Early in the morning of Thursday, the 15th of October, 1724, the
door of the Castle was opened by Austin, who, with a look of unusual
importance, announced to the prisoner that four gentlemen were
shortly coming up with the governor to see him,--“four _such_
gentlemen,” he added, in a tone meant to impress his auditor with a
due sense of the honour intended him, “as you don't meet every day.”
“Is Mr. Wood among them?” asked Jack, eagerly.
“Mr. Wood!--no,” replied the turnkey. “Do you think I'd take the
trouble to announce _him_? These are persons of consequence, I tell
you.”
“Who are they?” inquired Sheppard.
“Why, first,” rejoined Austin, “there's Sir James Thornhill,
historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the
day. Those grand designs in the dome of St. Paul's are his work. So
is the roof of the state-room at Hampton Court Palace, occupied by
Queen Anne, and the Prince of Denmark. So is the chapel of All Souls
at Oxford, and the great hall at Blenheim, and I don't know how many
halls and chapels besides. He's now engaged on the hall at Greenwich
Hospital.”
“I've heard of him,” replied Jack, impatiently. “Who are the others?”
“Let me see. There's a friend of Sir James--a young man, an engraver
of masquerade tickets and caricatures,--his name I believe is
Hogarth. Then, there's Mr. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,'
which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by
the Princess of Wales. And, lastly, there's Mr. Figg, the noted
prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields.”
“Figg's an old friend of mine,” rejoined Jack; “he was my instructor
in the small sword and back sword exercise. I'm glad he's come to see
me.”
“You don't inquire what brings Sir James Thornhill here?” said
Austin.
“Curiosity, I suppose,” returned Jack, carelessly.
“No such thing,” rejoined the jailer; “he's coming on business.”
“On what business, in the name of wonder?” asked Sheppard.
“To paint your portrait,” answered the jailer.
“My portrait!” echoed Jack.
“By desire of his Majesty,” said the jailer, consequentially. “He has
heard of your wonderful escapes, and wishes to see what you're like.
There's a feather in your cap! No house-breaker was ever so highly
honoured before.”
“And have my escapes really made so much noise as to reach the ear of
royalty?” mused Jack. “I have done nothing--nothing to what I _could_
do--to what I _will_ do!”
“You've done quite enough,” rejoined Austin; “more than you'll ever
do again.”
“And then to be taken thus, in these disgraceful bonds!” continued
Jack, “to be held up as a sight for ever!”
“Why, how else would you be taken?” exclaimed the jailer, with a
coarse laugh. “It's very well Mr. Wild allowed you to have your
fine clothes again, or you might have been taken in a still more
disgraceful garb. For my part, I think those shackles extremely
becoming. But, here they are.”
Voices being heard at the door, Austin flew to open it, and admitted
Mr. Pitt, the governor, a tall pompous personage, who, in his turn,
ushered in four other individuals. The first of these, whom he
addressed as Mr. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man,
about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black
eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish
humour--an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a
very shrewd and sarcastic curl. The poet's appearance altogether was
highly prepossessing. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a
particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. Gay, by his strokes
of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a
friend. On the contrary, he was a universal favourite, and numbered
amongst his intimate acquaintances the choicest spirits of the
time,--Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and “all the better brothers.” His
demeanour was polished; his manners singularly affable and gentle;
and he was remarkable, for the generosity of his temper. In worldly
matters Gay was not fortunate. Possessed, at one time, of a share
in the South Sea stock, he conceived himself worth twenty thousand
pounds. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished
with it. Neither did his interest,--which was by no means
inconsiderable,--nor his general popularity, procure him the
preferment he desired. A constant attendant at court, he had the
mortification to see every one promoted but himself, and thus bewails
his ill-luck.
Places, I found, were daily given away,
And yet no friendly gazette mentioned Gay.
The prodigious success of the “Beggars' Opera,” which was produced
about four years after the date of this history, rewarded him for
all his previous disappointments, though it did not fully justify the
well-known epigram, alluding to himself and the manager, and “make
Gay _rich_, and Rich _gay_.” At the time of his present introduction,
his play of “The Captives,” had just been produced at Drury Lane,
and he was meditating his “Fables,” which were published two years
afterwards.
Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. The eminent painter had
handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal
of dignity in his manner. His age was not far from fifty. He was
accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried
his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the
paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him
the most assiduous attention. This young man, whose features, though
rather plain and coarse, bore the strongest impress of genius, and
who had a dark gray, penetrating eye, so quick in its glances that it
seemed to survey twenty objects at once, and yet only to fasten upon
one, bore the honoured name of William Hogarth. Why he paid so much
attention to Sir James Thornhill may be explained anon.
