THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
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 NEWGATE* A Romance* London * ( E. LLOYD) n • d • 
 Z"l847 J7 First edition. COMPLETE FILE 
 of 97 numbers, wanting 10 pp from tho first?: 
 second Hunbor v/hieh have toeen supplied by 
 3'pages of doubl e— column removed fpon a 
 la tor reissue to moke this volume co^tjieta. 
 for text* As ^ith all PRDBT* s bcoks^a nufeh 
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 is a nirado. ,a reasonably good copy of this 
 
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N E W G A T E 
 
 HI 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY E. LLOYD, 12. SALISBURY-SQUARE. 
 FLEET-STREET. 
 
r 
 
Bid hope farewell, tiiou saddened heart, 
 
 As 'neath this gloomy porch, 
 
 Thou leave&t behind thee light and joy. 
 
 Massinger, 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY E. LLOYD, 12, S ALISBURY-3QUARE, FLEE T-3TREET. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In concluding the romance of Newgate, the author cannot refrain 
 from saying a few words to his readers with regard to the design of 
 the work. 
 
 The object of the novel was not to create any morbid sympathy 
 with criminals — it was not to paint scenes of horror which should 
 curdle the blood, and 
 
 '•Make the young hair stand on end;" — 
 
 it was not for the purpose of taking away, by clething it in the language 
 of romance, any of thai highly proper and deoorous dread and dislike of 
 vice, which is the surest safeguard of virtue. No, it was an effort " to hold 
 the mirror up to nature," and, by illustrating a building having about it so 
 many dreary and shuddering accessories, to succeed in bringing over and 
 deciphering another great page in the history of human nature. 
 
 Men and women never exhibit themselves so naturally as in this 
 •risis, and hence it is that the Chronicles of Newgate have a truth- 
 speaking air. 
 
 We can likewise assure our readers that some of the narrations 
 which it has been so pleasing a task to lay before them, cheered on by such 
 great success, are all truths. Although we are forbid 
 T© tell the secrets of the prison house" 
 
 in some resj ects, we have overleaped that prohibition in others, and that 
 we had access to documents of the surest character wc could prove, but 
 that it would not he desirable to compromi e in any way those who 
 befriended us in our search into thp Mysteries of Newgate. 
 
 London, November ; 1847. 
 
I 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 ft &trnraitcc. 
 
 See page 6, 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Newgate ! what crowds ot strange associations rush across the mind at the very 
 pr nunciation of that melancholy name ! Stern, unpitiful, and terrific rises the 
 u ssive structure before the mind's eye. Of all the crowds that hurry past its por- 
 il who is there that now pauses to reflect for one moment upon the mass of human 
 misery which those rough hewn walls have enclosed? We are too familiar with 
 the spectacle of such a building standing in the heart of such a city as London to 
 feel acutely the shadow of its presence ; and yet, Newgate, what art thou ? — a mute 
 
4 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 but terrible appeal to the imagination — a huge, a terrifying fact — a pile of masonry* 
 reared by human nature, as an awful evidence of its frailties. Should aught but 
 melancholy musings light on sucha building? We cannot hear the sighs of those 
 who pine within its walls ; we cannot see the hot, gushing tears that course each 
 other down the wan and wasted cheeks of its inhabitants ; we cannot hear the 
 shrieks which proclaim the mind's wreck : but we can look upon the cold and mas- 
 sive walls, and we can shudder as we tell ourselves that such things are, as, with a 
 sadder mien, we turn our backs upon that gaunt epitomy of woe. 
 
 And London — mighty, majestic London — has its churches and its cathedrals, its 
 high places, and its places of holy worship beautified with all that art can do, to win 
 the wandering soul to faith ; and palaces, too, on which a nation has expended a 
 nation's taste, resplendent with regal glories, are there in this, our native land — a 
 land where crime and virtue, destitution and opulence, jostle each other as closely as 
 may the noble and the beggar in the overfull graveyard. And admiring crowds will 
 gaze on the fair temples, reared for Heaven's service — they will pause and sigh in 
 vain for a participation in the gaudy frivolities and the gilded pettiness of a con- 
 temptible court. 
 
 But who stops at Newgate 1 Of all the throngs that pass its doors, intent on 
 business or ( on pleasure, who casts a look upwards to the reproachful structure ? 
 Few, few — few indeed ; and yet how pregnant with thought is that building ! 
 
