelled, seventeenth century parlour where a man sits drinking
by candle-light sets one speculating. There are his gloves on the table
and his pipe, which he has removed from his pocket. His wife has filled
his glass with wine, and stands telling him what has been happening
during his absence. He sits back in his chair, too intent on her news to
fill his pipe or lift the glass to his lips. The Great Fire, perhaps, is
raging at that very moment, and the wife may be telling her husband that
three hundred houses are already burnt, and how the churches were all
filled with goods and people. Or maybe it is of the outbreak of the
plague which the man learns, and the fear of which makes him forget his
pipe and the wine poured out at his elbow. Every time I go to the London
Museum I visit the pair, and always they are carrying on that same
conversation. The woman's dress gets dustier and dustier, and the wine
in the glass does not grow less. People come and stare and go away,
leaving the couple unmoved. Is it my fancy, that when _I_ come, the
conversation in that oak-panelled room becomes more tense, and if only I
stayed long enough I should discover what it was about?
In the model of old London Bridge Mrs. D. found something with which she
is now familiar, and my character for veracity with her went up by
leaps and bounds. The spiked heads on the battlements might have
belonged to objectionable relatives, with such satisfaction did she
greet them. The model of the old bridge clothed the dry bones of the
past with flesh, and Mrs. D., as a student of history, got a move on.
One can sympathise with her scepticism when one looks across at Bankside
with its gabled houses sleeping in the sunlight, and the glimpse of a
white country road shaded by green trees. That, Bankside! Surely, never!
I did not voice the thought, not wishing to quench the flax of the old
lady's newly acquired faith.
The fire of London next engaged her attention. To myself it is the least
successful of the models, although I confess to a childish pleasure in
watching old St. Paul's and its neighbourhood all aglow, like one of
those pictures one sees in the heart of a burning log. I thought, as I
looked at it, of the words of a writer of the times, quoted by Walter
Thornbury. "It was in the depth and the dead of the night," says the
Rev. Samuel Vincent, "when most doors and senses were lockt up in the
city, that the fire doth break forth and appear abroad." This is just
the thing one would expect of those "penny dreadful" days, and the
progress of the ghastly monster is described with a living terror as it
"rusheth down the hill (Fish Street Hill) towards the bridge, crosseth
Thames Street, invadeth Magnus Church at the bridge foot ... marcheth
back towards the city again, and runs along with great noise and
violence through Thames Street westward.... Rattle, rattle, rattle, was
the noise which the fire struck upon the ear round about, as if there
had been a thousand iron chariots beating upon the stones.... You might
see in some places whole streets at once in flames, that issued forth as
if they had been so many great forges from the opposite windows, which,
folding together, were united in one great flame throughout the whole
street; and then you might see the houses tumble, tumble, tumble from
one end of the street to the other with a great crash, leaving the
foundations open to the view of the heavens."
There was nothing half-hearted in the thrills provided for Londoners in
_those_ days, and the quaint little toy behind the plate glass revives a
ghostly repetition of them to an imaginative spectator. Mrs. D. said she
hadn't seen "anythink so pretty for a long time," and I left her glued
to the spot while I looked at Frost Fair on the Thames, with the Globe
Theatre behind, and sought in vain to find any of to-day in the models
of old Cheapside and Charing Cross.
I got Mrs. D. away from the Great Fire with a promise of prison cells
and relics of Newgate, and I must admit to a sensation myself when face
to face with the door of the condemned cell of Newgate Prison. This
particular corner of the Museum makes a bid for popularity with those
with a taste for horrors. The prison cells from Neptune Street, in which
debtors were confined for indefinite periods for small debts, are an
example of old London's cruelty to those of its unfortunate citizens who
couldn't pay their way. "Sly House," as the place was called, because of
the many who were seen to enter it and never seen to leave it, must have
been an object of terror to the impecunious. "Sly House" possessed a
subterranean passage to the Tower and the docks, and prisoners were
taken thence and embarked on the convict ship _Success_. The wooden
walls are scored with the names of some of those wretched human beings
who passed months and years in this living tomb. Apparently, they were
not all treated as is the man who lies chained from both wrists in the
outer cell. He could not have found temporary diversion from his misery
in such a task, but this other sitting at a table in the inner cell
might answer to one of those names. It is rather difficult to decipher
them in the dim light of the lantern which hangs in a corner of the
cell, and as I stooped forward my foot inadvertently came in contact
with the foot of the frowsy prisoner seated at the table. For an
instant I was conscious of an odd sensation of something like fear: not
fear of the poor lay figure, but fear of those dark days which, in some
curious fashion, the momentary contact had brought _quite close_. It was
as if I had stroked a stuffed tiger and it had suddenly snarled and
showed its teeth! Quite absurd, of course; a touch of Frankenstein, born
of my ambition to make the dry bones live.
