ANOTHER NEW YEAR'S DAY.
It was the 1st of January, 1840.
The tide of Time rolls on with the same unvarying steadiness of motion,
wearing off the asperities of barbarism, as the great flood of ocean
smooths the sharp edges of rugged rocks.
But as the seasons glide away, vainly may we endeavour to throw a veil
upon the past;--vainly do we lament, when Winter comes, that our
Spring-dreams should be faded and gone, too beautiful to
endure;--vainly, vainly do we pray that the waves of a Lethean sea may
overwhelm the memories of those years when Time cast flowers from his
brow, and diamonds from his wing!
Time looks down upon the world from the heights of the Pyramids of
Egypt; and, as he surveys the myriad cities of the universe swarming
with life,--marks the mighty armies of all states, ready to exterminate
and kill,--views the navies of great powers riding over every sea,--as
he beholds all these. Time chuckles, for he knows that they are his own!
For the day must come when the Pyramids themselves, the all but immortal
children of antiquity, shall totter and fall; and Time shall triumph
over even these.
The strongest edifices crumble into dust, and the power of the mightiest
nations fritters into shreds, beneath the hand of Time.
The glories of Sesostris are now a vague dream--the domination of Greece
and Rome has become an uncertain vision: the heroes of the Crusades have
long since mouldered in the earth;--the crescent of the Ottomans menaces
Christendom no more: the armadas of Spain are extinct;--the thrones that
Napoleon raised are cast down: of the millions that he led to conquest,
during his meteor-like career, what numbers have left this busy scene
for ever and how varied are the climes in which they have found their
graves!
[Illustration]
Oh, Time! what is there that can strive with thee--thou that art the
expression of the infinite existence of God himself!
Alas! if Time were a spirit endowed with intellect to comprehend, and
feelings to sympathise, how would he sorrow over the woes of that human
existence, which has now occupied nearly sixty centuries!
Year after year rolls away; and yet how slowly does civilization
accomplish its task of improving the condition of the sons and daughters
of toil.
For in the present day, as it was in the olden time, the millions labour
to support the few; and the few continue to monopolize the choicest
fruits of the earth.
The rights of labour are denied; and the privileges of birth and wealth
are dominant.
And ever, when the millions, bowed down by cares, and crushed with
incessant hardships, raise the voice of anguish to their taskmasters,
the cry is, "_Toil_! _toil_"
And when the poor labourer, with the sweat standing in large drops upon
his brow, points to his half-starved wife and little ones, and demands
the increase of his wages which will enable him to feed them adequately,
and clothe them comfortably, the only response that meets his ears is
still, "_Toil! toil!_"
And when the mechanic, pale and emaciated, droops over his loom, and in
a faint tone beseeches that his miserable pittance may be turned into a
fair remuneration for that hard and unceasing work which builds up the
fortunes of his employer, the answer to his pathetic prayer is, "_Toil!
toil!_"
And when the miner, who spends his best days in the bowels of the earth,
hewing the hard mineral in dark subterranean caves at the peril of his
life, and in positions which cramp his limbs, contract his chest, and
early prostrate his energies beyond relief,--when _he_ exalts his voice
from those hideous depths, and demands the settlement of labour's rights
upon a just basis, the only echo to his petition is, "_Toil! toil!_"
Yes--it is ever "_Toil! toil!_" for the millions, while the few repose
on downy couches, feed upon the luxuries of the land and water, and move
from place to place in sumptuous equipages!
It was the 1st of January, 1840.
Another New Year's Day--commemorated with feasting by those who had no
reason to repine, but marked as the opening of another weary epoch of
care and sorrow by those who had nothing for which to be grateful,
either to heaven or to man!
The first day of January, 1840, was inclement and severe. The air was
piercing cold, and the rain fell in torrents. The streets of the great
metropolis were swept by a wintery wind that chased the poor houseless
wanderers beneath the coverings of arches and doorways, and sent the
shivering mendicants to implore an asylum at the workhouse.
It was evening; and the lamps diffused but an uncertain light in the
great thoroughfares. The courts and alleys of the poor neighbourhoods
were enveloped in almost total darkness; for every shutter was closed,
and where there were no shutters, blinds were drawn down, or rags were
stretched across the windows, to expel the bitter cold.