 It is massive and substantial beyond ordinary structures, as if it would proclaim 
 the endurance of human crime. There is nothing hopeful, nothing joyous within it or 
 without it. The innocent may well shudder with the guilty as its portals close upon 
 • them. 
 
 Opposite to that doorway through which so many wretched beings, tottering upon 
 the verge of eternity, have passed, there is the arched entrance of an ancient inn. 
 Pause with us, then, reader, and let us look at Newgate. 
 
 How the mind fills with thought — how the past seems now to struggle with the 
 present — what myriads of names and events connected with that terrific structure 
 now float upon the imagination ! Yes, Newgate, in thy history is to be found the 
 history of a large class of men and of manners. The very contemplation of the 
 blackened stonework, heaped so roughly yet so sternly together, that compose thee, 
 carries the mind back to other days — to those days, the habits, the feelings, and the 
 manners of which can never again return. We look back a hundred years, and we 
 see the bold highwayman, who has committed some daring robbery by Charing 
 Cross — it was so lonely — brought by mounted armed men to thy grim portals. We 
 see is him the Captain Macheath of his time. There are the long jack boots, the 
 spurs, the scarlet coat, with its rich lace trimmings, the swagger of the ruffian, who 
 fancies himseif the gentleman, because it is a bolder occupation to rob than to 
 work. 
 
 And such a man, for a time, would be the darling of the town— his exploits would 
 be the theme of universal gossip, and he would hold a levee the day before his exe- 
 cution, and his progress to Tyburn \\ ould be a gala. 
 
 Contrast this for a moment with modern criminality, and most truly shall we find- 
 that the romantic rascals of davs gone by were a very different class from the ruffian 
 of 184o. 
 
 Authors have at various times asserted that this, that, and the other were the best 
 modes of tracing habits and customs of one age to another ; some, with a limited 
 gaze, have looked no further than the court for their examples of the mutations of 
 habit and manner ; while others have, with a bigotted apprehension, considered that 
 no changes were worth consideration that were not in some way connected with the 
 pant of religious observance ; but, for our parts, if we would wish to paint a fai .hful 
 record of society, as, it was and as it is, we would dive into the secrets of aneV 
 Nevvgate — we would listen to the revelations of its occupants — wc would traverse • 
 gloomy passages, and open the doors of its most hidden cells, and isi so doing, v 
 should obtain justcr notions of the domestic habits of the past than by any other 
 meant?. 
 
 The very modes by which crirnes were accomplished, point out the manners of 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 5 
 
 the time ; and among judges, jurors, witnesses, and criminals, we shall, surely find 
 variety enough of human nature to satisfy us that we are not taking a limited view 
 of society, but are entering into the very spirit of the times. It is not because we 
 may depict the fortunes of a dashing knight of the road, that we should know 
 nothing but of him and his feelings and habits ; on the contrary, we should see 
 with what an air he robs some titled dame, with what a grace she submits to the 
 illegal toll. We shall see how the wealthy, the great, and the noble, came into 
 collision with these characters, who, in olden times, were the desperadoes of society ; 
 and let the individual who doubts that some of the most exquisite pages of romance 
 are to be found in these records in real life, pause awhile over these pages, and he 
 shall find, that in chronicling Newgate we have struck upon an abundant vein of 
 most exciting material. 
 
 There will be found feeling battling with principle ; chivalric admiration over- 
 powering in many cases reflection ; hair-breadth escapes and imminent dangers of 
 those in whom we shall feel a kindly interest ; suffering such as would indeed be hard 
 to bear on the parts of the innocent, were it not through all afflictions that they 
 cling to the dear hope of a better life. 
 
 In fact, such an epitomy of the times — full of adventure, passion, incident, and 
 fearful catastrophe as Newgate presents to us, may be vainly looked for elsewhere. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE OFFAL CELLAR. 
 
 I had mused upon Newgate from the archway of the ancient inn in the broad 
 light of day, and many strange thoughts and feelings had swept across me; but I 
 longed to look at it in a quieter and more solemn hour — I wished to experience what 
 would be the feelings that it would give to me at midnight, or at some short time 
 beyond that hour, when the great city would be in its most composed and calm 
 state. It was at such an hour that I longed to contemplate the gloomy structure. 
 