There is a portrait sketch of Jack Sheppard by Sir James Thornhill in
the adjoining room. The audacious young rascal has a curious face in
which there is intellect, even soul, and an animal sort of alertness,
and the account of his daring escape from Newgate, where he was loaded
with irons and chained to a staple in the floor, reads like a page from
Dumas. He had, too, the sort of luck that attends heroes in fiction when
he found that small nail with which he freed his chain from the floor
staple. This done he got up the chimney, broke into a room over the
chapel with the aid of another large nail, which was provided by
Providence for the purpose, and with the help of an iron spike from the
chapel door, hacked a hole in the wall, through which he climbed on to
the leads. One holds one's breath when, these obstacles surmounted and
liberty almost within his grasp, Jack is confronted with the need of a
rope, and goes back to his cell by the way he had come to fetch his
blanket! It is not only the courage, but the optimism of the act which
strikes one, an optimism which was justified. He got the blanket, made
the rope, and with its aid descended to the roof of a turner who lived
in a house adjoining the prison. One must bear in mind, too, that Jack
was still handicapped by his irons! Picture him, having effected an
entrance into the turner's house by means of a garret window, slinking
down the stairs, past closed doors which might open any moment to wreck
his project at the moment of consummation.
According to that same account of his escape, a woman heard the chink of
his irons as he passed one of those doors, and thought it was the cat!
Maybe she was sitting by the fire nursing her baby, or reading some tale
of adventure, little dreaming that as exciting a story as any in fiction
was being enacted at her elbow.
One hears with regret that Jack's liberty was short-lived. Not a week
had passed before he was at his old game of burglary, and being captured
whilst drunk was once more imprisoned in Newgate, only to leave it this
time to be hanged at Tyburn.
Whilst I sought to read the riddle of the young reprobate's strange
physiognomy, Mrs. Darling was browsing with dark satisfaction amongst
the murder trials and executions. There she stood, spectacles on the
tip of her nose, hat perched at a jaunty angle, her lips forming the
words of the "Sorrowful Lamentation and last Farewell to the world of
four robbers," as she read:--
Four hopeless youth this day I tell
In Newgate dark and drear.
O, hear their last and sad farewell
To part this world of care.
On Tuesday next, that awful day
Which fast approaches nigh,
All in their prime of youthful years
They must prepare to die.
"Ain't it 'eart renderin'!" she exclaimed, as I looked over her
shoulder. "I reckon the man who said, 'Wot's got over the devil's back
is spent under 'is belly,' wasn't very far wrong neither."
Upstairs we came to a halt before the glass case in which Queen
Victoria's historic dresses are placed, beginning with the wedding
dress, and continuing with the gowns the Queen had worn at great
functions during those first years of her marriage. I invariably spend a
few meditative moments before the yellowed satin wedding dress and the
white silk which the bride had worn at dinner on that last day of
spinsterhood.
The heart of just a girl beat beneath those stiff little bodices. She
had the world at her feet, and it was the day of her mating with her
hero. I must admit that, to myself, "Albert" has never appeared in a
romantic light. Perhaps it's the fault of the "Memorial". Where is the
man who could live down the Albert Memorial? The adoring queen did her
dead husband an ill turn when she sought to immortalise him in such
fashion.
Ah, well! the adored and the adorer are both in their graves now, and
here, ironic fact, the bride's faded finery, after being laid away in
lavender for years, has emerged from seclusion to enact the new role of
relic.
"Now, if that'd bin _me_," remarked Mrs. Darling, as she stared at the
ivory satin dress, "I should 'ave took orf that real lace, which must be
worth _pounds and pounds_, and put on a nice himitation."
"Well, I'm glad it _wasn't_ you," I retorted.
The old lady winked at an attendant who was standing near, and I left
her to complete the conquest while I paid a visit to the "Georgian
dinner party". Those diners linger over their dessert an unconscionable
time. I wished I had the chance to help them out with the wine and the
biscuits. The red wine in the tall glasses, the cakes and fruit,
tantalise a hungry man who stares at them through the glass. The
gentlemen of the party apparently don't take tea. Three cups and
saucers only stand in front of the hostess, who is about to pour out.
One of the guests has risen and placed his glass of wine on the
mantelpiece. I imagine him the spokesman of the party. The museum was
almost deserted, everybody having gone to lunch. I could hear Mrs.
