The tricks practised by these worthies to obtain an entry into the

besieged domicile, were as varied as they were ludicrous. On one

occasion, Mr. Proggs, dressed for the nonce as a butcher, and carrying a

leg of mutton in a tray on his shoulder, hurried up to the door, gave

the loud, sharp, single knock peculiar to the trade, and shouted

"T-cher!" in the most approved style. But the parlour window was thrown

up, and out popped the head of the ferocious O'Blunderbuss, the

countenance as red as a turkey-cock, and the mouth vomiting forth a

torrent of abuse; so that the discomfited Mr. Proggs was compelled to

retreat with all the ignominy of a baffled strategist. On another

occasion, Mr. Mac Grab, attired as a general postman, rushed along the

street, stopped at the door of the besieged house, gave the two clear,

rapid strokes with the knocker, and immediately began to look over a

bundle of letters with all the feverish haste of the functionary whose

semblance he had assumed. But John came forth from the area; and again

was the sheriff's-officer's object completely frustrated. Next day,

however, two sweeps appeared in the street, as black as if they had

never known soap-and-water, and were accustomed to lodge, eat, and sleep

in chimneys as well as cleanse them; but upon arriving opposite the

parlour-windows, they beheld the captain and Frank Curtis "taking

sights" at them, the two gentlemen having "twigged the traps" without

much difficulty. Thus, defeated in all their endeavours to accomplish

their aims by cunning, Messrs. Mac Grab and Proggs worked themselves up

to the desperate resolution of using force; and they accordingly took

their post at the front-door of Curtis's house, with the apparent

determination to rush in the first time it should be opened. But, when

it _was_ opened as far as the chain inside would permit, and they

beheld, to their horror and dismay, the terrible captain wielding the

poker, they exhibited that better part of valour which is denominated

_discretion_. At last, however, they could no longer endure the jeerings

of their friends exercising the same agreeable and lucrative profession;

and moreover, the attorneys who employed them in the Baker Street affair

spoke out pretty plainly about gentlemen bribing bailiffs not to execute

writs, and so forth. All these circumstances induced Mr. Mac Grab and

his man Proggs to hold a council of war over two four-penn'orths of

rum-and-water; and the result was a determination, that as the various

devices and stratagems they had practised to enter the dwelling had

failed, and as they feared to carry it by storm, the stronghold must be

reduced by a _surprise_.

It was on the very evening when the Blackamoor experienced so strange an

adventure at Carlton House, that the following scene took place in Baker

Street.

The clock had struck ten; and, supper being disposed of, the whiskey,

hot water, glasses, and _et ceteras_ were placed upon the table, at

which Frank Curtis, his amiable wife, and Captain O'Blunderbuss were

seated—as comfortable a trio as you could wish or expect to see,

especially under such adverse circumstances.

"John!" vociferated the captain, as the domestic was about to leave the

room; "stop a moment, you rogue, and answer me this. Is the area all

safe?"

"Yes, sir," was the ready response.

"And the kitchen-windows—and the back-door—and the yar-rd gate—all

right, eh—John?"

"All right, captain: I've just been the rounds."

"And all the provisions in the garrison, John?—plenty of potheen?"

demanded O'Blunderbuss.

"Plenty, sir. There'll be no more going out again to-night."

"That's a blissing!" exclaimed the gallant captain. "John!"

"Yes—sir."

"Take a glass of whiskey, mate—and slape with the kitchen poker-r under

your pillow, my frind," enjoined the officer. "We must be ar-rmed at all

pints, be Jasus!"

"I shan't forget, sir," said John: and having tossed off the spirit, he

quitted the room.

"Now then to make ourselves cozie," observed the captain, drawing his

chair a little closer to Mrs. Curtis. "Pray, Mim, how d'ye feel your

dear self this evening?—is it in good spirits ye are, Mim?"

"Thank you, captain," returned Mrs. Curtis, "I am quite well—but the

least, least thing nervous. This strange kind of life we're leading——"

"Strange, Mim!" ejaculated the captain: "it's glor-r-ious!"

"Glorious, indeed!" cried Frank. "I only wish the Marquis of Shoreditch

was here along with us—how he would enjoy himself!"

"You will permit me, Mim!" said the captain, grasping the bottle of

whiskey, and addressing the lady in an insinuating manner.

"Now, really, captain—if I must take a very _leetle_ drop——" began Mrs.

Curtis, with a simper.

"Well, my dear madam, it shall be the leetlest dhrop in the wor-rld, and

so wake that a baby of a month old might dhrink it and niver so much as

thrip up as it walked across the room," exclaimed O'Blunderbuss, whose

knowledge of the physical capacities of infants was evidently somewhat

vague and limited. "There, Mim!" he added, placing before the lady a

large tumbler, the contents of which were equal portions of spirit and

water: "you may tell me I'm a Dutchman and unwor-rthy of ould Ireland,

if that isn't the purtiest dhrink iver brewed for one of the fair six."

"You're very kind, captain," said Mrs. Curtis, in a mincing—simpering

manner.

"It's you that's kind to say so, Mim," remarked the captain, placing his

foot close to that of the lady, and ascertaining by the readiness with

which she returned the pedal pressure, that the tender intimation he

wished thereby to convey was by no means unwelcome.

Frank did not of course notice what was going on under the table, and

the conversation progressed in the usual manner—the captain and Frank

vieing with each other in telling the most monstrous lies, and the

silent interchange of love's tokens continuing with increasing warmth

between the gallant gentleman and the stout lady. Mrs. Curtis's spirits,

however, seemed to require a more than ordinary amount of stimulant on

this occasion: she declared herself to be "very low," although she

contrived to laugh a great deal at the captain's lively sallies and

marvellous stories;—but as the clock struck midnight and she rose to

retire to her chamber, she found that the _three_ glasses of toddy which

she had been persuaded to imbibe, had somewhat unsettled the gravity of

her equilibrium. The captain sprang from his seat to open the

parlour-door for her; and as he bade her "good night," she pressed his

hand with a degree of tenderness which, as novel-writers say, spoke

volumes.

"Curthis, my frind," said the captain, as he returned to his seat, "be

the holy poker-r! you possess a rale jewel of a wife. She's the most

amiable lady I ever knew and takes her potheen without any nonsense. Be

Jove! she's an ornamint in a jintleman's household; and we'll dhrink her

health in a bumper!"

"With all my heart," exclaimed Frank, already more than half-seas over.

"But, I say, captain—do you know that I'm getting very tired of the life

we're leading? I wish we could put an end to it somehow or another."

"Be the power-rs! and that's the very thing I was going to recommend to

ye, Frank!" cried the captain, who was more affected by liquor on this

particular night than ever he had been before since the first moment he

had taken up his abode in Baker Street.

"But—how can it be done?" hiccoughed Curtis.

"Is it how the thing's to be done!" cried O'Blunderbuss. "Can't ye, now,

bolt off to France to-morrow night, and lave me in charge of the house?

I'll manage to sell every stick to a broker; and then it's myself

that'll bring over the wife, the children, and the money to ye as safe

as if they were all my own!"

"I don't like the idea of going away alone, captain," observed Frank, as

he refilled his tumbler. "But suppose we talk the matter over

to-morrow—when we've slept off the effects of the toddy!"

"Be Jasus! the toddy has no effects upon me!" exclaimed O'Blunderbuss,

who nevertheless sate very unsteadily in his chair, his body swaying to

and fro in spite of all his efforts to the contrary.

The conversation now languished; but the drinking was maintained, until

Frank Curtis suddenly fell from his seat in a vain attempt which he made

to reach the whiskey-bottle. The captain burst out into a roar of

laughter, and while endeavouring to pick up his companion, rolled

completely over him. He however managed, by means of many desperate

efforts, to place the young gentleman upon the sofa, where he left him

to repose in peace; and, taking up a candle, he staggered out of the

room, muttering to himself, "Be the power-rs! if I didn't know—hic—that

it was impos—sossible—hic—I should say that I—hic—was—dhrunk!"

This was a conclusion which the captain was by no means willing to

admit; and, in order to convince himself that he was perfectly sober and

knew what he was about, he proceeded to examine the front-door according

to his invariable custom ere retiring to rest.

"Well, be the power-rs!" he murmured, as he stood contemplating the door

with all the vacancy of inebriation; "it's John that's a clever

fellow—hic—afther all—hic! Be Jasus! and it's two chains he's put up—and

two bolts at the top—hic—and two bolts at the bottom—hic—and, be the

holy poker-r!" exclaimed the captain aloud, his face expanding with an

expresion of stupid joy; "the house is safe enough—hic—for there's two

doors!"

Supremely happy at having made this discovery, and moreover fancying

himself to be lighted by two candles—in a word, seeing double in every

respect,—the gallant officer staggered along the passage, and commenced

the ascent of the staircase, which appeared to have become wondrously

steep, ricketty, and uneven. Stumbling at every step, and muttering

awful imprecations against the "thunthering fool of a carpenter that had

built such a divil of a lath-er," Captain O'Blunderbuss contrived to

reach the first landing in safety; but, his foot tripping over the

carpet, he fell flat down, extinguishing the light of the candle, though

at the same time giving his head such a knock against the balustrades,

that a million meteoric sparks flashed across his visual organs.

"Blood and hounds!" growled the gallant gentleman; "there must either be

an airthquake—hic—or else, be the power-rs! I'm—hic—raly—hic—dhrunk!"

Picking himself up, the captain groped about for the staircase; and,

finding it with some little trouble, he continued his ascent in a

pleasing state of uncertainty as to whether he were walking on his head

or on his feet, but with the deeply settled conviction that he was

spinning round at a most terrific rate.

"Capthain O'Bluntherbuss," he said, apostrophising himself, as he

staggered along, "is this raly you or another person? If it's

yourself it is—hic—I—I'm ashamed of ye, be the holy poker-r; and

I've a precious good mind—hic—to give ye a dacent dhrubbing,

captain—hic—O'—hic—Bluntherbuss."

Thus soliloquising, the martial gentleman reached the second landing;

but here he paused for a few minutes in a state of awful doubt as to

which way he should turn in order to reach his own room. He knew that

his door must be somewhere close at hand; though whether to the right or

to the left, he could not for the life of him remember. At length he

began to grope about at a venture; and, having encountered the handle of

a door, he hesitated no longer, but entered the chamber with which the

said door communicated.

CHAPTER CIII.

THE SURPRISE.—A CHANGE OF SCENE.