 It is not easy in London to find an hour for quiet contemplation, but observation 
 had : 'uuced me to believe that the one which precedes day-break was that 
 vhich the greatest repose existed : the honest, pains-taking citizen is of 
 course in his house and at rest ; the theatres, and various places of amusement, 
 have disgorged their multitudes ; the latest visitors of the public-houses have reeled 
 homeward, and those who were too far gone in inebriety to do so have probably 
 fallen into the paternal arms of the police ; the night robber has done his work, and, 
 like some hideous phantom of humanity, begins to scent the morning air, and goes 
 skulking home to the dismal haunt which conceals him from the eye of day ; 
 exhaustion has compelled the night-wanderer, be he whom or what he may, to lie 
 down somewhere : and so for about an hour before the slant rays of the morning 
 sun falls upon the city, we may find the greatest amount of quietude and repose 
 that so vast a hive of humanity can know. 
 
 It was at such a time that I stood alone, opposite to Newgate, musing upon its 
 chronicles and conjuring up ghostly visions of beings over whom the grave had 
 long since closed, and whose faults, follies, crimes, and virtues, had rolled alike 
 down the stream of time, alike unheeded and forgotten. 
 
 I noticed not a remarkable and sudden change in the aspect of the weather. 
 The night had been serene, but now the wind blew in short puffy gusts around the 
 melancholy building; the sky became of a pitchy darkness, and occasionally a 
 strange moaning sound pervaded the air, as if the sighs of some of the unhappy 
 
 | beings, imprisoned in that terrible building, had escaped, and were borne on the 
 
 j wings of the night air, to some sympathising bosom. 
 
 At times, too, a dashing gust of rain would fly laterally before the wind, dashing 
 against the houses for a moment, and then as rapidly disappearing as if it had had 
 
 J no existence. The eastern sky ought to have been getting bright with the early tints 
 
 I of morn, but huge masses of black clouds interposed themselves, and all around 
 
 i was dark, dreary, and desolate. 
 
I 6 NEWGATE. 
 
 But dimly did the grim outline of the ancient prison now present itself to my 
 eyes. I could see it, and that was all ; but yet the very dimness of its aspect 
 seemed to conjure up with more distinctness to my mind's eye the visions of the 
 past. 
 
 " Innocent hearts," I said, " have felt the painful throb of causeless agony within 
 thy walls ; the guiltless have even been heralded to death by thy sad ceremonies ; 
 and the blood of the judicially murdered cries aloud for vengeance against thee, 
 Newgate ! Oh, what a catalogue of woe would a brief chronicle of but a few of the 
 scenes enacted within thy massive walls afford !" 
 
 Something at this moment touched me, and I started on one side, for truly I 
 thought I had been alone in the archway of that ancient inn. 
 
 " Are you deaf?" said a querulous voice. " Are you deaf? I have spoken 
 twice, and had no answer." 
 
 I looked to where the voice came from, and I saw a miserable-looking object. 
 It was a little old beggarman. As the Duke of Gloster says, he was mac^e up 
 " unfashionably," and so much to one side had nature or accident inclined him, 
 that he was compelled to use a crutch for support, and it was with that he had 
 touched me, and made me start so suddenly. 
 
 " Well," he said, when he saw me by the very dim light there was, regarding 
 him minutely. " Well, what do you think of me now ? I am a cripple and a beggar. 
 Can you add anything else to the description ?" 
 
 " I had no intention of offending you," I said, " if I have done so. I thought I 
 was alone." 
 
 f " Humph ! did you come here to look at Newgate ? I wonder how many times 
 I have come to look at. it by night and by day — in fsunshine and in gloom — in sere- 
 nity and in storms. What do you know of Newgate ?" 
 f It is to me full of reflection." 
 
 " It is full of facts. You spoke of the guiltless suffering unknown pangs within 
 those walls. I like the tone in which you spoke. Look at me again. 1 am 
 hideously ugly. I am wretchedly poor. I am somewhat crabbed, too, in disposi- 
 tion. I don't seem to be fashioned by God. Perhaps I am a little mad. WilJ 
 you come home with me and pass an hour, if you are at all curious ab^ut New 
 gate ?"' 
 
 " Willingly." 
 