Darling's laugh in the distance. She and the attendant seemed to have a
good deal to say to each other; but in the corner where I stood there
was no one to disturb the Georgian ladies and gentlemen at their talk.
Their voices, speaking through the tunnel of nearly two hundred years,
were an atmosphere rather than a sound, and I was making an effort to
interpret it when Mrs. D. reappeared. She said she was sorry to have
kept me waiting, but the man to whom she had been talking knew the
barber who used to shave her husband when he had "bin on the drink," and
judging from her air of pleasant pre-occupation the encounter seemed to
have had a cheering effect.
I noticed, as she spoke, that her eyes wandered hungrily to the Georgian
dinner table, and I suggested that after we had had a look at the top
floor we should go and get some lunch. An idea had suddenly occurred to
me of steak pudding at the "Cheshire Cheese". Mrs. D., I felt, would
appreciate the homeliness of that place of entertainment.
There's a nice little furnished flat on the top floor of the Museum
which would suit me "down to the ground," as Mrs. D. expresses it. One
is not allowed to go inside and explore, and from where I stood I could
only catch tantalising glimpses of the three rooms it contained. In one
was an old four-poster standing cosily in a corner that seemed made to
hold it. To the right, through an open door, I caught a slant glimpse of
a fine apartment in which stood a magnificent old carved sideboard, two
ancient wooden chairs, and some pictures in oval gilt frames on the
panelled walls.
An opening into the third room, of which I could see just a corner lit
by a small-paned window, excited my curiosity still more. The flat had
no doubt been so staged with an idea of enhancing its desirableness. A
touch of mystery is as provocative in a house as it is in a woman. What
old Wemmick did with his drawbridge and his cannon is an instance of
what can be done by condescending to make believe.
As I continued to stare, a face appeared at the small-paned window
lighting the mysterious room. It was Mrs. Darling's face, grimacing
mischievously. How did she get there? I walked to the end of the
corridor and turned to the left, turned again, and behold, the secrets
of room three were revealed. A prim faded apartment with an open
spinet, old wooden chairs standing stiffly against the panelled wall, an
alcove in which old china was ranged, and needlework pictures.
Mrs. Darling had again disappeared, and I stood for some time taking
stock of the contents of the room three and room two from this new point
of vantage. I was rather sorry I had wrested their secrets from them.
All Mrs. D.'s fault. It was just like her to find a prosaic solution
whilst I was making mysteries out of nothing. There she was again,
signalling from the spot where I had stood a few minutes before. She
seemed to be inviting me to a game of hide and seek, but a sense of
dignity, and fear of the attendants, prevented my accepting the
challenge.
On our way downstairs we went into Room Four to see the relics of the
Great Plague. There is a bell used by the men in charge of the death
carts, when they went round calling their awful summons, "Bring out your
dead!" That old rusty bell with the long wooden handle could tell a tale
of horror if its iron tongue could speak our language. What sights it
has seen as the dead cart rumbled through the dark, narrow streets of
ancient London, and the bell rang its accompaniment to the bell-man's
fearful chant. Doors would open and lights shine out across the
pavement. The stricken silence of the night would be broken by stealthy
movements and smothered voices, shapeless, horrible burdens would
exchange hands, and the cart continue its way over the cobbles to the
awful goal of the plague pits. Perhaps it's well that rusty old bell
_can't_ speak!
There are also the Bills of Mortality, and remedies prescribed as
preventive measures (boiled milk with two cloves of garlick, was one I
noticed), also two fuming pots, in which charcoal was burnt: one found
at Moorfield and one in Town Ditch, Broad Street.
In a healthy reaction from the horrors of the Plague, Mrs. D. insisted
on having another look at the model of the Great Fire before we left the
Museum. It was only by reminding her that the "Cheshire Cheese" was a
"pub," and closed at three o'clock, that I at last succeeded in getting
her away from the fascinating toy.
It is now past 1 A.M., and as I have been writing ever since 10 P.M., I
must leave the account of our visit to the "Cheese" till my next. Mrs.
Darling is, presumably, sleeping the sleep of the just, and I hope not
disturbed by anything worse than dreams of the Great Fire. To lay any
ghosts of _that man_ with the rusty old bell who may haunt my own
thoughts, and yours, I quote dear old Herrick's words of another and
happier "Bell Man":--
From noise of scare-fires rest ye free,
From murders, Benedicite;
From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night,
Mercy secure ye all, and keep
The goblin from ye, while ye sleep.
Past one o'clock, and almost two--
My masters all, good day to you!
Yours ever,
GEORGE.