It was about half-past three o'clock in the morning, and profound

silence reigned in Baker Street, when four men, bearing a ladder upon

their shoulders, passed like phantoms through the obscurity of the

thoroughfare, and halted in front of Mr. Curtis's house; where their

operations, so far from being at all ghost-like, assumed very much the

appearance of those proceedings which are carried on by creatures of

flesh and blood.

Thieves, however, they were not: but sheriff's-officers they were,—being

our old friends Mac Grab and Proggs, assisted by two other queer-looking

fellows of the species which chiefly abounds in the tap-rooms and

parlours of public-houses in Chancery Lane.

Mr. Mac Grab having satisfied himself by a close scrutiny of the number

on the front-door, that they had pitched upon the right house, the

ladder was forthwith placed against the little iron railings forming the

balcony at the drawing-room window; and Mr. Proggs was ordered to mount

first. But Mr. Proggs, having perhaps recently studied some book upon

etiquette, would not think of preceding his master; and Mr. Mac Grab was

doubtless too meek a man to take upon himself the post of honour. As for

the two underlings, they very bluntly assured Mr. Mac Grab that they

would see him unpleasantly condemned before they would venture first;

and thus the entire project was threatened with discomfiture, when

Proggs, overcoming his fears, consented to lead the way.

Up the ladder did this hero accordingly drag himself; and had he lost

his life in the desperate deed, the epic muse would have been compelled

to deplore the death of the last of the famous house of Proggs. But

fortune beamed upon Proggs, though the moon did not; and he reached the

balcony in safety. Mac Grab ascended next—and the two subordinates

followed,—by which time the intrepid Proggs had obtained admission into

the house by the simple process of cutting out a pane with a glazier's

diamond, and thrusting in his hand to undo the fastening of the window.

And now, behold the four men safe in the drawing-room—in actual

possession of the place,—four heroes who had just carried a strongly

fortified castle—by surprise!

A lanthorn, which Mr. Proggs took from his pocket, was lighted; and a

flask of rum, which Mr. Mac Grab took from _his_ pocket, was drunk. The

heroes then stole gently from the apartment—descended the stairs—opened

the front-door—and laid down the ladder along the area railings, so that

the watchman, on going his rounds, might not raise an alarm of

"thieves." This being accomplished, they re-entered the house, and

fastened the street-door, the key of which Mr. Mac Grab secured about

his own person.

The officers next entered the parlour on the ground floor, where they

found Frank Curtis lying asleep upon the sofa.

"That's our chap," said Mac Grab, in a tone of deep satisfaction, as he

threw the light of his lanthorn full upon the young gentleman's

countenance. "I shall take him off at once, with one of the men; and

you, Proggs, will remain in possession along with t'other."

"Two on us isn't enow to keep possession agin that devil of an Irisher,"

exclaimed Proggs, bluntly; and the loudness with which he spoke

disturbed Mr. Curtis.

Starting up, Frank rubbed his eyes—then stared around him with the

stupid vacancy of one who had only half slept off the fumes of

whiskey—and at last, as the truth gradually glimmered upon him, he said

in a hoarse, thick tone, "Well—who the devil are all you fellows?"

"You'll know soon enow who we be," growled Mac Grab. "Come—get up, young

genelman; and don't sit there a-staring at us, as if you was a stuck pig

and we was ghostesses."

"So you've got in at last—have you, old fellow?" said Frank, with an

awful yawn. "But I feel precious seedy, though. Can't you let me sleep a

little longer."

"You won't sleep no more till you gets to Chancery Lane," returned Mac

Grab; "and then you can have a turn-in if you like."

"What o'clock is it?" demanded Frank, his teeth chattering and his whole

frame shivering alike with the cold and the unpleasant petition to which

he had been awakened.

"It's getting on for a quarter to four, or thereabouts," said Mac Grab,

consulting a huge silver watch of the turnip species.

"Then I must have been asleep here for some time," mused Frank aloud;

and, glancing at the table, he added, "Oh! I remember—I was precious

drunk last night——"

"Well, I'm blest if I didn't think you was," said Proggs, expressing his

opinion with more bluntness than politeness. "You'll find a many lushing

coven over in Spike Island."

"Spike Island?" ejaculated Frank: then, as a light broke in upon him

through the mist and fumes of whiskey, he added, "Oh! I understand—the

Bench, eh? Well—never say die, my boys; as my friend the Crown Prince of

Holland used to observe. If it must be the Bench, it must: but you'll

let me tell my wife what's happened."

"We won't let you rouse that Irisher, young gentleman," said Mac Grab.

"Let us get you safe off, and then he may wake up, and be damned to

him."

"I pledge you my word I will not attempt to rouse the Captain,"

exclaimed Curtis: "but I must speak to my wife."

[Illustration]

"Well, that's only fair and reasonable," said Mac Grab; "although you

don't deserve no good treatment at our hands, seeing how we was served

by that owdacious Irish friend of yourn. Howsomever, you shall speak to

your good lady; but mind, I ain't going to lose sight on you."

"You can come with me as far as the bed-chamber door," observed Frank;

"and I shan't keep you many minutes."

"Proggs, you'll come along with me," said Mac Grab. "And now, mind, Mr.

Curtis, what you're up to. We've got pistols with us; and blowed if we

don't use 'em in self-defence if that Irish friend of your's happens to

wake up and tries it on again with any of his nonsense."

"It wasn't my fault that he acted as he did the last time you was here,"

returned Frank. "But come along, you two—if you must go with me."

Curtis lighted a candle, and led the way gently up stairs, Mac Grab and

Proggs following close at his heels. They reached the second landing,

where Frank stopped at a door, which he was about to open, when the

first-mentioned officer said in a low tone, "Now, mind—no nonsense!—we

won't be done a second time, remember."

"I assure you this is my wife's room," returned Curtis, also speaking in

a whisper; and he entered the chamber, the two bailiffs remaining at the

door, which was left ajar.

Frank, carrying the light in his hand, approached the bed, and was just

on the point of saying, "My dear—my dear!"—when he stopped

short—aghast—stupefied—his mouth wide open—and every faculty which he

possessed, save that of sight, entirely suspended.

For there—by the side of his wife—lay Captain O'Blunderbuss!

Both were fast asleep; and the countenance of the gallant officer seemed

absolutely on fire, so red was it in contrast with the white pillow.

"By Jove—this is too bad!" exclaimed Curtis, at length recovering the

powers of speech and movement; and, influenced only by the sudden rage

which took possession of him, and which rendered him bold and courageous

for the instant, he seized a water-jug from the washing-stand and dashed

the contents completely over Captain O'Blunderbuss.

"Blood and thunther!" roared the man of war starting up in a towering

passion;—and, springing from the bed, he was about to inflict summary

chastisement on his friend, when a shriek issued from the couch—and the

captain, stopping short and looking around him, ascertained where he

was. The cause of Frank's conduct towards him was instantly apparent;

and, subduing his anger, he exclaimed, "Be Jasus! and it was all a

mistake, me boy! I dhrank too much of the potheen——"

"The Irishman, by goles!" growled a hoarse voice in the landing outside.

"Well—never mind, Proggs!" cried another voice: "if he touches us, we'll

fire. Holloa! you fellows down there—come up!—come up!" roared Mac Grab.

And now the whole house was in confusion.

Mrs. Curtis lay screaming and shrieking in bed—the captain rushed upon

the landing, with nothing on save his shirt, and looking as if he had

just sprung out of a water-butt—Curtis followed, sulky and not half

satisfied with the apology he had received relative to the presence of

the officer in his wife's chamber—the two men who had been left down

stairs were running up as hard as they could—and the servants were

calling from the garrets to know what was the matter, but rather

suspecting something very much like the real truth in respect to the

invasion of the bailiffs.

"Down—down with ye, wild bastes that ye are!" vociferated the captain,

as the light which Curtis still carried showed the gallant officer the

well known faces of Mac Grab and Proggs.

But the two men, who had worked their courage up to the sticking point,

produced each a heavy horse-pistol; at the appearance of which

formidable weapons the captain hung back, and Curtis shouted out in

alarm, "No violence! I'll keep my word and go off with you quiet

enough."

"Be Jasus! and you shan't though, my dear frind!" cried O'Blunderbuss,

looking rapidly round in search of some object which he might use as an

offensive weapon against the invaders; but the two men from down stairs

now made their appearance, and Curtis put an end to all further

hostilities by surrendering himself to them without any more ado.

"Frank! Frank!" shrieked his wife from the bed-room.

"Curthis, my frind—don't be a fool!" roared the captain: "we'll bate 'em

yet!"

The young gentleman, however, took no notice either of his wife's appeal

or his friend's adjuration, and rapidly descended the stairs, followed

by the sheriff's-officers. He was not only afraid of the pistols; but he

was likewise too much annoyed at the bed-chamber scene to care about

remaining in the house any longer. Not having courage enough to resent

the wrong which he conceived to have been done him, he was nevertheless

unable to endure it passively; and here signed himself, moodily and

sulkily, to the lot which circumstances had shaped for him.

Mac Grab and one of the subordinates accordingly departed with their

prisoner to the spunging-house in Chancery Lane; while Proggs and the

other man remained in possession of the dwelling in Baker Street.

It was about half-past four o'clock on that dark and chilly morning,

when Frank Curtis entered the lock-up establishment owned by Mr. Mac

Grab, the sheriff's-officer. A racking head-ache, the result of the

preceding night's debauch—a cold nervousness, amounting almost to a

continuous shiver,—and thoughts of by no means a pleasant nature, all

combined to depress the young man's spirits to a very painful degree;

and, as the door of the spunging-house closed behind him, he murmured to

himself, "Oh! what a fool I have been!" Fortunately, he had plenty of

ready money in his pocket; and, putting a guinea into Mac Grab's hand,

he said, "Let me have a private room; and have a fire lighted directly."

"Please to sit down for a few minutes in the office here," observed the

bailiff, pocketing the coin, "while I call up the servant."

In the meantime the subordinate had lighted a lamp in the little, dirty,

cold-looking place, dignified by the name of "the office;" and while Mac

Grab went to summon the domestic, Curtis, who was a prey to that fidgety

sensation which seems the forerunner of something dreadful, endeavoured

to divert his thoughts from gloomy topics by scrutinizing the objects

around him.

A sorry desk, much hacked about with a pen-knife and stained all over

with ink—a small shelf containing a few old law books—a law-almanack

with thick black lines in the calender denoting Term-times—a list of the

sheriffs and undersheriffs of England and Wales—printed papers showing

the arrangements of the Courts for the sittings in and after Term—two or

three crazy chairs—and a Dutch clock, which ticked with a monotony

calculated to drive a nervous person out of his senses,—these were the

objects which met his view. Every thing appeared musty and

worm-eaten;—the office looked as if it never were swept out;—and there

was an earthly smell of a peculiarly unpleasant nature.