 " 'Tis well. I say I like your voice. When I see your face, I will decide upon 
 whatimore I can do. Perhaps I may give you an admission to Newgate.* 
 
 " You give me an admission ? I thought that only the city dignitaries had such 
 a power?" 
 
 p " The city dignitaries !" cried the little old man, with scorn in his tone. " The 
 city dignitaries show you Newgate?" Here he knocked his crutch against the 
 ground furiously, as he added, " They never saw it themselves." 
 7 Indeed! Yeu much surprise me." 
 
 " You will be more surprised. If I please I can show you Newgate. Look 
 there," and he raised his crutch towards the building. " You have been moralising 
 upon what you see, upon what those walls may have enclosed ; but it is below the 
 level of the moving mass of humanity that throng the city, you will find there is 
 something to see." 
 
 " Subterraneous places ?" 
 
 " Ay ; beneath Newgate are its sights. Who will show you the old dungeons, 
 and the dusky passages long since deserted to noisome reptiles ? Who will guide 
 you through the curiosities of that part of Newgate which lies far below the level 
 of all that ihose walls you now see before you enclose? There is not a cell, not 
 a dungeon, but has its romance. If I chose to tell that which I know — but I have 
 not seen your face. Will you sup with me ?" 
 
 " I will accompany you with pleasure ; but I think it is nearer the hour of break- 
 fast than of supper." 
 
 " Call it what you will. Come on." 
 
 Curiosity, interest, and great expectation that I should really learn from the 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH; OF, THE COFFIN CELL. 
 
 3 
 
 these pages from 
 
 a later re-issue^malce 
 this; book perfect, 
 now read on% 
 
 He darted down one of the narrow avenues lead- 
 ing to Newgate Market, which have been happily 
 swept away, and I trod closely upon his heels, for 
 I was much afraid of losing him in the strangely 
 intricate locality. 
 
 All that I heard of midnight murders, of assas- 
 sinations, of unwary people lured into murderous 
 der.s, flashed into my imagination, and when the 
 old man suddenly paused at an extremely dark 
 corner of the market I felt half-inclined to take to 
 my heels. 
 
 "This is my home," he said, fixing his eyes 
 upon mine. 
 
 I glanced at the place and saw that it was a 
 butcher's shop, for there were all the insignia of 
 the trade in the shape of huge hooks and benches 
 for the meat to rest upon. 
 
 " How ?" I said. ?' Are you in the trade ?" 
 
 "No," he replied. "The man who owns this 
 place allows the poor crippled beggar to shelter 
 himself in a deserted and useless cellar. Follow 
 me." 
 
 I followed him down a flight of steep steps, and 
 reached the floor of the cellar. 
 
 "Stop !" cried my guide, in a shrill voice. " I'll 
 get a light ! There's a deep hole somewhere about 
 here ; I think it is the remains of an old well." 
 
 " Great Heaven !" I said, " why did you not 
 mention that before?" 
 
 " Time enough — time enough," he muttered. 
 
 Presently I heard him striking a light. 
 
 I dared not move, for I had a wholesome fear 
 of the old well before my eyes, and right glad I 
 was when I saw that he had procured a light, and 
 the strange cavernous-looking place in which I was 
 became unfolded to my gaze. 
 
 I don't know why I should have thought so, but 
 I had got a notion in my head that the cellar was 
 small and mean in its proportions. 
 
 This was a great mistake. 
 
 I found its roof massively arched, and the feeble 
 rays of the candle which the old cripple held above 
 his head were all insufficient to penetrate into its 
 deepest recesses. 
 
 " \Tou can come in safety now," he said. " You 
 are welcome. Is it not a splendid place ? Saw 
 you ever the like ? Well suited either for the quick 
 or the dead. A word or two in your ear. See you 
 yon walls, partly of flints, and partly of bricks ?" 
 
 " I do not yet," I said, "for my eyes are not 
 sufficiently accustomed to the place to enable me to 
 see so far." 
 
 "Come closer — come closer," he said, and 
 
 hopping along by the assistance of his crutch he led 
 the way to the further end of the offal cellar. 
 
 I followed him very quickly, for I got over my 
 fears upon finding ftiat we were alone, so that when 
 he suddenly turned, which he did, and held up the 
 light, I nearly fell over him, and the rays dazzled 
 my eyes for a moment. 
 
 "Ah — ah '" he said, "I thought I should not 
 be deceived. I don't like everyone ; but you have 
 my kind of face." 
 
 "Thank you," I said, and I thought the com- 
 pliment a dubious one at the moment he uttered it. 
 