The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built
man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many
a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like
look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he
conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. This formidable
person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the “Atlas of the
sword,” as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and
“skull covering,” and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and
close-shaven pate. His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a
neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as
a model for a Hercules. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be
called, a _flattened_ nose, and a brown, leathern-looking hide,
that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of
tanning. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. The
above description of
--the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains
Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains--
may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of
him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that “there was a majesty
shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I
ever saw;” but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of
his personal appearance. James Figg was the most perfect master of
self-defence of his day. Seconded by his strength and temper, his
skill rendered him invincible and he is reputed never to have lost
a battle. His imperturbable demeanour in the fight has been well
portrayed by Captain Godfrey, who here condescends to lay aside
his stilts. “His right leg bold and firm, and his left, which could
hardly ever be disturbed, gave him a surprising advantage, and
struck his adversary with despair and panic. He had a peculiar way of
stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving;
put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape. He was
just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a
greater judge of time and measure.” Figg's prowess in a combat with
Button has been celebrated by Dr. Byrom,--a poet of whom his native
town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure
have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the
present occasion,--Hogarth,--in the levée in the “Rake's Progress,”
and in “Southwark Fair.”
On the appearance of his visitors, Sheppard arose,--his gyves
clanking heavily as he made the movement,--and folding his arms,
so far as his manacles would permit him, upon his breast, steadily
returned the glances fixed upon him.
“This is the noted house-breaker and prison-breaker, gentlemen,” said
Mr. Pitt, pointing to the prisoner.
“Odd's life!” cried Gay, in astonishment; “is this slight-made
stripling Jack Sheppard? Why, I expected to see a man six foot high
at the least, and as broad across the shoulders as our friend Figg.
This is a mere boy. Are you sure you haven't mistaken the ward, Mr.
Pitt?”
“There is no mistake, Sir,” rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself
up, “I am Jack Sheppard.”
“Well, I never was more surprised in my life,” said the
poet,--“never!”
“He's just the man _I_ expected to see,” observed Hogarth, who,
having arranged everything to Thornhill's satisfaction, had turned to
look at the prisoner, and was now with his chin upon his wrist, and
his elbow supported by the other hand, bending his keen gray eyes
upon him, “just the man! Look at that light, lithe figure,--all
muscle and activity, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon it.
In my search after strange characters, Mr. Gay, I've been in many
odd quarters of our city--have visited haunts frequented only by
thieves--the Old Mint, the New Mint, the worst part of St. Giles's,
and other places--but I've nowhere seen any one who came up
so completely to my notion of a first-rate housebreaker as the
individual before us. Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a
man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes
he has effected.”
As he spoke, a smile crossed Sheppard's countenance.
“He understands me, you perceive,” said Hogarth.
“Well, I won't dispute your judgment in such matters, Mr. Hogarth,”
replied Gay. “But I appeal to you, Sir James, whether it isn't
extraordinary that so very slight a person should be such a desperate
robber as he is represented--so young, too, for such an _old_
offender. Why, he can scarcely be twenty.”
“I am one-and-twenty,” observed Jack.
“One-and-twenty, ah!” repeated Gay. “Well, I'm not far from the
mark.”
“He is certainly extremely youthful-looking and very slightly
made,” said Thornhill, who had been attentively studying Sheppard's
countenance. “But I agree with Hogarth, that he is precisely the
person to do what he has done. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would
sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould. Can I be
accommodated with a seat, Mr. Pitt?”
“Certainly, Sir James, certainly,” replied the governor. “Get a
chair, Austin.”
While this order was obeyed, Figg, who had been standing near the
door, made his way to the prisoner, and offered him his huge hand,
which Jack warmly grasped.
“Well, Jack,” said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice,
and with a cut-and-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; “how are
you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. Wouldn't take my advice. Told
you how it would be. One mistress enough to ruin a man,--two, the
devil. Laughed at me, then. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth,
now.”
“You're not come here to insult me, Mr. Figg?” said Jack, peevishly.
“Insult you! not I;” returned Figg. “Heard of your escapes. Everybody
talking of you. Wished to see you. Old pupil. Capital swordsman.
Shortly to be executed. Come to take leave. Trifle useful?” he added,
slipping a few gold pieces into Jack's hand.
“You are very kind,” said Jack, returning the money; “but I don't
require assistance.”
“Too proud, eh?” rejoined the prize-fighter. “Won't be under an
obligation.”
“There you're wrong, Mr. Figg,” replied Jack, smiling; “for, before
I'm taken to Tyburn, I mean to borrow a shirt for the occasion from
you.”
“Have it, and welcome,” rejoined Figg. “Always plenty to spare. Never
bought a shirt in my life, Mr. Gay,” he added, turning to the poet.
“Sold a good many, though.”
“How do you manage that, Mr. Figg?” asked Gay.
“Thus,” replied the prize-fighter. “Proclaim a public fight.