We must now request our readers to accompany us to a district of London,
which is most probably altogether unknown to the aristocrat, even by
name, and with which many of that class whose occupations lead them into
an intimate acquaintance with the metropolis, are by no means familiar.
Situate to the east of Bethnal Green,--bounded on the north by Bonner's
Fields, on the south by the Mile End Road, and on the east by the
Regent's Canal,--and intersected by the line of the Eastern Counties
Railway, is an assemblage of narrow streets and filthy lanes, bearing
the denomination of Globe Town.
When compared with even the worst districts of the metropolis,--when
placed in contrast with Saint Giles's or Saffron Hill,--Globe Town still
appears a sink of human misery which civilisation, in its progress, has
forgotten to visit.
The majority of the streets are unpaved, rugged, and broken. The
individual who traverses them in the summer is blinded by the dust, or
disgusted by heaps of putrescent offal, the rotting remains of
vegetables, and filth of every description, which meet the eye at short
intervals; and, in winter, he wallows, knee-deep, in black mud and
stagnant water. But even in the summer itself, and in the very midst of
the dog-days, there are swamps of mire in many of the streets of Globe
Town, which exhale a nauseating and sickly odour, like that of
decomposing dead bodies.
In the winter time Globe Town is a complete marsh. Lying low, in the
vicinity of the canal, and on a naturally swampy soil, the district is
unhealthy in the extreme. Nor do its inhabitants endeavour, by any
efforts of their own, to mitigate the consequences of these local
disadvantages. They seem, for the most part, to cling with a sort of
natural tenacity, to their rags and filth. Perhaps it is the bitterness
of their poverty which makes them thus neglectful of the first duties of
cleanliness: perhaps their pinching indigence reduces them to a state of
despair that allows them no spirit and no heart to do any thing that may
conduce to their comfort. Whatever be the cause, it is nevertheless a
fact that, with the exception of one or two streets, Globe Town is a
district which necessity alone could compel a person of cleanly habits
and domestic propriety to reside in.
And yet Globe Town contains streets delighting in aristocratic names.
There is Grosvenor Place in which a carriage and pair would have some
trouble to turn; there is Parade Street, where a corporal's guard could
not find space to manoeuvre; there is Park Street, whose most gorgeous
embellishment is the sign of a mangle; there is Chester Place, formed by
two rows of miserable shops; and there are Essex Street and Digby
Street, where single men may obtain lodgings at the rate of threepence a
night.
How strange is this affection for fine names to distinguish horrible
neighbourhoods! In the lowest parts of Whitechapel we find Pleasant Row,
Queen Street, Flower Street, Duke Street, and Rose Lane. In Bethnal
Green, a place inhabited by the poorest of the poor is denominated
Silver Street; and, in the same district, a filthy thoroughfare is
christened Pleasant Street.
Globe Town and its immediate vicinity abound in cemeteries. To the north
there is the Eastern London Cemetery; and to the south there are two
Jews' burial grounds, and two other places of sepulture. With the
exception of the first-mentioned one, which has only been recently
opened, and is a large airy space neatly planted with shrubs, those
cemeteries are so crowded with the remains of mortality, that it is
impossible to drive a spade into the ground without striking against
human bones.
When you once merge from the Cambridge Road, pass the new church in
Bethnal Green, and plunge into Globe Town, it seems as if you had left
London altogether,--as if you were no longer within the limits of the
metropolis, but had suddenly dropped from the clouds into a strange
village strangely peopled. You encounter but few persons in the streets;
and those whom you do meet are, for the most part, squalid, emaciated,
pale, and drooping. The only sounds of mirth which meet your ear,
emanate from the casements of the public-houses, or from the urchins
that play half-naked in the mud. With these exceptions, Globe Town is
silent, gloomy, and sombre.
The shop-windows are indicative of the poverty of the inhabitants. The
butcher's shed displays but a few slices of liver stretched upon a
board, sheep's heads of no very inviting appearance, and hearts, lungs,
and lights, all hanging together, like a Dutch clock with its weights
against a wall. The poor make stews of this offal. The fish-stalls
present "for public competition," as George Robins would say, nothing
but the most coarse and the cheapest articles--such as huge Dutch
plaice, haddocks, &c. In the season the itinerant venders of
fresh-herrings and sprats drive a good trade in Globe Town. In a word,
every thing in that district denotes poverty--poverty--nothing but
pinching poverty.