In this miserable place—so cold and cheerless—Frank Curtis was kept

waiting for nearly half-an-hour; while the man who remained with him

sate dozing in a chair, and every now and then awaking with a sudden

dive down and bob up of the head which painfully augmented the

nervousness of the prisoner. At last Mr. Mac Grab returned, smelling

very strong of rum, and followed by a dirty-looking old woman, who

seemed to have huddled on her clothes anyhow, and to be in a

particularly ill-humour at being disturbed so early in the morning.

"Now then," she said, in a short, sulky tone, addressing herself to

Curtis, without however looking at him: "this way."

Frank followed her into a short passage, and then up a narrow staircase,

the miserable candle which she held in one hand and shaded with the

other on account of the draught, affording only just sufficient light to

render apparent the cheerless aspect of the premises. It was not that

there was any thing mean or poor in the interior of the dwelling, the

office excepted: but there was an air of deep gloom, and also of dirt

and neglect, which struck even so superficial an observer as Mr. Frank

Curtis.

The old woman led the way into a moderate-sized front room on the second

floor, where she lighted two candles, and then set to work to persuade a

few damp sticks smothered with small coal to burn up in the grate. The

apartment was fitted up as a sitting-room, but had a bed in it. The

walls were hung with numerous pictures the frames of which were an inch

thick in dust and cob-webs; and there was a side-board covered with

old-fashioned cut glass. The carpet was worn out in many places, and was

also much soiled with grease and beer: the table-cover was likewise

stained with liquor and spotted with ink. The curtains, which were of

good material, were completely disguised in dust; and the windows were

so dirty that at mid-day they formed a pleasantly subdued medium for the

sun-light. Altogether, there was an air of expense mingled with the most

cheerless discomfort—an appearance of liberal outlay altogether

neutralized by neglect and habits of wanton slovenliness.

The fire burnt feebly—the old woman slunk sulkily away—and Frank Curtis

threw himself upon the bed. He was thoroughly wretched, and would have

given all the money he had left in his pocket for a few hours' tranquil

repose. But sleep would not visit his eyes; and, after tossing about for

some time in painful restlessness, he got up as the clock struck eight.

His burning, feverish countenance craved the contact of cold water; and

the idea of a refreshing toilette rendered him almost cheerful. But the

jug was empty; and there were no towels. He rang the bell: five minutes

elapsed—and no one came. He rang again; and at last, another five

minutes having gone tediously by, the old woman made her appearance. His

wishes were expressed; and the harridan took away the jug. A third

interval of five minutes passed, ere she returned. Then she had

forgotten the towels; and now a quarter of an hour dragged its slow

length along before she came back, bringing with her a miserably thin

rag of about a foot square. She was about to leave the room again, when

Curtis discovered that there was no soap; and ten minutes more were

required for the provoking old wretch to produce a small sample of that

very necessary article. Yet for all this _discomfort_, the prisoner had

paid a guinea in advance!

"Pray let me have some breakfast us soon as you can, my good woman,"

said Frank, humiliated and miserable.

"As soon as the kittle biles down stairs," answered the servant, in a

surly tone, as she turned to leave the room.

"And how long will that be?" demanded Curtis.

"Don't know: the kitchen fire ain't alight yet:"—and she hobbled away.

In a fit of desperation the prisoner addressed himself to his toilette:

but the feeling of utter discomfort still clung to him. The water seemed

thick and clammy, instead of cool and refreshing; and the towel was so

small that it became saturated in a few moments, and he was compelled to

dry his face with a corner of one of the sheets. Having no nail brush,

he could not cleanse his hands properly; and the want of a comb left his

hair matted and disordered. In fact, he positively felt more

uncomfortable and dirty after his ablutions than he did before he began

them; and that disagreeable sensation kept him dispirited and wretched.

He walked about the room, examining all the pictures one after the

other, until he became as thoroughly acquainted with their subjects as

if he had lived for years in that room. He then posted himself at one of

the windows, and watched the people passing up and down the street. It

was now nine o'clock, and the law-clerks were proceeding to their

respective offices. Seedy-looking men were hurrying along with

mysterious slips of paper in their hands; and now and then a

better-attired person, in a suit of black, would be seen wending his way

towards the Chancery Court, carrying the blue bag of his master, a

barrister. Small parties of threes or fours would likewise pass up the

lane, affording to the initiated the irresistible idea—which was also

the true one—of tipstaves conducting insolvents to the court in Portugal

Street.

At the public house, opposite the barred window from which Curtis was

gazing, a small knot of very shabby men had collected; and it required

but little knowledge of the specimens of animated nature in Chancery

Lane, to recognise their especial calling. In fact they were individuals

who belonged to the outworks of the strong entrenchments of the

law,—process-servers, sheriff's-officers' assistants, and men who hired

themselves out to be left in possession at dwellings where executions

were levied. When not actively engaged, they regularly haunted the

public-houses, of which they seemed the very door-posts; and if they

stepped inside to take something, which was very often indeed, they

appeared on intimate terms with the landlord, said "Miss" to the

bar-girl, and called the waiter by his Christian name. They had a dirty,

seedy, mean, and cringing look about them; and yet, if not adequately

recompensed by the unfortunate victims of the law with whom they had to

deal, they would become doggedly insolent and grossly abusive.

Half-an-hour passed away; and Chancery Lane grew more attractive. A few

barristers, in all the imposing dignity of the black gown and the awful

wisdom of the wig, were seen moving along to the Rolls' Court:

well-dressed attorneys alighted from their gigs, cabs, or phaetons at

the doors of their offices;—and articled clerks, having thrown away

their cigars when within view of the windows of their places of

business, made up for lost time by cutting briskly over the pavement,

flourishing short sticks, and complacently surveying their polished

boots, tight-fitting trousers, and flash waistcoats.

Frank Curtis sighed as he beheld so many, many persons in the enjoyment

of freedom;—but his mournful reverie was at length broken by the

entrance of the old woman with the breakfast-tray. His throat was

parched, and he had been unable to drink the water: he now, therefore,

eagerly applied himself to the tea. But it was wretched stuff; and even

extreme thirst could not render it palatable. He tried to eat a piece of

toast; but the butter was so rank that his heart heaved against it. He

broke open an egg: it however tasted of straw, and nearly made him sick.

Having forced himself to swallow a couple of cups of tea, Frank rang the

bell and ordered the woman to bring him a sheet of paper. This command

was complied with, after a long delay; and, by the aid of a worn down

stump of a pen and ink which flowed like soot and water, Frank managed

to pen a brief note to a lawyer whom he knew, and who dwelt in Carey

Street hard by. After a great deal of trouble, a messenger was found,

who, for the moderate reward of eighteen pence, undertook to convey the

note to its place of destination—just fifty yards distant; and in the

course of half an hour, Mr. Pepperton, the legal limb alluded to, made

his appearance in the shape of a short, thin, sallow-faced man, with

small piercing eyes, and very compressed lips.

"Well, Mr. Curtis," said the lawyer, as he entered the room; "got into a

mess—eh?"

"Rather so," replied the young man. "But I don't care so much about

that, as on account of being locked up in this cursed place. The fact is

I must go over to the Bench; and I dare say Sir Christopher won't let me

lie very long there."

"You require a _habeas_, you know," observed the lawyer. "But are you

sure that you're sued in the Court of Queen's Bench? because, if it is

in the Common Pleas or Exchequer, you will have to go to the Fleet."

"The devil!" ejaculated Frank. "But here's a paper which Mac Grab gave

me——"

"Ah! that's right," said Mr. Pepperton, examining the document placed in

his hands. "Yes—it's in the Bench, safe enough. Holloa!" he exclaimed

suddenly, after a few moments' silence: "here's an error in the

description. Your name is Francis, and not Frank."

"Just so!" cried the prisoner, his heart fluttering with the vague hope

which his legal adviser's words and manner had encouraged.

"Well—I think—mind, I _think_ that it is highly probable we may set the

caption aside," continued Pepperton. "At all events it would be worth

the trying. But I must apply to the Judge in Chambers this afternoon;

and if we _do_ happen to fail—mind, I say _if_ we _do_—why, then you can

pass over to the Bench to-morrow."

Somehow or another, persons locked up in spunging-houses always feel

confident of getting out on the slightest legal quibble that their

ingenious attorneys may suggest. They do not apprehend the chance of

failure, and of disbursing two or three guineas, which they can so ill

afford, for nothing: the process of applying to a Judge in Chambers

seems so certain of a triumphant issue, and there is such a spell in the

bare idea, that the door of freedom appears already opening to the

touch.

Frank Curtis was not an exception to the general rule which we have

mentioned; and he forthwith desired Mr. Pepperton to adopt the necessary

steps, although this gentleman assured him that nothing could be done

until the after part of the day.

Poor, deluded captive! Little did he think Mr. Pepperton was well aware

beforehand that there was not the shadow of the ghost of a chance of

success; but that his only motive in suggesting these proceedings was to

make as much out of his client as possible.

When Pepperton had left the room, Frank Curtis began to pace it as if he

were a Wandering Jew confined to a very miniature world; and he examined

the pictures over and over again, until they seemed the most familiar

friends of the kind he had ever known. Then he returned to the window,

and beheld Mr. Mac Grab and one of his men just starting in a

queer-looking gig upon a suburban expedition; and having watched the

equipage until it was no longer visible, he bethought himself of asking

for a newspaper. He accordingly rang the bell, and intimated his wishes

to the old woman, who, after keeping him in suspense as usual for ten

minutes or a quarter of an hour, returned with a _Weekly Dispatch_ a

fortnight old and a _Times_ of ten days back. Curtis could scarcely

control his indignation; and, tossing a shilling to the harridan, he

desired her to send out and buy him a morning paper. She departed

accordingly, and in half-an-hour returned with that day's _Times_,

whereby Mr. Frank Curtis was enabled to divert himself until two

o'clock, when he partook of an execrable chop nearly raw, a potato that

seemed as if it were iced, and a pint of wine which appeared to have

been warmed.

Then how heavily, heavily did the weary hours pass away; and Curtis more

than half regretted that his friend O'Blunderbuss did not call upon him.

He felt that, for the pleasure of his society, he would overlook and

forget the treatment he had received at his hands. But the gallant

officer came not; and, what with another examination of the pictures, a

complete spell of the advertisements (the news being already disposed

of) in the _Times_, and a cigar or two, Frank managed to dispose of the

time, though miserably enough, until five o'clock.

Mr. Pepperton then came back; and Frank awaited the report in

excruciating suspense.

