_A Romance of High Holborn._
_(Concluded from page 46.)_
On recovering from my stupor, I found myself with a physician and two
apothecaries beside me, in bed at the George Inn, Ramsgate. I had been,
it seems, for two whole days delirious, during which pregnant interval I
had lived over again all the horrors of the preceding hours. The wind
sang in my ears, the phantom forms of the unburied flitted pale and
ghastly before my eyes. I fancied that I was still on the sea; that the
massive copper-coloured clouds which hovered scarcely a yard overhead,
were suddenly transformed into uncouth shapes, who glared at me from
between saffron chinks, made by the scudding wrack; that the waters
teemed with life, cold, slimy, preternatural things of life; that their
eyes after assuming a variety of awful expressions, settled down into
that dull frozen character, and their voices into that low, sepulchral,
indefinable tone, which marked the Mysterious Tailor. This wretch was
the Abaddon of my dreamy Pandaemonium. He was ever before me; he lent an
added splendour to the day, and deepened the midnight gloom. On the
heights of Bologne I saw him; far away over the foaming waters he
floated still and lifeless beside me, his eye never once off my face,
his voice never silent in my ear.
My tale would scarcely have an end, were I to repeat but the one half of
what during two brief days (two centuries in suffering) I experienced
from this derangement of the nervous system. My readers may fancy that I
have exaggerated my state of mind: far from it, I have purposely
softened down the more distressing particulars, apprehensive, if not of
being discredited, at least of incurring ridicule. Towards the close of
the third day my fever began to abate, I became more sobered in my turn
of thought, could contrive to answer questions, and listen with
tolerable composure to my landlord's details of my miraculous
preservation. The storm was slowly rolling off my mind, but the swell
was still left behind it. The fourth day found me so far recovered, that
I was enabled to quit my chamber, sit beside an open window, and derive
amusement from the uncouth appearance of a Dutch crew, whose brig was
lying at anchor in the harbour. From this time forward, every hour
brought fresh accession to my strength, until at the expiration of the
tenth day--so sudden is recovery in cases of violent fever when once the
crisis is passed--I was sufficiently restored to take my place by a
night-coach for London. The first few stages I endured tolerably well,
notwithstanding that I had somewhat rashly ventured upon an outside
place; but as midnight drew on, the wind became so piercingly keen,
accompanied every now and then by a squally shower of sleet, that I was
glad to bargain for an inside berth. By good luck, there was just room
enough left for one, which I instantly appropriated, in spite of sundry
hints _hemmed_ forth by a crusty old gentleman, that the coach was full
already. I took my place in the coach, to the dissatisfaction of those
already seated there. Not a word was spoken for miles: for the
circumstance of its being dark increased the distrust of all, and, in
the firm conviction that I was an adventurer, they had already, I make
no doubt, buttoned up their pockets, and diligently adjusted their
watch-chains. In a short time, this reserve wore away. From this moment
the conversation became general. Each individual had some invalid story
to relate, and I too, so far forgot my usual taciturnity as to indulge
my hearers with a detail of my late indisposition--of its origin in the
Mysterious Tailor--of the wretch's inconceivable persecution--of the
fiendish peculiarities of his appearance--of his astonishing ubiquity,
and lastly, of my conviction that he was either more or less than man.
Scarcely had the very uncourteous laughter that accompanied this
narrative concluded, when a low, intermittent snore, proceeding from a
person close at my elbow, challenged my most serious notice. The sound
was peculiar--original--unearthly--and reminded me of the same music
which had so harrowed my nerves at Bologne. Yet it could not surely be
he--he, the very thoughts of whom now sent a thrill through every vein.
Oh, no! it must be some one else--there were other harmonious
sternutators beside him, he could not be the only nasal nightingale in
the three kingdoms. While I thus argued the matter, silently, yet
suspiciously, a wandering gleam of day, streaming in at the coach
windows, faintly lit up a nose the penultimate peculiarities of which
gave a very ominous turn to my reflections. In due time this light
became more vivid; and beneath its encouraging influence, first, a pair
of eyes--then two sallow, juiceless cheeks, then an upper lip, then a
projecting chin; and lastly, the entire figure of the Mysterious Tailor
himself, whose head, it seems, had hitherto been folded, bird-like, upon
his breast, grew into atrocious distinctness, while from the depths of
the creature's throat came forth the strangely-solemn whisper, "touching
that little account." For this once, indignation got the better of
affright. "Go where I will," I exclaimed, passionately interrupting him,
"I find I cannot avoid you, you have a supernatural gift of
omnipresence, but be you fiend or mortal I will now grapple with you;"
and accordingly snatching at that obnoxious feature which, like the tail
of the rattle-snake, had twice warned me of its master's fatal presence,
I grasped it with such zealous good will, that had it been of mortal
manufacture it must assuredly have come off in my hands. Aroused by the
laughter of my fellow passengers, the coachman--who was just preparing
to mount, after having changed horses at Dartford--abruptly opened the
door, on which I as abruptly jumped out; and after paying my fare the
whole way to town, and casting on the fiend a look of "inextinguishable
hatred," made an instant retreat into the inn. About the middle of the
next day I reached London, and without a moment's pause hurried to the
lodgings of my beforementioned friend C----. Luckily he was at home, but
started at the strange forlorn figure that presented itself. And well
indeed he might. My eye-balls were glazed and bloody, my cheeks white as
a shroud, my mouth a-jar, my lips blue and quivering. "For God's sake,
C----," I began, vouchsafing no further explanation, "lend me--(I
specified the sum)--or I am ruined; that infernal, inconceivable Tailor
has--." C----smilingly interrupted me by an instant compliance with my
demand; on which, without a moment's delay, I bounded off, breathless
and semi-frantic, towards my arch fiend's Pandaemonium at High Holborn.