The inhabitants of Globe Town are of two kinds; being weavers, and
persons who earn their livelihood by working at the docks or on the
canal, on the one hand; and thieves, prostitutes, and vagrants, on the
other. When a burglar or a pickpocket finds St. Giles's, Clerkenwell,
the Mint, or Bethnal Green too hot to hold him, he betakes himself to
Globe Town, where he buries himself in some obscure garret until the
storms that menaced him be blown over. Globe Town has thus acquired
amongst the fraternity of rogues of all classes, the expressive
denomination of the "Happy Valley."
In one of the narrowest, dirtiest, and most lonely streets at the
eastern extremity of Globe Town, there was a house of an appearance more
dilapidated than the rest. It was only two storeys high, and was built
in a very singular manner. From the very threshold of the front door a
precipitate staircase, more nearly resembling a ladder, led to the upper
apartments; so that when any one entered that house from the street, he
had to thread no passage nor corridor, but immediately began to ascend
those steep steps. The staircase led to a landing, from which two doors
opened into small, dirty, and dark chambers. These rooms had a door of
communication pierced in the wall that separated them: but there were no
stairs leading down into the lower apartments of the house. The only way
of obtaining access to the rooms on the ground-floor, was by means of a
door up an alley leading from the street, and running along one side of
the house into a court formed by other dwellings. Thus the upper and
lower parts of this strange building might be said to constitute two
distinct tenements. The windows of the ground-floor rooms were darkened
with shutters, at the upper part of which holes in the shape of hearts
had been cut to admit a few straggling rays of light.
The rooms on the upper floor were furnished in a tolerably comfortable
manner; but every article was wretchedly begrimed with dirt. The front
apartment served as a sitting-room for the inmates of this
strangely-built house; and the back chamber was fitted up as a bed-room.
It was evening, as we before said; and thick curtains were drawn over
the two windows of the front room to which we have alluded. A candle
with a long flaring wick, stood upon the table. On a good fire a kettle
was just beginning to boil. The table was set out with glasses, bottles,
sugar, lemons, pipes, and tobacco. The inmates of that room were
evidently preparing for a carouse, while the rain beat in torrents
against the windows, and the wind swept down the street like a
hurricane.
But who _were_ the inmates of that room?
We will proceed to inform our readers.
Lolling in an arm-chair, the covering of which was torn in many places,
and spotted all over with grease, was a female, who in reality had
scarcely numbered five-and-twenty years, but to whom the ravages of
dissipation and evil passions gave the appearance of five-and-thirty.
She had once been good-looking; and her features still retained the
traces of beauty: but there was a deep blue tint beneath the eyes, which
joined the dark thick brows, and thus seemed to inclose the orbs
themselves in a dingy circle. The faded cheeks were coloured with rouge;
but the dye had been so clumsily plastered on, that the effect could not
deceive the most ignorant in such matters. This woman wore a faded light
silk gown, cut very low in front, and disclosing a considerable portion
of a thin and shrivelled neck. In a word, she had the air of being what
she really was--a faded courtesan of a low order. Her proper name was
Margaret Flathers; but her acquaintance, for brevity's sake, called her
Meg; and, in addition to these appellations, the name of _The
Rattlesnake_ had been conferred upon her, from the circumstance that she
was fond of dressing in silks or satins, which she had a habit of
rustling as much as possible when she walked.
On the other side of the fire-place was seated a man of cadaverous
countenance, which was overshadowed by a quantity of tangled black hair,
and whose expression was vile and sinister to a degree.
"Half-past eight," said the woman, glancing towards a huge silver-watch
which hung by a faded blue riband to a nail over the mantel.
"Yes--they can't be long now," returned her companion, who was no other
than the Resurrection Man. "But because they're late, Meg, it's no
reason why we shouldn't have a drop of blue ruin. The night's precious
cold; and the kettle's just on the boil. Pour out the daffy, Meg."
The woman drew two tumblers towards her, and half filled each with gin.
She then added sugar and lemon; and in a few moments the Resurrection
Man poured the boiling element upon the liquor.
"Good, isn't it, Tony?" said the Rattlesnake.
"Capital, Meg. You're an excellent girl to judge of the proportions in a
glass of lush."
"And I think, Tony," said the woman coaxingly, "that you have had no
reason to complain of me in other respects. Twelve months all but a few
days that we've been together, and I have done all I could to make you
comfortable."