 " Look !" he said, as he swung round on his 
 crutch, and held the light towards the wall. 
 " Look ! we share that between us." 
 
 "Share what?" I said. _ 
 
 "That wall, and the low, arched door-way you 
 see, once built up, but which I have rescued, and 
 brought again to human observance ; we share it 
 between us." 
 
 "Very good," I said ; "but I am very willing 
 to give up my moiety." 
 
 " Bah ! — bah !" he cried. " I meant not you ; 
 Newgate and I share it between us. This is my 
 cellar — my home — my palace of thought. It will 
 be ray tomb ! On the other side is Newgate, for 
 we are exactly at the back of that mansion of 
 despair. Think you the secrets of that prison- 
 house lie upon its surface to meet the gaze of any 
 casual visitant ? Think you you have seen New- 
 gate when you have strolled through -its whitened, 
 ventilated walls, preceded by an obsequious 
 official ? Do you know one of its secrets — one of 
 ite mysteries ? The romance of Newgate has 
 departed. Will it ever be revived ? Look at me 1 
 bid, wretched, and despised, yet I am the living 
 chronicle of those things which have been." 
 
 He paused and looked searchingly at me, but I 
 thought it better to hold my peace. 
 
 "Newgate, I knew you," he continued, as if 
 suddenly oblivious of my presence, " I knew you 
 when the audacious bold libertine, the cringing, 
 shrieking wretch, the beautiful, the brave, the 
 true, and the vicious have aroused the melancholy 
 of your accursed walls." 
 
 He paused again, and then the sound of his 
 voice thrilled me with horror. 
 
 "I — I," he almost yelled, "the cripple, the 
 beggar, the felon's father, have taken the cord 
 from the neck of his own child. It was a ghastly 
 relic — " 
 
 Suddenly the crutch dropped from his hold, and 
 before I could catch him he fell to the earth. 
 
 "You are ill," I said. "You have worked 
 yourself into state of excitement. Let me beg 01 
 you to be calm." 
 
 " Newgate — Newgate !" he gasped. " It is my 
 destiny !" 
 
 There was a strange pallid hue upon his face. 
 
 I began to get seriously alarmed, and anxiously 
 asked of him if he had no restorative-in the place 
 which would aid in his recovery. 
 
 He merely shook his head, and then, in a faint 
 voice, requested me to raise him from the ground. 
 
 I did so, and he said languidly that he was 
 better, and forbade me to leave him. 
 
4 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF NEWGATE. 
 
 '* I have said," he added, " that Newgate is my 
 
 destiny. I never set foot within what may be 
 called its public walls. That low arched doorway 
 conducts to all its subterraneous cells and gloomiest 
 passages. Hu h — hush ! who speaks? Where 
 are we now, Chirles ? Be careful, oh ! be careful." 
 
 A feeling at the moment came over me that he 
 was dying. 
 
 His strange and abrupt transition from the pre- 
 sent to some picture of the past which was traced 
 upon his imagination, convinced me that delirium 
 had seized upon him. 
 
 " You must permit me," I said, "to seek for 
 aid." 
 
 "Hush — hush!" he cried. "Stir not, move 
 not ; like bloodhounds they are upon your path — 
 they will drag you to a scaffold, but I must first be 
 killed. You see the door that leads to the vaults 
 of Newgate. A strange hiding-place for a con- 
 victed felon. It is the blessed sun that blinds my 
 eyes. A fleecy mist is spread between me and the 
 murmuring trees. The wallet — the wallet — the 
 key ! This way — this way ; support me better." 
 
 He indicated with his finger a particular corner 
 of the cellar ; and, as he struggled to reach it, I 
 hesitated not to support him in his progress. 
 
 " Now unhand me," he said. " With a blessing 
 and a forgiveness, I bid farewell to all. Adieu 1 
 the night of death has come." 
 
 He turned slowly and faced me. 
 
 How he stood without assistance I know not. 
 
 It was, however, but for a moment, and then he 
 swung slowly backward, and disappeared, as if by 
 magic, from my sight. 
 
 I made a spring forward to save him. 
 
 Great Heaven ! How near I was to destruction. 
 It was the well he had spoken of. 
 
 For one instant I trembled on the very brink ; 
 some loose earth slipped from beneath my feet. 
 