"Well, my dear fellow," said the lawyer, flinging himself in a chair as

if regularly worn out by hard work, "we have lost the point; but we have

this consolation——"

"What?" demanded Curtis, in the anxious hope of seeing another loophole

promising emancipation.

"Why—that we as nearly gained it as possible," returned Pepperton. "It

was old Justice Foozlehem that was at Chambers to-day; and, when I

argued the point, he rubbed his nose with the feather-end of the pen—he

always does that when the thing is very ticklish——"

"Damn Judge Foozlehem!" emphatically cried Mr. Frank Curtis. "A miss is

as good as a mile; and that was what the Prince of Malabar said when my

bullet whistled close by his ear at that duel which him and me fought at

Boulogne three years ago. But, to speak seriously of business—I suppose

that there's nothing left for me to do——"

"Save to pay the debt or go to the Bench," added the lawyer, putting the

alternatives in as nut-shell a compass as possible.

"Well—the Bench it must be, then!" ejaculated Frank.

"I will take out the _habeas_ to-morrow," observed Mr. Pepperton; "and

at about five o'clock in the afternoon the tipstaff will be at

Serjeant's Inn waiting for you—or may be, you'll have to go over to him

at the public-house opposite."

Curtis invited the lawyer to pass the evening with him: but Mr.

Pepperton was engaged elsewhere; and the prisoner was therefore

compelled to drink and smoke in solitude, occasionally varying the

occupation by another spell at the _Times_—another long gaze of envy

from the window—and another scrutiny of the pictures.

At last, when ten o'clock struck, Mr. Curtis was thoroughly worn out by

feverish excitement, suspense, and annoyances of all kinds; and he

retired to rest with the fervent hope of enjoying an uninterrupted

slumber till morning. But scarcely had he begun to get drowsy, when a

tickling sensation commenced in a thousand parts of his body and limbs;

and, to his dismay, he found himself assailed by a perfect legion of

those abominable little torturers termed bugs.

Now, Mr. Curtis was most peculiarly sensitive in this respect; and if

there were ever a flea or a bug in a bed, it was certain to find him

out—aye, and feast upon him too. But never, in the whole course of his

life, had he experienced such an attack as on the present occasion:

never till now had he known bugs so numerous, nor bites so pungent.

At length he jumped up in rage and agony, and lighted a candle. But vain

was all search: not a bug could he find. The legion _appeared_ to have

suddenly _disappeared_. Like Destiny, they were always to be felt, but

never seen. He could not sleep with a light in the room; so, having

extinguished it, he laid himself down once more.

For a few minutes he was suffered to remain quiet enough; but at last,

back came his tormentors by slow degrees; and scarcely had he torn the

skin off one part of his body, than he was compelled to flay another. In

this manner hour after hour passed; and, when he did at length fall

asleep between one and two in the morning, he was pursued by a legion of

bugs and sheriff's-officers in his dreams.

CHAPTER CIV.

THE VISIT.—THE HABEAS CORPUS.

Frank awoke at seven o'clock, depressed in spirits and unrefreshed in

body. His head still ached; and he was sore all over through having

nearly torn himself to pieces on account of the bugs. His face betrayed

marks of the ravages committed upon him by his little tormentors; and

his eyes were swollen from the same cause. He had not even the comfort

of copious ablutions; for the process of the toilette was not more

satisfactory on this occasion than it had been on the previous day. Thus

all circumstances conspired to make him wretched.

Before he sate down to breakfast, he despatched a messenger to Baker

Street for a few necessaries which he required; and, as he did not

choose to write to his wife, and knew not whether O'Blunderbuss might

still be there, he sent a verbal intimation of his wishes.

The breakfast of this morning was no improvement on its predecessor:

indeed, it struck Curtis that he had got from bad to worse by trying the

desperate experiment of ordering coffee instead of tea. He, however,

knew that it was useless to grumble; and so, having disposed of the meal

as best he could, he sent for the morning paper, with which he whiled

away an hour and a half until the return of his messenger, who came

laden with a portmanteau.

"Well, who did you see in Baker Street?" demanded Frank.

"Please, sir, I see Mr. Proggs and t'other man which is in possession,"

was the answer.

"And who else?" enquired Curtis.

"Please, sir, I see a stout lady as give me a glass of gin, and a tall

genelman as give me a rap over the head," returned the man.

"And what did he do that for?" cried Frank, laughing in spite of

himself.

"'Cos he said, sir, that I didn't speak in a speckful way to him. But

here's a note as the genelman give me to give to you, sir."

Curtis tore open a curiously folded letter which the messenger handed to

him, and the contents of which ran as follow:—

"Be Jasus, my frind, and it's myself that has a right to complain of

unfrindly tratement. Here have I been waiting to resave a bit of a

note from ye, and divil a line or a word at all, at all. Your poor

wife's distracted and has lost her appetite, and all because of your

injurious suspicions; but I do all I can to consoul her. If you come

to reflict upon the matther, Frank, ye must admit that though

appayrances was against me, yet it isn't Capthain O'Blunderbuss that

would wrong ye. For, be the powers! and it's mistaken in the bed I

was—what with botheration and potheen and the candle's going out;

and divil a hayp'orth did I drame where I was, till ye powred the

wather all over me. So shake hands, me boy, and let us be frinds

again; and sure it's myself that will bring Mrs. Curtis down to dine

with ye at two o'clock this afthernoon, and we'll send in the dinner

and the potheen first. Proggs and his man are in possission; and I

feel like a defated ginral: but they're on their best behaviour, and

so I have not been forced to give either of them a taste of the

shillaylee. I'm sadly afraid that the chap you have sent up is a

fool; so if he should forget to give you this letter, mind you ask

him for it. Your wife sends you a million kisses through me; and

believe me, my frind, to remain

"Ever yours,

"GORMAN O'BLUNDERBUSS."

"Very good," said Frank Curtis, as he brought the perusal of this

curious epistle to an end: and having paid and dismissed the messenger,

he sate himself down to reflect upon the manner in which he ought to

receive his wife and the gallant gentleman.

On the one hand was the sense of the injury he had received, or fancied

he had received; for he could not well embrace the double conviction

that Mrs. Curtis was _not_ faithless, and that the captain was _not_

treacherous. On the other hand were numerous motives persuasive of an

amicable course,—the want of society, the shame of declaring himself to

be a cuckold—and last, though not least, the infinite terror in which he

stood of Gorman O'Blunderbuss. These reasons were weighty and powerful;

and they grew stronger and stronger as the dinner-hour advanced,—until

they became completely triumphant when a hamper was sent up, containing

cold fowls, ham, wine, dessert, whiskey, and cigars.

No longer hesitating what course to pursue, Frank superintended the

laying of the cloth and the arrangement of the provisions upon the

table: he decanted the wine—tasted it—and found it excellent;—and, those

little proceedings having put him into a thorough good humour, he

received his wife and the captain, when they made their appearance, as

if nothing had occurred to ruffle his mind with regard to them.

Mrs. Curtis thought it necessary to go into hysterics at the sight of

her beloved husband in a spunging-house; but she speedily recovered upon

the said beloved husband's kindly recommending her not to make a fool of

herself;—and the trio sate down to dinner, at which they made themselves

very comfortable indeed. The captain proposed that as the wine-glasses

were particularly small, they should drink their Sherry from tumblers;

and the motion was adopted after a feeble opposition on the part of the

lady.

"Well, Cu-r-r-tis, me boy," exclaimed the gallant gentleman, when they

had made an end of eating, having done immense justice to the viands

provided, "what are ye afther now? It isn't staying here all your life

that you can be thinking of——"

"Nor do I intend to stop in this cursed hole many hours longer,"

interrupted Frank. "I expect to go over to the Bench, at five o'clock."

"The Binch!" cried the captain, overjoyed at the plan chalked out: "be

Jasus! and it's the wisest thing ye can be afther, my frind! The Binch

is a glor-rious place—and ye'll be as comfortable there as at home. The

porther is the best in all London; and it's worth while to be in the

Binch for the pleasure of dhrinking it. Not that I'm a great admirer of

malt, Mim," he added, turning politely towards Mrs. Curtis; "but the

porther of the Binch is second best to rale potheen. Then the amusements

of the Binch, Mim, are delightful! There's the parade to walk upon—and

there's the racquet ground when ye're tired of the parade—and there's

the dolphin-pump—and the coffee-house, a riglar tavern——In fact,"

exclaimed the gallant gentleman, quite lost in admiration of all the

beautiful views and scenes he was so enthusiastically depicting, "the

Binch is a perfect palace of a prison, and I only wish I was there

myself."

"I'm sure I should be most happy to change places with you, captain,"

observed Frank Curtis drily.

"I wouldn't deprive ye of the pleasure, me boy, for all the wor-r-ld!"

cried O'Blunderbuss, in a tone of the utmost sincerity. "But what's to

be done next? Those bastes of the earth are in possession of the

garrison, and every stick will be sould up by them—the ragamuffin scamps

that they are!"

"The wife and children must take a lodging over the water, close by the

Bench," said Curtis; "and if Sir Christopher won't come forward to

assist me, I must either get the Rules or go through the Insolvent's

Court—I don't care much which. My friend, the Earl of Billingsgate, did

both——"

"Be the holy poker-r! and it's myself that will call on Sir

Christopher-r in such a strait as this," vociferated the captain; "and

although he did knock me down from the carriage window, the last time——"

"What!" ejaculated Frank, as much amused as astonished at the

information which the gallant officer had so inadvertently let slip;

"Sir Christopher knocked you down!"

"Blood and thunther!" roared the captain, becoming as red as scarlet;

"and was it afther making a fool of myself that I was? For sure and it

was Sir Christopher that was knocked down—and I didn't like to tell ye

about it before, seeing that he's your own nat'ral uncle. But it's

myself that will call upon him and offer the most abject apology; and

I'll skin him alive if he don't come for'ard as he ought to do, and pay

all your debts, my dear boy. So you persave that there's some use in

having such a frind as Gorman O'Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park,

Connemar-r-ra, Ir-r-reland!" added the martial gentleman, with an awful

rattling of the r's.

"The sooner I move over to the neighbourhood of the Bench, the better,"

said Mrs. Curtis; "for I am sick and tired of living in Baker Street.

Just now, when I came out, it seemed to me that all the people I met

laughed in my face, as if they knew our circumstances."

"I wish I had seen them dar-r to laugh!" cried Captain O'Blunderbuss,

lifting up an empty bottle, and flourishing it over his head: "I'd have

sent them slap into the middle of next week, so that they should miss

resayving their money next Saturday night."