"And so you ought," answered the Resurrection Man. "Didn't I take you
out of the street and make an independent lady of you? Ain't you the
mistress of this crib of mine? and don't you live upon the fat of the
land?"
"Very true, Tony," said the Rattlesnake. "But what would you have done
without me? When that business took place down by the Bird-cage Walk,
and you was obliged to come and hide yourself in the Happy Valley, you
wanted some one you could rely upon to go out and buy your things, take
care of the place, and get information whether the blue-bottles had
fallen on any scent."
"All right, my girl," cried the Resurrection Man. "I _did_ want such a
person, and the moment after I escaped that night when I blew the old
crib up, I went to you and told you just what I required. You agreed to
come and live with me and I agreed to treat you well. We have both kept
our bargain; and I am satisfied if you are."
"Oh! you know I am, Tony dear," exclaimed the Rattlesnake. "But
sometimes you have been so cross and quarrelsome, that I didn't know
what to make of it."
"And was there no excuse, Meg?" cried the Resurrection Man. "Did I not
see my old mother and the Cracksman perish before my very eyes--and by
my own hand too? But I do not accuse myself of having wilfully caused
their death. There was no help for it. We should have all three been
taken to Newgate, and never have come out of the jug again but
twice--once to be tried, and the second time to be hung."
"Could they have proved any thing against you?" demanded the
Rattlesnake.
"Yes, Meg," answered the Resurrection Man; "there was a stiff'un in the
front room at the very moment when the police broke into the house. We
had burked him on the preceding evening; and he was still hanging head
downwards to the ceiling."
"It was much better, then, to blow the place up, as you did," observed
the Rattlesnake.
"Of course it was, Meg. Don't you see," continued the Resurrection Man,
after a pause, during which he imbibed a considerable quantity of the
exhilarating fluid in his glass,--"don't you see that I was too old a
bird not to be always prepared for such an event as that which happened
at last? I had got together a great quantity of gunpowder in the
back-room of the crib, and had stowed it away in brown paper parcels in
a cupboard. This cupboard stood between the fire-place and the back wall
of the house. So I had made a hole through the wall, and had introduced
a long iron pipe into the cupboard. This pipe was ten or twelve feet in
length, and ran all along the wall that divided my yard from the next.
The pipe, so placed, was protected by a wooden cover or case; and any
one who saw it, must have thought it was only a water-pipe. It was,
however, filled with excellent gunpowder, and there was nothing to do
but to put a match to the farthest end of the pipe to blow up the whole
place."
"Capital contrivance!" exclaimed the Rattlesnake. "Had you put up that
pipe long before the police broke into the house?"
"Oh! yes--some months," answered the Resurrection Man; "and very lucky
it was, too, that the pipe was water-tight, so that the rain had never
moistened the powder in the least. Well, when the blue-bottles broke in,
I rushed into the back-room, locked the door, leapt through the window,
flew to the end of the pipe, tore out the plug, applied the match, and
in a moment all was over."
"And for a long time even your old pals at the Boozing-ken on Saffron
Hill, fancied you had been blown up with the rest," said the
Rattlesnake.
"Of course they did, because the newspapers, which you always used to go
and fetch me to read, said there was no doubt that every one of the gang
in the house at the time had perished."
"And they also spoke of the way in which the police had followed you and
the Cracksman to the house," said the Rattlesnake.
"Yes--and that was how I came to learn that the man who had hunted me
almost to death, was Richard Markham," exclaimed the Resurrection
Man, his countenance suddenly wearing an expression of such
concentrated--vile--malignant rage, as to render him perfectly hideous.
"Now don't begin to brood over that," cried the Rattlesnake hastily;
"for I am almost afraid of you when you get into one of those humours,
dear Tony."
"No--I shan't give way now," said the villain: "I have prepared the
means for revenge; and then I shall be happy. Ah! Meg, you cannot
conceive how I gloated over the wretch the other night when I denounced
him in the theatre! That man has been the means of making me stay in
this infernal prison--for it has been nothing better--for weeks and
months; he was the cause of the loss of my best friend, the Cracksman,
and of my old mother, who was very useful in her way: and he prevented
me from getting that young fellow into my power, who went and explored
the Palace. When I think of all that I have suffered through this
infernal Richard Markham, I am ready to go mad;--and I should have gone
mad, too, if it hadn't been that I always thought the day of vengeance
would come!"