 With a cry of horror J flung myself back, and 
 then lay for some minutes half fainting on the edge 
 of that abyss, down which my feet still hung. 
 
 A cold perspiration bedewed my limbs ; it was 
 some moments before I believed in the fact of my 
 own safety. 
 
 I sat down and tried to calm myself, for what 
 bad happened was like some terrible nightmare. 
 
 At last I became more like my old self, and 
 made a move for the stairs. 
 
 Stay ! the man had spoken of a wallet. 
 
 Whnt if it contained some of those records of 
 the past with which he professed to be so familiar. 
 
 In iny search for the wallet I trod the floor 
 lightly, for I felt that I was alone with the dead. 
 
 I made a narrow inspection of the door he had 
 shown me, and discovered that its structure was 
 curious and antique. 
 
 It was cased with iron, and fitted with an enor- 
 mous lock, which seemed to be as heavy as the 
 entire woodwork. 
 
 "And can it be," I asked myself, "that New- 
 gate — terrible, gigantic Newgate — is on the other 
 side of this doorway? Am I separated from its 
 mysteries only by. these few inches of wood and 
 iron, and shall I make no effort to pass them ? He 
 spoke of a wallet and key. I see no wallet." 
 
 Suddenly I saw the object of my search. 
 
 It was a leathern valise hanging from the ceiling, 
 and under which I must have passed several times 
 during my search. 
 
 I possessed myself of it and left the place. 
 
 To proceed home at a rapid pace was the work 
 of a very short period of time, and with what 
 trembling fingers of anticipation did I unfold my 
 treasure. 
 
 The first object that met my gaze was a bunch 
 of keys. 
 
 I merely glanced at them, for beneath lay a 
 dense mass of closely-written papers. 
 
 On the uppermost I found these words — 
 " The labour of years will be rewarded if the 
 following chronicles of Newgate fall into good 
 hands. Do not doubt their truthfulness, for they 
 are either drawn from life itself or from authentic! 
 sources." 
 
 Immediately beneath this was the title — 
 
 THE SHADOW OP DEATH; 
 or, the Coffin Cell. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DOG AND THE GLOVE. 
 
 The snow was falling heavily, obscuring the air 
 in a white mist, and the wind swept moaning! 
 across the broad expanse of Hounslow-heath. 
 
 It was not a fearful night ; but it was a quiet,: 
 deliberate, and most uncomfortable one. 
 
 There was no war of the elements, but the snow- 
 drift was more dangerous to the chance passenger,' 
 who, with benumbed skin, dazzled eyes, and 
 floundering steps, might seek in vain to find hh 
 home by old familiar paths, known to him ever 
 from his very childhood. 
 
 The sky, too, which bounded the heath's horizon,! 
 assumed, as it touched the snowy surface, so grea? 
 a similarity of colour to the earth, that the prospect 
 looked confusing and boundless. 
 
 But the reader will remember that more than a I 
 hundred years have rolled down the stream of time 
 since that night of January, 1720, when this con! 
 tinued fall of snow wrapped all objects in its icy 
 embrace. 
 
 In the midst of this stirring scene — even in thai 
 very seeming desert of loneliness — man had set up 
 his dwelling-place, and nearly a hundred joyous, 
 jocund hearts were then defying the sternness o 
 the winter. 
 
 To the southern side of the heath — a spot nov 
 covered by suburban villas— there stood a long! 
 low, rambling, ancient inn. 
 
 It was called the Talbot, and what mortal mat 
 can say how many snow storms had wasted thei 
 bootless fury on its friendly thatch ? 
 
 It stood alone, for within a half-mile circuit n< 
 human habitation could be found, and in thi; 
 gloomy winter time that house upon the heatl 
 looked cold and desolate until nightfall, and thei 
 what a cheering, ruddy glow flowed from its win 
 dows and its ancient doorway 1 
 
"■eifork 
 ii what 
 
 TH^ SHADOW OF DEATH; OR, THE COFFIN 
 
 It seemed to stand in the very centre of that 
 srlate region on purpose to mock at hoary- 
 eaded winter, and as the wreaths of smoke curled 
 om its fantastic chimneys, and roars of laughter 
 ime from within its ancient walls, he who 
 stened might well have doubted if ever the 
 ason's difference, that lightest of human woes, 
 ffected any of the denizens of the old Talbot. 
 There was a roaring fire on the hearth — a fire of 
 assive knotted logs, which hissed and fumed and 
 nt up curling wreaths of flame, warming slightly 
 le vast apartments of the time-hallowed place. 
 