In such pleasant chat as this, did the trio while away the time until

about a quarter to five, when Mr. Pepperton made his appearance to

announce that the office had been searched, that three detainers had

been found, and that the _habeas corpus_ was all in apple-pie order.

Frank Curtis accordingly rang the bell, and ordered his bill. In about a

quarter of an hour it was brought;—and thus it ran:—

MR. CURTIS'S ACCOUNT.

_s._ _d._

Room 10 6

Breakfast 3 0

Eggs 0 6

Messenger to Carey Street 2 6

Reading Newspapers 1 0

Dinner 5 0

Porter 0 6

Gin and Cigars 5 6

Bread and Cheese for Supper 2 0

Porter 0 6

Room 10 6

Breakfast 3 0

Eggs 0 6

Messenger to Baker Street 3 0

Use of table-cloth, knives, and forks, &c., gentleman 2 6

providing his own dinner

Extras 5 0

—— —— ——

£2 15 6

—— —— ——

"Why, my good woman," exclaimed Frank Curtis, amazed as such a terrific

attempt at imposition, "this account is absurd. Besides, there are two

things in it that I paid for myself—I mean the messenger yesterday and

to-day."

"Master says it's all right, sir," observed the harridan.

"And then you charge a shilling for reading two newspapers a fortnight

old," cried Frank, more and more bewildered as he studied the items of

the bill: "and five shillings for _extras_! Why—what the devil are the

_extras_, since it seems to me that you have taken precious good care to

omit nothing?"

"The extras is soap, and candles, and so on," said the woman, growing

impatient.

"Then, be Jasus! and just let me soap over Mr. Mac Grab with a

shillaleh!" ejaculated Captain O'Blunderbuss, starting from his seat.

"It's afther robbing my frind, ye are—ye bastes of the earth!"

Mr. Pepperton however interfered, and represented to the two gentlemen

that there was no possibility of obtaining redress—that

sheriff's-officers might charge exactly what they liked—and that it

would be much better to pay the bill without any haggling. The amount

was accordingly liquidated, and the old woman received half-a-crown as a

gratuity, which she took in a manner most unequivocally denoting that

she had expected at least four times as much.

"Well," exclaimed Frank Curtis, as soon as she had left the room, "of

all infernal impositions this is the greatest! Supposing I was a poor

devil——"

"Then you would have been bundled straight off to Whitecross Street at

once," observed Pepperton. "Lord bless you, my dear sir—there's an

aristocracy amongst debtors as well as in every thing else in this

country."

"I always thought the law was the same for rich or poor," said Curtis.

"You never were under a greater mistake in your life," returned the

solicitor. "Money is all-powerful in England, and makes the gentleman;

and gentlemen are treated quite differently from common people. Such

establishments as the Bench and the Fleet[43] are for those who can

afford to pay for a _habeas_: while those who cannot, must go to the

County Gaol. These spunging-houses, too, are places of accommodation,

for the use of which people must pay liberally."

"Or rather be robbed vilely," said Frank. "But never mind—it can't be

helped. When shall I have to go over to the Bench?"

"The tipstaff is no doubt already waiting at the public-house opposite,"

replied the lawyer.

"Then I'll be off at once," exclaimed Curtis, rising from his chair.

"Be the power-rs! but we'll see ye safe over to the Binch," cried

Captain O'Blunderbuss; "for it may be that I shall have to thrash the

Marshal or skin a tur-rnkey to renther the people dacently civil in that

iligant istablishment."

"Yes—you come with me, captain," said Frank, who had been thinking of

some means to separate his amiable wife and his devoted friend. "You can

put Mrs. C. into a hackney-coach; and to-morrow morning, my dear," he

added, turning towards his spouse, "you can look out for a lodging

somewhere in the neighbourhood of the prison."

"But you don't mean me to remain all alone to-night in Baker Street,

with those odious officers in the house?" exclaimed Mrs. Curtis, not

admiring the proposed arrangement.

"It would not be proper for the captain to stay in the house now that I

am away," said Frank, hastily, and without daring to look at his gallant

friend: indeed, scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when he was

surprised at his courage in having dared to utter them.

Fortunately the captain took the observation in good part, and even

expressed his approval of it; for it struck the martial gentleman that

he should stand a much better chance of amusing himself with Frank

Curtis in the Bench, with the interior arrangements of which he was

pretty well acquainted from old experience, than in the society of Mrs.

Curtis in Baker Street. The lady could not, therefore, offer any farther

opposition to the arrangement proposed; but she darted an angry look

upon the captain, who responded by one of earnest appeal to her mercy.

She now took leave of her husband, and was escorted by Captain

O'Blunderbuss to the nearest coach-stand; and as some time elapsed ere

he returned to the spunging-house, it is presumable that he had a little

difficulty in making his peace with her.

At length, however, he did re-appear; and, the messenger having conveyed

the portmanteau over to the public-house opposite, for which he only

charged a shilling, the prisoner proceeded thither in company with Mr.

MacGrab and Captain O'Blunderbuss, Pepperton bidding them farewell at

the door.

In a little front parlour on the first floor of the public-house alluded

to, sate half-a-dozen seedy-looking men, who were delectably occupied in

smoking cigars and drinking hot gin-and-water. Their conversation was

doubtless very amusing to themselves; but it would have been very boring

to strangers;—for the topic seemed entirely limited to what had taken

place that day at the Insolvent Debtors' Court, or at the Judges'

Chambers. There, in that same room, were those men accustomed to meet

every afternoon (Sunday excepted), at about the same hour; and their

discourse was invariably on the same subjects. They were tipstaffs—or,

more properly speaking, perhaps, tipstaves: they lived in the atmosphere

of debtors' prisons and law-courts;—and all their information was

circumscribed to the transactions thereof. When they were not hovering

about the lobbies of the Fleet or the Bench, they were "down at

Westminster," or "up at Portugal Street;" and if not in any of those

places—why, then they were at the public-house.

It was to one of these worthies that MacGrab introduced Mr. Francis

Curtis; and as the tipstaff thus particularised had not finished his

cigar nor his gin-and-water, Mr. Frank Curtis and Captain O'Blunderbuss

sate down to keep him company till he had. Half an hour afterwards a

hackney-coach was sent for; and the prisoner, his gallant friend, and

the officer were speedily on their road to the King's Bench prison.

Curtis spoke but little during the transit: he felt nervous at the idea

of going to his new home. But the captain rattled away as if he were

determined to speak for himself and his friend both; and the tipstaff

was still in a state of uncertainty as to whether he should set the

gallant gentleman down as a very extraordinary personage, or as a most

wondrous liar, when the vehicle stopped at a little low door in a gloomy

brick wall.

"Be Jasus! and here's the Binch already," exclaimed Captain

O'Blunderbuss, thrusting his head out of the coach-window. "That house

there, with the trees before it, Frank, is the Marshal's—and a very

dacent berth he's got of it: I shouldn't mind standing in his shoes at

all, at all. But come along, me dear frind."

Thus speaking, the captain leapt from the vehicle, followed by Frank

Curtis and the tipstaff; and, having traversed an enclosure formed by

the gloomy-looking wall above alluded to and the high spike-topped

boundary of the prison itself, the trio ascended a few steps which led

them into the upper lobby of the King's Bench.

-----

Footnote 43:

Within the last few years the Fleet has been suppressed, and the

Bench, under the general name of the Queen's Prison, has become the

receptacle for all metropolitan debtors who are enabled to purchase

the luxury of a _habeas corpus_.

CHAPTER CV.

THE KING'S BENCH PRISON.

The upper lobby was a small, dirty, and sombre-looking outwork of the

vast establishment. A huge clock hung against one of the walls—a

roasting fire burnt in the grate—and a stout, elderly turnkey, who spoke

with a provincial accent, was seated on a high stool near the inner

door, watching the persons who came _out_ of the prison, and on whose

countenance the glare of a powerful light was thrown by a tin reflector.

Grouped near him were several char-women and messengers, engaged in the

double occupation of discussing a pot of the best ale and the scandal of

the Bench; while another turnkey—a short, active, bustling little

fellow, who rejoiced in the nick-name of "Buffer"—was seated inside a

small enclosure formed by wood-work breast-high, examining a greasy and

well-thumbed book containing sundry hieroglyphics which were supposed to

be entries of the prisoners' names.

To Mr. Buffer was Mr. Frank Curtis duly introduced by the tipstaff; and

the young gentleman's appellations were forthwith inscribed in the

greasy book. He was then desired to pay his gate-fees, which he

accordingly did; and, these little matters being settled, Mr. Buffer

politely informed him that he might "go inside." The head turnkey—who

was the stout, elderly man above alluded to—thereupon opened the door at

which he was seated; and Captain O'Blunderbuss led the way, first across

a small yard, next through the lower lobby—and thence into the grand

enclosure of the King's Bench itself.

Captain O'Blunderbuss turned sharp round to the left, and stopped in

admiration before a low building with a roof slanting down from the high

wall against which it stood.

"There!" cried the gallant officer, in an ecstacy of enthusiasm: "what

place should you be afther taking _that_ to be?"

"Why—I should say it was the scullery or the coal-cellars," replied

Frank.

"Be Jasus! me dear frind—and you're insulthing the finest fature in this

fine prison," exclaimed the captain: "it's the coffee-house."

Mr. Curtis did not like to say how deeply he was disappointed at the

unpromising exterior of an establishment which his companion seemed so

especially to admire; and he therefore silently followed his guide into

the coffee-room, which was just large enough to contain four very little

tables and yield accommodation to about a dozen people at a time.

There was nearly that number present when Captain O'Blunderbuss and

Frank Curtis entered the place; and as there were not two seats

disengaged, the gallant officer put his arms akimbo, fixed his eyes

sternly on a stout, inoffensive-looking old gentleman, and, without

positively addressing his words to him, exclaimed, "Be the holy poker-r!

and I should advise some one to be afther making room on a binch for my

frind and myself—or I'll know the rayson why!"

The inoffensive-looking gentleman shrank dismayed into a corner, and,

two or three others pressing closer together, sufficient space was

obtained to afford Captain O'Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis seats; and

the former, as he took his place at a table, cast a particularly

ferocious glance around on the assembled company, as much as to say, "Be

the power-rs! and ye'd betther not be afther having any of your nonsense

with me!" But as no one at the moment seemed at all inclined to make

even an attempt to interfere with the gallant gentleman, his countenance

gradually lost its menacing aspect; and he ordered the waiter—a

slip-shod, dirty boy—to bring a bottle of wine, spirits not being

allowed.