Challenge accepted. Fifty pupils. Day before, send round to each to
borrow a shirt. Fifty sent home. All superfine holland. Wear one on
the stage on the following day. Cut to pieces--slashed--bloodied.
Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. Offer to return it to
each in private. All make the same answer--'d--n you, keep it.'”
“An ingenious device,” laughed Gay.
Sir James Thornhill's preparations being completed, Mr. Pitt desired
to know if he wanted anything further, and being answered in the
negative, he excused himself on the plea that his attendance was
required in the court at the Old Bailey, which was then sitting, and
withdrew.
“Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack,” said Sir James.
“Gentlemen, a little further off, if you please.”
Sheppard immediately complied with the painter's request; while Gay
and Figg drew back on one side, and Hogarth on the other. The latter
took from his pocket a small note-book and pencil.
“I'll make a sketch, too,” he said. “Jack Sheppard's face is well
worth preserving.”
After narrowly examining the countenance of the sitter, and motioning
him with his pencil into a particular attitude, Sir James Thornhill
commenced operations; and, while he rapidly transferred his
lineaments to the canvass, engaged him in conversation, in the course
of which he artfully contrived to draw him into a recital of his
adventures. The _ruse_ succeeded almost beyond his expectation.
During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression,
which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly
caught and depicted by the skilful artist. All the party were greatly
interested by Sheppard's history--especially Figg, who laughed loud
and long at the escape from the Condemned Hold. When Jack came to
speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell.
“We must change the subject,” remarked Thornhill, pausing in his
task; “this will never do.”
“Quite right, Sir James,” said Austin. “We never suffer him to
mention Mr. Wild's name. He never appears to so little advantage as
when speaking of him.”
“I don't wonder at it,” rejoined Gay.
Here Hogarth received a private signal from Thornhill to attract
Sheppard's attention.
“And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?” remarked
Hogarth.
“That's scarcely a fair question, Mr. Hogarth, before the jailer,”
replied Jack. “But I tell you frankly, and Mr. Austin, may repeat it
if he pleases to his master, Jonathan Wild,--I have _not_.”
“Well said, Jack,” cried Figg. “Never give in.”
“Well,” observed Hogarth, “if, fettered as you are, you contrive to
break out of this dungeon, you'll do what no man ever did before.”
A peculiar smile illuminated Jack's features.
“There it is!” cried Sir James, eagerly. “There's the exact
expression I want. For the love of Heaven, Jack, don't move!--Don't
alter a muscle, if you can help it.”
And, with a few magical touches, he stamped the fleeting expression
on the canvass.
“I have it too!” exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil. “Gad!
it's a devilish fine face when lit up.”
“As like as life, Sir,” observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill's
shoulder at the portrait. “As like as life.”
“The very face,” exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;--“with all
the escapes written in it.”
“You flatter me,” smiled Sir James. “But, I own, I think it _is_
like.”
“What do you think of _my_ sketch, Jack?” said Hogarth, handing him
the drawing.
“It's like enough, I dare say,” rejoined Sheppard. “But it wants
something _here_.” And he pointed significantly to the hand.
“I see,” rejoined Hogarth, rapidly sketching a file, which he placed
in the hands of the picture. “Will that do?” he added, returning it.
“It's better,” observed Sheppard, meaningly. “But you've given me
what I don't possess.”
“Hum!” said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him. “I don't see how I can
improve it.”
“May I look at it, Sir!” said Austin, stepping towards him.
“No,” replied Hogarth, hastily effacing the sketch. “I'm never
satisfied with a first attempt.”
“Egad, Jack,” said Gay, “you should write your adventures. They would
be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache,
Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of
my favourite rogues,--and far more instructive.”
“You had better write them for me, Mr. Gay,” rejoined Jack.
“If you'll write them, I'll illustrate them,” observed Hogarth.
“An idea has just occurred to me,” said Gay, “which Jack's narrative
has suggested. I'll write an opera the scene of which shall be
laid altogether in Newgate, and the principal character shall be a
highmaywan. I'll not forget your two mistresses, Jack.”
“Nor Jonathan Wild, I hope,” interposed Sheppard.
“Certainly not,” replied Gay. “I'll gibbet the rascal. But I
forget,” he added, glancing at Austin; “it's high treason to speak
disrespectfully of Mr. Wild in his own domain.”
“I hear nothing, Sir,” laughed Austin.
“I was about to add,” continued Gay, “that my opera shall have no
music except the good old ballad tunes. And we'll see whether it
won't put the Italian opera out of fashion, with Cutzoni, Senesino,
and the 'divine' Farinelli at its head.”
“You'll do a national service, then,” said Hogarth. “The sums
lavished upon those people are perfectly disgraceful, and I should be
enchanted to see them hooted from the stage. But I've an idea as well
as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. I'll take
two apprentices, and depict their career. One, by perseverance and
industry shall obtain fortune, credit, and the highest honours;
while the other by an opposite course, and dissolute habits, shall
eventually arrive at Tyburn.”