"And my little attentions helped to console you Tony," said the
Rattlesnake, in a wheedling manner that seemed peculiar to her.
"Oh! as for that, Meg, a man like me can be consoled by nothing short of
revenge in such a case. I have told you the history of my life over and
over again; and I think you must have learnt from it, that I am not a
person to put up with an injury. I have often thought of doing to
Markham as I did to the justice of the peace and the baronet--setting
his house on fire; but then he might not learn who was the incendiary,
or he might even think that it was an accident. My object is for him to
know who strikes him, that he may writhe the more."
"And do you think that the Buffer and Moll are to be depended upon?"
asked Margaret Flathers.
"To the back-bone," replied the Resurrection Man. "How could the Buffer
possibly betray _me_, when _he_ was one of the gang, as the newspapers
called it? Besides, wasn't he laid by the heels in Clerkenwell Gaol for
making away with the bantling to cheat the Burying Society? and didn't
he escape? How could he go and place himself in contact with the police
by giving information against me? And what good would it be to him to
deceive me? He knows that I have got plenty of tin, and can pay him
well. Indeed, how has he lived in the Happy Valley for the last eleven
months and more, since he escaped out of Clerkenwell? Haven't I been as
good as a brother to him, and lent him money over and over again?"
"Very true," said the Rattlesnake. "I only spoke on your account."
"I shall be able to let the Buffer in for several good things, now that
I am determined to commence an active life again," continued the
Resurrection Man. "I have been idle quite long enough; and I am not
going to remain so any more. Why, Greenwood alone ought to be as good as
an annuity to me. He can always find employment for a skilful and daring
fellow like me."
"And he pays like a prince, doesn't he?" demanded the Rattlesnake.
"Like a prince," repeated the Resurrection Man. "Five guineas the other
night for just attending the carrying off of the young actress. That is
the way to make money, Meg."
"And you have got plenty, Tony, I know?" said the woman, in a tone more
than half interrogatively, and only partially expressing a conviction.
"What's that to you?" cried the Resurrection Man, brutally; at the same
time eyeing his mistress in a somewhat suspicious manner.
"Oh! only because you needn't have any secrets from me, Tony," returned
the Rattlesnake, affecting a tone of indifference. "You have been out
every night lately--and only for a short time--"
"Now I tell you what it is, Meg," exclaimed Tidkins, striking his fist
upon the table, "you have asked me about my money a great many times
lately; and I tell you very candidly, I don't like it. It looks
suspicious; but, by heavens! if you attempt to play me false--"
"Why should you say that, Tony? Have I not given you every proof of
fidelity?"
"Yes--you have; or else I should have known what to do in a very few
moments. But why do you bother yourself about the money that I have got?
It is very little, I can tell you; but where it is, it's safe enough;
and if I ever catch you attempting to follow me or spy upon me when I go
into the rooms down stairs, I'll make you repent it."
"Now, Tony dear, don't put yourself into a passion," said the
Rattlesnake, turning pale, and assuming her usual wheedling tone: "I
didn't mean to annoy you. All that I wanted to know was whether there
was a chance of running short or not."
"Don't frighten yourself, Meg," returned the Resurrection Man. "Whenever
I run low, I know how to get more. And now, that we mayn't have to talk
upon this subject again, recollect once for all that I won't have you
prying into any thing that I choose to keep to myself. You know that I
am not a man to be trifled with; and if any one was to betray me--I
don't mean to say that you ever had such an idea--I only mean you to
understand that if anybody _did_--"
"Well--what?" said the Rattlesnake in a tone of alarm.
"I would not be taken alive," added the Resurrection Man; "and those who
came to take me at all, would probably travel the same road that the
police, the Cracksman, and the Mummy have gone already."
"Tony," exclaimed the woman, a deadly pallor overspreading her
countenance, "you don't mean to say that this house is provided with a
pipe like the one--"
"I don't mean to say any thing at all about it, one way or another,"
interrupted the Resurrection Man coolly. "All I want you to do is to
remain quiet--attend to my wishes--keep a close tongue in your head--and
have no eyes for any thing that I don't tell you to look at,--and then
we shall go on as pleasant as before. Otherwise--"
At this moment a knock at the street door was heard.
The Rattlesnake hastened to answer the summons, and returned accompanied
by the Buffer and his wife.