The company presented to the view of Mr. Frank Curtis rather a motley

aspect. There was a sample of nearly all kinds of social distinctions,—a

sprig of the aristocracy—a broken-down sporting gentleman—a decayed

tradesman—a bankrupt merchant—an insolvent parson—a ruined gamester—a

prize-fighter—a horse-chaunter—an attorney, who had over-reached

himself—a poor author—and one or two others who bore the vague and much

misappropriated denomination of "gentleman." All these were herding

together in a glorious state of democratic equality; for a debtors'

prison goes far to level distinctions, the lordling being very often

glad to obtain a draught of ale from the pewter-pot of a butcher.

The entrance of Captain O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis, both of whom

were taken for new prisoners and stared at accordingly, seemed to have

interrupted a conversation that was previously going on;—and for a few

minutes a dead silence prevailed. But at last, when the wine which the

captain had ordered was brought in, and that gallant gentleman and

Curtis gave evident proofs of an inclination to enjoy themselves by

enquiring likewise for cigars, the company recovered the feeling of

hilarity on which the awful appearance of O'Blunderbuss had seemed for a

few minutes to throw a complete damper.

"Well, how did Jackson get on to-day at Portugal Street?" enquired a

rakish, dissipated looking young gentleman, who was smoking a cigar and

drinking a pint of Port-wine.

"He got sent back for six months," answered the person to whom the

question was put, and who was a stout, big man, in very seedy attire.

"It seems that his schedule was made up of accommodation bills, and the

opposition was desperate."

"You talk of accommodation bills, Muggles," observed the young

gentleman; "why, all my debts are in paper of that kind. There's

seventeen thousand pounds against me at the gate; and I'd take my

affidavit that I never had more than three thousand in actual value. So

I suppose I shall get it from the old Commissioner?"

"No, you won't, Pettifer, my boy," cried a short, elderly,

dapper-looking man, putting down a quart pot in which his countenance

had been buried for upwards of a minute before he began to speak; "your

father's a lord—and that's enough," he added, looking mysteriously

around.

"Well, so he is," said the Honourable Mr. Pettifer, lolling back in a

very aristocratic manner, and speaking for the behoof of Captain

O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis; "it's true that my father is Lord

Cobbleton, and that I'm his second son. But, after all—what's a

nobleman's second son?"

"Be Jasus! and what indeed?" cried the captain. "Why, my grandfather was

Archbishop of Dublin—and my father was his son—and I'm my father's

son—and yet, be the power-rs! I'm only a capthain now! But if I hadn't

half a million, or some thrifle of the kind locked up in Chancery, I

should be afther rowlling in my carriage—although I do keep a buggy and

a dog-cart, as it is—and my frind Curthis here, jintlemen, wouldn't be

in the Binch for two hunthred thousand pounds, as he is and bad luck to

it!"

"Well—but you know, captain," said Frank, who was determined not to be

behind his gallant companion in the art of lying, and who therefore very

readily took up the cue prepared for him,—"you know, captain, that the

moment my god-father the Duke comes home, I shall be all right."

"Right!—right as a thrivet, me boy!" vociferated O'Blunderbuss; "and

then we'll carry on the war-r-r with a vengeance."

These remarks on the part of the captain and Frank Curtis produced a

deep impression upon the greater portion of the company present; but two

or three of the oldest prisoners tipped each other the wink slyly, as

much as to say, "Ain't they coming it strong?"—although they did not

dare provoke the ire of the ferocious Hibernian by any overt display of

their scepticism.

"Speaking of Chancery," said an old, miserable-looking man, in a

wretchedly thread-bare suit of black, and whose care-worn countenance

showed an intimate acquaintance with sorrow,—"speaking of Chancery," he

repeated, leaning forward from the corner in which he had hitherto

remained silent and almost unobserved,—"you can't know Chancery,

sir—begging your pardon—better or more bitterly than I do."

[Illustration]

"Ah! tell the gentlemen your story, Prout," exclaimed one of the

company. "'Pon my soul 'tis a hard case, and a stain upon a civilised

country.

"A stain!" ejaculated the old man, whose name appeared to be Prout;—"a

stain!" he cried, in a tone of painful irony:—"it is a horror—an

abomination—an atrocity that demands vengeance on those legislators who

know that such abuses exist and who will not remedy them!

Chancellors—Vice-Chancellors—Judges—Law-Lords—Members of

Parliament—Attorney-Generals—Solicitor-Generals—all, all for the last

two-and-twenty years, so help me God! have been familiar with my

case—and yet the Court of Chancery remains as it is, the most tremendous

abuse—the most damnable Inquisition—the most grinding, soul-crushing,

heart-breaking engine of torture that the ingenuity of man ever yet

invented! Yes—all that—and more—more, if I could find stronger language

to express myself in—is that earthly reflection of hell—the Court of

Chancery!"

The old man had spoken with a volubility which had increased in

quickness and in emphasis until it positively grew painful to hear;—and

his countenance became flushed with a hectic, unhealthy red—and his

eyes, usually leaden and dull, were fired with an unnatural lustre—and

his chest heaved convulsively—and his lips quivered with the dreadful

excitement produced in his attenuated and worn-out frame by the

remembrance of his wrongs.

Remembrance!—as if he ever forgot them! No—the Chancery Court was the

subject of his thoughts by day and his dreams by night: every thing he

heard, or saw, or read, was so tortured by his morbid imagination as to

bear some analogy, remote or near, to the proceedings of the Chancery

Court;—when he had a meal, he wondered that the Chancery Court had left

it to him—and when he had none, he said that the Chancery Court made him

starve;—if he felt in tolerably good health, it was because he heard of

some case in Chancery even more flagrant than his own—and that was a

consolation to his diseased mind; and if he felt ill which was nearly

always the case, he declared that the Chancery Court made him so:—in

fact, he was truly a victim, in every sense and way, of that tremendous

tribunal which has instruments of torture far more terrible for the

feelings than those which the Inquisition of Spain ever invented for the

body!

"Yes," exclaimed Prout, after a few moments' pause, "and all that

diabolical tyranny is carried on under the semblance and with the solemn

forms of justice. You go into a fine court, where you see a man of

splendid intellect, fine education, and profound knowledge, seated in a

chair, with the wig and gown; and before him are rows of barristers

almost as learned as himself. Well—would you not think that you were in

a tribunal worthy of the civilisation of this country! Yet—better were

it if savages from the South Sea Islands became your judges; better to

die upon the threshold of that court, than enter its walls. It is a

damnable and a cursed tyranny, I repeat; and the English are a weak—a

pusillanimous—a spaniel-like race, that they do not rise in rebellion

against that monstrous tribunal!"

Again he paused, overpowered by excitement:—but there was something

terribly real and awfully sincere—aye, and sternly true—in that man's

denunciations!

"Yes—I say," he resumed, after having refreshed himself from a

pewter-pot near him—though there had been a time when he was accustomed

to drink wine,—"the English people are a nation of paltry cowards for

allowing this hideous Chancery Court to uprear its head amongst them.

Did not the French destroy their Bastille?—and was the Bastille ever

half so bad, in one way, as this Chancery Court is in another? It is all

useless for two or three people to declaim, or two or three authors to

write, against such a flagrant abuse. 'Tis a public grievance, and must

be put down by the public hand! The whole body of lawyers are against

law-reform—and the profession of the law has vast influence upon both

Houses of Parliament. From the Houses of Parliament, then, we have no

hope: the strong hand of the people must do it. You might as well ask

the Lords to abolish hereditary aristocracy, or the King to dethrone

himself, as expect the Houses of Parliament to sweep away the Chancery

Court."

"But could we do without it?" enquired an attentive listener.

"Do without it!" exclaimed Prout, indignantly—almost contemptuously, at

the nature of the question: "certainly we can! France does without

it—Holland does without it—Prussia does without it—Switzerland does

without it—and the United States do without it;—and where is the law of

property better administered than in those countries? There the transfer

of land, or the bequeathing of other property, is as simple as that of

merchandize or stock; but here—here, in England, which vaunts its

freedom and its civilization, the process is encumbered with forms and

deeds which leave the whole arrangement liable to flaws, difficulties,

and endless embarrassments. Talk of Equity indeed! 'tis the most

shameless mockery of justice ever known even amongst barbarians. But let

me tell you an anecdote? In 1763, a suit was commenced in Chancery

relative to some lawful property on which there was a windmill. The

cause was not referred to the Master till 1796—thirty-three years having

elapsed, and the lawyers, who had grown old during the proceedings, not

having been idle. In the Master's office did the case remain till

1815—though the new lawyers who had succeeded the old batch that had

died off in the meantime, were as active as the matter would allow them

to be. Well—in 1815 the Master began to look into the business; but,

behold! the windmill had disappeared—it had tumbled down—it had wasted

away into dust—not a trace of it remained!" actually shrieked out the

old man, in the excitement of his story.[44]

"Thus the affair was fifty-two years in Chancery, and was knocked on the

head after all?" observed one of the company present.

"While Law slept, Time was awake and busy, you see," said Prout, with a

bitter irony which actually chilled the hearts of his auditors. "But I

can give you plenty of examples of the infernal—heart-breaking delays of

Chancery—and my own amongst the rest presently," he continued. "There is

the case of _Bute_ versus _Stuart_: it began in 1793—and in 1813 _a

step_ was made in the cause![45] Then, again, you have the case of the

_Attorney-General_ versus _Trevelyan_: it commenced in 1685, and is an

affair involving an endowment for a Grammar-School at Morpeth. This

cause never will be finished![46] But how much property do you suppose

there is locked up in Chancery—eh? Ah! now I am going to tell you

something astounding indeed—and yet as true as the Gospel! _Thirty-eight

millions sterling_ are locked up in that dreadful tribunal. A

tribunal!—no—it is a sepulchre—a tomb—a grave in which all justice and

all hopes are interred! But you will say that this enormous fund is only

as it were in temporary trust, to be in due time portioned out to its

rightful owners. Pshaw!—nonsense! More than _one-third_ concerns persons

who are dead and have left no heirs, or else whose representatives are

ignorant of their rights. The Suitors' Fund is a bank of plunder—of

shameful, diabolical plunder effected under the _forms of the law_!"

"But what about your own case, old fellow?" enquired the Honourable Mr.

Pettifer.