“Your's will be nearer the truth, and have a deeper moral, Mr.
Hogarth,” remarked Jack, dejectedly. “But if my career were truly
exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the
shape of--”
“Jonathan Wild,” interposed Gay. “I knew it. By the by, Mr. Hogarth,
didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and
her pretty daughter?”
“Me!--no, Sir,” stammered Hogarth, colouring. And he hazarded a wink
at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Luckily, Sir
James was so much engrossed by his own task, that both the remark and
gesture escaped him.
“I suppose I was mistaken,” returned Gay. “You've been quizzing my
friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate.”
“A capital caricature that,” remarked Thornhill, laughing. “What does
Mr. Kent say to it?”
“He thinks so highly of it, that he says if he had a daughter he
would give her to the artist,” answered Gay, a little maliciously.
“Ah!” exclaimed Sir James.
“'Sdeath!” cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. “You've ruined my
hopes.”
“Advanced them rather,” replied Gay, in the same tone. “Miss
Thornhill's a charming girl. _I_ think a wife a needless incumbrance,
and mean to die a bachelor. But, if I were in your place, I know what
I'd do--”
“What--what would you do?” asked Hogarth, eagerly.
“Run away with her,” replied Gay.
“Pish!” exclaimed Hogarth. But he afterwards acted upon the
suggestion.
“Good-b'ye, Jack,” said Figg, putting on his hat. “Rather in the way.
Send you the shirt. Here, turnkey. Couple of guineas to drink Captain
Sheppard's speedy escape. Thank him, not me, man. Give this fellow
the slip, if you can, Jack. If not, keep up your spirits. Die game.”
“Never fear,” replied Jack. “If I get free, I'll have a bout with you
at all weapons. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the
City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn.”
“Give you the best I have in either case,” replied Figg. “Good-b'ye!”
And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure.
Sir James Thornhill, then, rose.
“I won't trouble you further, Jack,” he remarked. “I've done all I
can to the portrait here. I must finish it at home.”
“Permit me to see it, Sir James!” requested Jack. “Ah!” he exclaimed,
as the painting was turned towards him. “What would my poor mother
say to it?”
“I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack,” observed Hogarth.
“What of her?” exclaimed Jack, starting up. “Is she dead?”
“No--no,” answered Hogarth. “Don't alarm yourself. I saw it this
morning in the Daily Journal--an advertisement, offering a reward--”
“A reward!” echoed Jack. “For what?”
“I had the paper with me. 'Sdeath! what can I have done with it? Oh!
here it is,” cried Hogarth, picking it from the ground. “I must
have dropped it when I took out my note-book. There's the
paragraph. '_Mrs. Sheppard left Mr. Wood's house at Dollis Hill on
Tuesday_'--that's two days ago,--'_hasn't been heard of since_.'”
“Let me see,” cried Jack, snatching the paper, and eagerly perusing
the advertisement. “Ah!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. “She has
fallen into the villain's hands.”
“What villain?” cried Hogarth.
“Jonathan Wild, I'll be sworn,” said Gay.
“Right!--right!” cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his
breast. “She is in his power, and I am here, chained hand and foot,
unable to assist her.”
“I could make a fine sketch of him now,” whispered Hogarth to Gay.
“I told you how it was, Sir James,” said Austin, addressing the
knight, who was preparing for his departure, “he attributes every
misfortune that befals him to Mr. Wild.”
“And with some justice,” replied Thornhill, drily.
“Allow me to assist you, Sir James,” said Hogarth.
“Many thanks, Sir,” replied Thornhill, with freezing politeness; “but
Id not require assistance.”
“I tell you what, Jack,” said Gay, “I've several urgent engagements
this morning; but I'll return to-morrow, and hear the rest of your
story. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me.”
“To-morrow will be too late,” said Sheppard, moodily.
The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass
carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner,
who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure.
Just as Hogarth got to the door, the turnkey stopped him.
“You have forgotten your knife, Mr. Hogarth,” he observed,
significantly.
“So I have,” replied Hogarth, glancing at Sheppard.
“I can do without it,” muttered Jack.
The door was then locked, and he was left alone.
At three o'clock, on the same day, Austin brought up Jack's
provisions, and, after carefully examining his fetters, and finding
all secure, told him if he wanted anything further he must mention
it, as he should not be able to return in the evening, his presence
being required elsewhere. Jack replied in the negative, and it
required all his mastery over himself to prevent the satisfaction
which this announcement afforded him from being noticed by the
jailer.
With the usual precautions, Austin then departed.
“And now,” cried Jack, leaping up, “for an achievement, compared with
which all I have yet done shall be as nothing!”