I cannot--cannot say what I felt as I crossed over from Drury-lane
towards his den, more particularly when, on entering, I beheld the demon
himself behind his counter--calm, moveless, and sepulchral, as if
nothing of moment had occurred; as if he were an every-day dun, or I an
every-day debtor. The instant he espied me, a sardonic smile, together
with that appalling dissyllable, "touching" (which I never to this day
hear, see, or write without a shudder) escaped him; but before he could
close his oration, I had approached, trembling with rage and reverence,
towards him, and, thrusting forth the exact sum, was rushing from his
presence, when he beckoned me back for a receipt. A receipt, and from
him too! It was like taking a receipt for one's soul from Satan!!
The reader will doubtless conclude that, now at least, having
satisfactorily settled his demands, I had done with my Tormentor for
ever. This inference is in part correct. I followed up my vocation with
an energy strangely contrasted with my recent indifference, was early
and late in the schools, and for three months pursued this course with
such ardour, that my adventures with the Mysterious Tailor, though not
forgotten, were yet gradually losing their once powerful hold on my
imagination. This was precisely the state of my feelings, when early one
autumnal morning, just seven months from the date of my last visit to
High Holborn, I chanced to be turning down Saint Giles's Church, on my
way to--Hospital. I had nothing to render me more than usually pensive;
no new vexations, no sudden pecuniary embarrassment; yet it so happened,
that on this particular morning I felt a weight at my heart, and a cloud
on my brain, for which I could in no way account. As I passed along
Broad Street, I made one or two bold attempts to rally. I stared
inquisitively at the different passers by, endeavouring, by a snatch at
the expression of their faces, to speculate on the turn of their minds,
and the nature of their occupations; I then began to whistle and hum
some lively air, at the same time twirling my glove with affected
unconcern; but nothing would do; every exertion I made to appear
cheerful, not only found no answering sympathy from within, but even
exaggerated by constrast my despondency. In this condition I reached
Saint Giles's Church. A crowd was assembled at the gate opposite its
entrance, and presently the long surly toll of the death-bell--that
solemn and oracular memento--announced that a funeral was on the eve of
taking place. The funeral halted at the entrance gate, where the coffin
was taken from the hearse, and and thence borne into the chancel. This
ceremony concluded, the procession again set forth towards the home
appointed for the departed in a remote quarter of the church-yard. And
now the interest began in reality to deepen. As the necessary
preparations were making for lowering the coffin into earth, the
mourners--even those who had hitherto looked unmoved--pressed gradually
nearer, and with a momentary show of interest, to the grave. Such is the
ennobling character of death.
The preparations were by this time concluded, and nothing now remained
but the last summons of the sexton. At this juncture, while the coffin
was being lowered into its resting place, my eyes, accidentally, it may
be said, but in reality by some fatal instinct, fell full upon the lid,
on which I instantly recognised a name, long and fearfully known to
me--the name of the Mysterious Tailor of High Holborn. Oh, how many
thrilling recollections did this one name recal? The rencontre in the
streets of London--the scene at the masquerade--the meeting at
Bologne--the storm--the shipwreck--the sinking vessel--the appearance at
that moment of _the man_ himself--the subsequent visions of mingled
fever and insanity: all, all now swept across my mind, as for the last
time I gazed on the remains of him who was powerless henceforth for
ever. In a few minutes one little span of earth would keep down that
strange form which seemed once endowed with ubiquity. That wild
unearthly voice was mute; that wandering glance was fixed; a seal was
set upon those lips which eternity itself could not remove. Yes, my
Tormentor--my mysterious--omnipresent Tormentor was indeed gone; and in
that one word, how much of vengeance was forgotten! I was roused from
this reverie by the hollow sound of the clay as it fell dull and heavy
on the coffin-lid. The poor sleeper beneath could not hear it, it is
true; his slumber, henceforth, was sound; the full tide of human
population pressing fast beside the spot where he lay buried, should
never wake him more: no human sorrow should rack his breast, no dream
disturb his repose; yet cold, changed, and senseless as he was, the
first sound of the falling clods jarred strange and harsh upon my ear,
as if it must perforce awake him. In this feverish state of mind I
quitted the church-yard, and, on my road home, passed by the shop where
I had first met with the deceased. It was altered--strangely altered--to
my mind, revoltingly so. Its quaint antique character, its dingy
spectral look were gone, and there was even a studied air of
cheerfulness about it, as if the present proprietor were anxious to
obliterate every association, however slight, that might possibly remind
him of the past. The former owner had but just passed out, his ashes
were scarcely cold, and already his name was on the wane. Yet this is
human nature. So trifling, in fact, is the gap caused by our absence in
society, that there needs no patriotic Curtius to leap into it; it
closes without a miracle the instant it is made, and none but a
disinterested Undertaker knows or cares for whom tolls our passing bell.
_Monthly Magazine._
* * * * *