"I'll tell you in a moment, gentlemen," cried Prout, rejoiced to observe

the interest created by his strictures on the most hellish tribunal that

ever disgraced a civilised country. "Twenty-five years ago," he said, "I

was a prosperous man, having a good business in the City; and I had

managed to save four thousand pounds by dint of strict economy and the

closest attention to my affairs. A lawyer—a friend of mine—told me of a

favourable opportunity to place the sum out at good interest and on the

best possible security. A gentleman, in fact, wanted to borrow just that

amount on mortgage, he having a capital estate. The matter was fully

investigated, and the security was considered unexceptionable. So I lent

the money; and for three years the interest was regularly paid, and all

went on well. The gentleman suddenly died; and his nephew, who inherited

the estate, hunted out an old entail, effected a hundred and fifty years

previously, and of the existence of such an entail no mention had been

made in subsequent deeds. So the nephew would not acknowledge the

validity of the mortgage, and refused to pay me a fraction of my four

thousand pounds. He would not even settle the interest. I was therefore

forced into Chancery; and seven years afterwards I got a decree in my

favour, but I was sent into the Master's Office on account of certain

details which I will not stop to explain to you. This was fifteen years

ago—and I am still in Chancery! I have spent three thousand pounds in

costs—and am totally ruined. The excitement and worry of law made me

neglect my business: my affairs fell into confusion—my creditors took

all my stock in trade—and here have I been eleven years for the balance

of my liabilities. Twenty-two years have I been engaged in _law_—and

have not yet got _justice_! And yet I am told that I live in a civilised

country, where the laws are based on consummate wisdom, and where the

meanest as well as the highest individual is sure to obtain justice.

Justice indeed!—such justice as one finds in the Chancery Court! My

original claim was for four thousand pounds—and I have spent three

thousand in costs, and owe my lawyer five hundred pounds more. But what

do you think of this? Eight years ago a _written question_ was put by

the Master to the respondent in the suit; and it is still a matter of

dispute whether he is to answer it or not! Here's law for you—here's

justice! Why—it is enough to make a man curse himself for belonging to a

country in which such things take place: it is enough to make me ashamed

of being an Englishman! Suppose a savage from the South Sea Islands came

to England—beheld all the glitter and glory of our outward appearance of

civilisation—studied our language, and was then told of such cases as

these? What would he think. He would say, '_After all, you are in

reality a very barbarous people; and I shall be glad when I get back to

my own far-off island!_'"[47]

"As far as all this goes, you are right enough," observed an attorney,

who was one of the company present: "but had you gone much farther, you

would have been equally correct. You may denounce nearly all our laws

and statutes to be radically bad and a disgrace to civilisation. But it

is useless to hope that an efficient reform will be ever effected by the

Parliament; because the Parliament is loth to interfere with existing

usages, and is afraid to meddle with existing rights. Nothing short of a

Revolution can possibly accomplish a proper change."

"Why—this is treason!" exclaimed the Honourable Mr. Pettifer, his

aristocratic feelings deeply wounded by the lawyer's bold and manly

declaration.

"It may be treason—but it is nevertheless the truth," said the attorney,

with the cool firmness of a man entertaining an honest conviction of the

justice of his observations. "I declare most of our laws to be a

disgrace and a shame. In France all the laws are contained in one book,

accessible to every person: here, in this country, they are totally

inaccessible to the community in general. Do you think France would ever

have had her Code without a Revolution?[48] Do you know how silly,

absurd, and contradictory are some of our statutes—those statutes which

are approved of by the Law-Officers of the Crown, and enacted by wise

senators? There is a statute, for example's sake,[49] which decrees that

one half of the penalty inflicted in a particular case is to go to the

informer, and the other half to the King. And yet under this statute

Judges sentence men to transportation—say, fourteen years'

transportation, to be halved by the informer and the King! Then there

are statutes still upon the book, and which, though unrepealed, could

scarcely be put into execution without inflicting an odious tyranny. A

statute of Edward VI. forbids agricultural labourers to hire themselves

out, or be hired, by the day, and not for less than a year. By a statute

of William and Mary, no peasant may sell goods in a town, except at a

fair; and a statute of Henry VII. decrees, under severe penalties, that

no cattle shall be killed in a walled town, nor in Cambridge. There is

also a statute, I forget of which reign, enacting that no shoemaker may

be a tanner, nor a tanner a shoemaker. The laws relating to Marriage are

in many respects absurd, and in others obscure. A marriage contracted by

persons under age, by means of license, without the consent of their

parents, is unlawful; but such persons may contract a lawful marriage by

banns, although without the consent of their parents. Thousands and

thousands of persons have been led to believe that it is lawful for a

man to marry his deceased wife's sister; whereas it is _not lawful_, and

the issue of such a marriage is illegitimate."

At this moment the learned gentleman was interrupted by the clanging of

a loud bell, carried by a person who was proceeding round the main

building of the prison, and who every now and then stopped ringing for

the purpose of vociferating as loud as he could—"Strangers, women, and

children, all out!"

"Shall you have to leave?" demanded Frank Curtis, in a whisper to his

friend the captain.

"Divil a hap'orth of it, me boy!" exclaimed O'Blunderbuss. "The person

who keeps the Coffee-house will be glad to give me a bed as well as

yourself; for money, frind Cur-r-tis, procures everything in this

blissed Spike-Island."

Another half-hour was passed in discourse on various topics, the inmates

of the Coffee-house parlour having become wearied of commenting upon the

laws of their country; and, at the expiration of that interval renewed

shouts, now emanating from the immediate vicinity of the lower lobby,

warned all strangers to quit the prison. At the same time the parlour

was rapidly cleared, O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis alone remaining

there:—for it seemed to be a rule on the part of the prisoners to rush

to the gate, for the purpose of seeing the "strangers" take their

departure.

The captain now gave a furious pull at the bell; and, when the slip-shod

waiter appeared, he demanded a conference with the keeper of the

Coffee-house. This request was speedily complied with; and satisfactory

arrangements were entered into for beds. Another bottle of wine was

ordered, the captain persuading Curtis that it would be better for him

to take his first survey of all the grand features of the Bench in the

morning, and to pass the evening in conviviality. This they accordingly

did until eleven o'clock, when the lights in the parlour were put out,

and the two gentlemen were shown to their respective bed-chambers—the

said chambers being each about twice as big as a coffin, and quite as

inconveniently angular.

-----

Footnote 44:

The anecdote is a positive fact!

Footnote 45:

It is not terminated yet!

Footnote 46:

Mr. Prout's prophecy seems likely to be fulfilled; for the case pends

yet, having now lasted _one hundred and sixty-two years_!!! In 1710

Lord Chancellor Harcourt made a decree commanding the boundaries of

the litigated land to be ascertained; and the commissioner appointed

to carry this decree into effect, reported that no boundaries could be

traced! Proceedings continued; and on the 25th of January, 1846, the

case was re-argued before Vice-chancellor Shadwell, eight counsel

being engaged for relator, lessee, trustees, corporation, and the

various other parties interested. The Vice-Chancellor of England

referred the matter to the Master's Office, where it is not likely to

be disinterred for the next half century! Really, we English are a

highly civilised people: a law-suit may be perpetuated through a dozen

generations, without any delay or fault on the side of the parties

interested—_the whole and sole blame resting upon the Chancery Court_.

Footnote 47:

Mr. Commissioner Fane, of the London Bankruptcy Court, was brought up

as a Chancery lawyer; and in a recent "Letter to Lord Cottenham" he

thus explains the causes of that shameful dilatoriness which

characterises Chancery proceedings:—

"In Chancery the suitor applies first to the judge: every thing is

done in writing. The judge, after great expense has been incurred and

after a long delay, makes a decree: that decree tells the Master, in

endless detail, what he is to do (just as if he required to be taught

the simplest matters): the decree is drawn up, not by the judge, who

might be thought wiser than the Master, but by the registrar, who, in

teaching the Master, frequently omits some material direction; the

parties then adjourn to the Master's office; there the matter lingers,

month after month and year after year; at last the Master makes his

report, tells the Court what he has found, and sometimes what he would

have found if the registrar had authorised him to do so, and at last

the Court either acts or sends the matter back to the Master with new

directions. Meanwhile, as Lord Bacon said about two hundred years ago,

'Though the Chancery pace be slow, the suitor's pulse beat quick.' I

know of nothing to which to compare this process except the game of

battledore and shuttlecock, in which the poor suitor plays the part of

shuttlecock, and is tossed from the judge to the Master, and from the

Master to the judge, over and over, till the scene is closed only too

often by despair, insolvency, or death."

Footnote 48:

"The _Code Napoleon_ is sometimes declared to be a failure; but it has

been no failure. In place of the previously differing laws of the

provinces of the ancient kingdom it has substituted a consistent

uniform code for the entire of France. But it is urged, that it has

been buried under a load of commentaries. Of course there has risen a

pile of judicial constructions, as must be the case with the text of

every code. But these constructions have a platform to rest upon,

framed in the light of modern science. Ours are wholly different; they

have no such foundation to settle upon: they rest upon a mingled heap

of rubbish and masonry, of obsolete laws and laws in force. Even the

basement storey has not been firmly laid, as in France. This, however,

it is that the nation requires to have done; it requires an entirely

new legal edifice to be erected. All that is good in the past it would

have preserved under a new and better arrangement; and then the mass

of statutes, reports, and text-books from which the analysis had been

made, and which had long embarrassed both the learned and

unlearned—declared by parliamentary authority to be no better than

waste paper—null and void, and no more citable for any purpose of

legal argument, illustration, or decision."—_Black Book of England._

Footnote 49:

53rd, George III.

CHAPTER CVI.

A FARTHER INSIGHT INTO THE KING'S BENCH.

At half-past seven o'clock on the following morning, the slip-shod

waiter knocked at Mr. Curtis's door, exclaiming, "Please, sir, you must

get up, and go down to the lobby by eight, 'cos you're wanted."

"Who want's me there?" demanded Frank, leaping from his bed, and

suddenly animated by the hope that Sir Christopher had accidentally

heard of his predicament and had come to pay his debts.

But the boy had hurried down stairs again; and Curtis was accordingly

compelled to hurry over his toilette in a state of profound suspense. By

the time his ablutions were performed and he was dressed, it was close

upon eight o'clock; and he repaired to the gate, having bestowed _en

passant_ a thundering knock with his clenched fist on the door of the

captain's crib.

The gate of the lower lobby was not as yet opened; but in its immediate

vicinity several of the prisoners were collected—some in dressing-gowns,

others in their shirt-sleeves, and all having a certain air of seediness

not observable elsewhere. At length, when the massive portal _did_

expand, in rushed a motley assortment of messengers, char-women, and

such itinerant venders as milk-men, water-cress boys, and the

fustian-clad individual who sold red herrings and shrimps.

When this influx of varied specimens of animated nature had passed,

Frank Curtis entered the lobby and demanded of a one-armed turnkey

standing before the fire, "who it was that required his presence?".

"Me and my partners, sir," was the reply.

"And what for?" enquired Frank.

"Just to take your likeness, sir," was the farther explanation given.

"My likeness!" cried the young gentleman, glancing rapidly around in the

expectation of beholding an artist with pallet and brushes all ready;

but, not perceiving any such individual, he began to look very ferocious

indeed, under the impression that the turnkey had a mind to banter him.

"We call it taking the likeness of a new prisoner, sir," observed the

one-armed functionary, who was really a very civil fellow, "when we have

him here by day-light just to take a look at him—so that we may know him

again," he added significantly. "You see, sir, there's between three and

four hundred prisoners in the college—we call it a college, sir,

sometimes—and it isn't a very easy thing to remember every new-comer,

unless we have a good look at him."

"Oh! now I understand you," exclaimed Frank, laughing heartily at the

idea of having his likeness taken in such a style.

While he was yet indulging in this expression of his mirth, the other

turnkeys made their appearance, and, each individually wishing him a

"good morning," they scanned him from head to foot—apparently committing

to memory every one of his features _seriatim_. Frank tried to look as

unconcerned as possible; but he nevertheless felt very uncomfortable,

and was heartily glad when the operation, which lasted about five

minutes, was over. The other turnkeys then withdrew; and Curtis remained

alone with the one-armed official.

"Nice place this, sir, for a prison—ain't it?" asked the latter, taking

his seat on a stool near the door, which stood open, and whence the eye

commanded a view of the spacious racquet-ground and a small portion of

the main building.

"Well—it might be a great deal worse," replied Frank. "You must have

some strange characters here?" he added, enquiringly.

"I b'lieve ye!" exclaimed the turnkey, fixing his looks mysteriously

upon the young gentleman in a species of dim intimation that it was

indeed a very remarkable place. "You see that old feller in the rugged

blue coat, a-rolling the fust racquet-ground there? Well—he come here to

this prison twenty year ago in his carriage, and had his livery servants

to wait upon him; and now he's glad to drag that roller every morning

for a few pence."

"And can't he manage to get out?" asked Frank, with an ominous shudder.

"Lord bless you, sir," cried the turnkey, "he's his own prisoner!"

"His own prisoner!" repeated Curtis. "What—do you mean to say that he

keeps himself in the Bench?"

"I do, sir—and a many does the same," continued the turnkey, in a low,

mysterious tone. "These poor creaturs, sir, stay in prison so long that

all their relations and friends dies off; and if they went out, they

wouldn't have a soul to speak to, or a place to go to. So, if their

creditors dies too and their discharge is sent 'em, they keep it in

their pockets and never lodge it at the gate—'cos they prefer staying

inside, where they have companions and can get a bit of something to eat

in one way or another."

"This is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life," said

Frank.

"There's many things more stranger still _here_," returned his

informant, who was pleased with the mysterious importance which his

position as narrator of these marvels gave him. "What should you think

of men putting themselves into prison, and making up their minds to stay

here all their lives perhaps?"

"I should think you were joking if you said so," answered Curtis.

"Joking! Lord bless you, sir, I wouldn't joke about no such a thing,"

exclaimed the turnkey, with a spice of indignation in his manner. "But

I'll tell you how it is. There—you see that stout man in the

shooting-jacket a-bargaining for them bloaters with the chap that's

sitting on the bench outside the Tap? Well—he committed a forgery, or

summut of that kind; and, knowing there was a warrant against him, and

not choosing to run away from London for fear of being took in the

country, he got a friend to arrest him for debt. So he immediately

passed over to the Bench by _habeas_; and the warrant for felony was

lodged at the gate against him. But his debts must be paid before the

warrant can be executed; and as you see he's in a manner his own

detaining creditor—leastways, his friend outside is—he isn't likely to

have his discharge till the felony business can be settled somehow or

other."

"The Bench is then a most convenient place for people who ought to be in

Newgate?" said Curtis. "But live and learn; and the more one sees of the

world——"

"The more curiouser it is—ain't it?" cried the turnkey. "Well—now you

see that tall, stout gentleman there, walking up and down in front of

the State House with the stick in his hand? He's been here some years,

and is wery likely to stay a many years longer. His creditors allows him

three guineas a week for his kindness in remaining a prisoner in the

Bench."

"What!" ejaculated Curtis, now more astonished than ever. "His

_creditors_ pay him for staying _here_!"

"It's as true as you're alive, sir," was the reply; "and it's easy

enough to explain, too. That gentleman has got a good landed estate,

which is in the hands of his two or three principal creditors, who

manage it and receive all the rents for the purpose of paying themselves

their claims upon him. Well, now—if he went through the Insolvents'

Court, _all_ the creditors would come in for their share of the proceeds

of the estate; and so the two or three principals ones allow him three

guineas a week to keep him here and prevent him going through the Court.

It's a deuced good thing for him, I can tell you; and he's as happy as a

King. He has his wife—leastways, his lady with him,—we call 'em all

_wives_ here;—and he's got a batch of the loveliest and nicest children

you ever see. There they are, sir—the little innocents—a-playing there

in the mud, just as if there wasn't no such place as prison at all; and

yet they was all born up in that room there in the State House, with the

green safe at the window and the flower-pots."

"And who is that lame, elderly man, running about with newspapers in his

hand?" enquired Frank.

"He's the newsman of the Bench—and a prisoner like the rest on 'em," was

the answer. "Ah! some years ago he was a rich man, and in a flourishing

way of business. But he got into Chancery, and that's the same as

getting into the Bench; 'cos one always leads to t'other—for even to be

a vinner in Chancery, one must pass at least a dozen years or so here

fust. That seems to be the rule, as far as I can understand it. Well,

sir—now that lame man is obliged to turn newsman; so you see there's a

many rewerses in this world, sir. Ah! the world's a queer place, ain't

it?—almost as queer as the Bench itself!"

What the turnkey's notions of the world might be, it is not easy to

conceive: but they were evidently somewhat dim and misty—inasmuch as he

seemed impressed with the belief that the Bench and the world were two

distinct places:—but, then, the Bench was _his_ world, though not a

prisoner there himself; and perhaps he established a distinction as

existing between the "world within" and the "world without." Alas!

many—many who _were_ prisoners did the same!

"Who are those two ladies that have just come down to walk on the gravel

there, by the side of the racquet-ground?" enquired Frank Curtis, much

amused by the turnkey's gossip.

"We call that gravel-walk _the parade_," observed the official. "Those

ladies are mother and daughter; and it's the daughter that's a prisoner.

She's a devilish fine gal; and the old woman stays with her to take care

of her. But she and the Honourable Mr. Pettifer are deuced thick

together; and the mother winks at it. Such things will happen in the

best regilated families—particklerly in the Bench, where no one ain't

over and above partickler. This isn't the shop for morals. Mr. Curtis:

all the young single women that comes here, is sure to get corrupted.

But that's no look-out of mine;"—and with this solacing conclusion, the

turnkey hit the lock of the door a tremendous blow with his key.

"Be the power-rs! and is it afther staling a march upon me that ye are?"

vociferated a well-known voice at this moment; and the captain stalked

up to the gate, looking quite fresh and blooming after a good night's

rest and copious ablutions.

"They had me down to take my likeness," cried Frank; "or else I dare say

I should have slept on till now."

"Well—we'll just make the round of the Binch, me boy," exclaimed the

captain; "and by that time the breakfast will be ready. I've orthered

it—hot rolls and coffee, with kidneys, eggs, cresses, and such like

thrifles; and a walk will give us an appetite."

Curtis accordingly took his friend's arm; and they set out on their

limited ramble.

"That building on your right, Frank," said the captain, "is the State

House, where Government prisoners and such like spalpeens are kept—or

ought to be; but the prisoners for debt get hould of the rooms there,

and the divil himself can't turn 'em out. But here's the Tap: and this

is the first lion of the Binch."

They entered a low and dirty-looking place, in which there were several

common tables of the roughest description, and the surfaces of which

were completely carved out into names, initial letters, men hanging, and

a variety of devices—these ingenious and very elaborate specimens of

wood-engraving having been effected by penknives. A tremendous fire

burnt in the grate, round which were assembled several of the poorer

class of prisoners and the messengers, eating their breakfast;—and, at

one of the tables just alluded to, the newsman was sorting his papers.

As the captain and Curtis were retracing their way from an inspection of

the interior of the tap-room, the former stopped at the bar, exclaiming

to the man in attendance, "Two half pints, Misther Vernon—and good

mornin' to ye."

"You would not drink malt liquor so early, will you?" asked Frank, with

a look of astonishment at his companion.

"Be Jasus! and it's for you to taste the porther, me boy!" exclaimed the

captain. "Don't you remimber all I said yesterday in its praise?

Come—dhrink!"

And Mr. Curtis was accordingly compelled to swallow half a pint of

porter, though malt liquor before breakfast was somewhat repugnant to

his taste. The beer was veritably of first-rate quality; and the captain

was as proud to hear the young gentleman's eulogy on its merits, as if

he had brewed it himself.

"Now let us continue our ramble," said he;—and away they went,

arm-in-arm, the two or three poor prisoners who were lounging at the

door of the Tap respectfully making room for them to pass.

Entering upon the parade, Frank now for the first time obtained a full

view of the front of the main building—a long, gloomy, barrack-like

structure, with half a dozen entrance-ways leading to the various

staircases. Fixed to the ledges of many of the windows, were safes in

which the prisoners kept their provisions; and in several instances

these safes were covered with flower-pots containing sickly plants.

Precisely in the centre of the building was the chapel; and over the

chapel was the infirmary. Most of the rooms on the ground-floor were

fitted up as little shops, the occupants being prisoners, and the

business carried on being entirely in the "general line." The

lumps of butter—wedges of cheese—red herrings—slices of

bacon—matches—balls of twine—candles—racquet balls—sweet-stuff—loaves of

bread—rolls—soap—eggs—and other articles of the nature usually sold in

such magnificent marts of commerce, were arranged so as to make the best

possible show, and carry out the spirit of competition which raged as

fiercely in that little community as in the world without. A peep

through the window of one of those miniature shops, showed the canisters

of tea and the jars of tobacco and snuff standing orderly upon the

shelves of three feet in length; and behind a counter, along which Tom

Thumb could have walked in two strides, stood the stout proprietor of

the concern, examining with rueful looks the wonderful increase of

chalk-marks which the morning's sales had compelled him to make upon a

slate against the honoured names of his customers.

"Now look this way, me frind," cried the captain, as he forced Frank to

turn round towards the racquet-courts. "D'ye see nothing particular?"