 And what cared they who sat in the ruddy glow 
 iora the consuming embers ? 
 
 What cared they that the old swing sign without 
 reaked and shrieked in winter's howling blast? 
 They only laughed the more. 
 What cared they that the rain battered at the 
 indow panes, like some hungry guest longing to 
 in.l food, and warmth, and shelter ? 
 And as for the snow, the deep snow-drift, was 
 not a new delight to see some whitened pas- 
 enger come in, looking blue and frozen, to tell of 
 e state of the things without, and then gradually 
 thaw and become most lamentably wet under 
 he influence of the bright log fire ? 
 
 A misanthrope would have cut his throat to see 
 he guests any one night at the old Talbot. 
 
 And once a year, it was in January, a glorious 
 anniversary was kept, for some old chronicle had 
 aid that the first beam of the old house was laid 
 in that month, and so those who loved it then 
 thronged to it. 
 
 Young and old, rich and poor, gentle and simple, 
 never disdained to spend a happy hour beneath its 
 roof. 
 
 It was no unusual thing for titled personages to 
 cross the threshold of the Talbot— at least, those 
 in the vicinity who respected the house and its in- 
 habitants seldom even liked to pass its doors with- 
 out a smile or a nod of recognition from Peter 
 Bretts, the landlord. 
 
 And it so happened that on this very night, 
 when the snow lay so deep and thick upon "the 
 heath, the anniversary time of jollity had in the 
 fulness of time come round. 
 
 Among these guests was a Sir John Boyes, his 
 lady, and his two daughters— Philippa, the eldest, 
 and May her junior by some three years, both 
 5'oung and amiable girls ; but May so sweetly 
 beautiful, with her calm, Madonna-looking face, 
 that no wonder she had crowds of worshippers, 
 and seem destined to move through the world 
 llessing and blessed wherever she appeared. 
 
 And yet was she no miracle of virtue, clad in 
 stateliness. 
 
 She had ever a laugh for the gay, and she did 
 not think that inconsistent with the tear of tender- 
 ness and sympathy she was ever ready to shed for 
 real distress. 
 
 Sir John Boyes was rather stately. 
 
 He thought he had a fascinating smile, and he 
 always hoped his presence cast an overbearing 
 "weight upon — he did not say commoner people ; 
 but with a gracious wave of a jewelled hand and 
 a fascinating smile he left it to be inferred. 
 
 It is ten o'clock, and the revelry is at Its height. 
 
 The Lady May had already turned the heads of 
 dozens oi the neighbouring youths, and we sadly 
 fear had sowed the seeds of much dissension 
 among them. 
 
 Philippa was engaged in the dance, from which 
 May had excused herself on the plea of fatigue, 
 as the measure which had preceded the one now 
 in progress had been decidedly of a boisterous 
 character. 
 
 She approached her father, and with a familiar 
 fondness hung upon his arm, as, looking up in his 
 face — oh ! such a blank in comparison with hers — 
 she said — 
 
 " Father, did you not expect ere this Ratchley 
 to be here ? It is getting very late." 
 
 "Ratchley, my dear," said Sir John, and he 
 waved his arm, shivering his fingers, in order that 
 anybody who rnieht be looking should, see the 
 defile of his £ I 
 
 How read on 
 again to 
 
 original issue 1 , 
 vouch makes it 
 quite complete. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF NEWGATE. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 17 
 
 diamond rings. "Ratehley, my dear, received my orders to be here Irom Oxford. 
 'Tis a long ride, though, and rough weather. Having, however, my dear, as 1 
 before observed, and without repetition, received my orders, he will be here . 
 " And— and, father " 
 
 She paused, and Sir John, with a look of offended dignity, said, — 
 
 See page 20. j 
 
 « Yes, father," said May, « it does indeed.' 
 betray wtdTn"^ ly ~ PreCiSe,y 5 md 1 ^ »***• Eruptions 
 
18 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 and always something new. He seems by inspiration to have caught the dance of 
 nations who excel in that sweet pastime." 
 
 " My dear," said Sir John, " upon this point you and I most incontestibly differ. 
 You are perfectly aware that anything French is peculiarly dreadful to me ; and as 
 for Gummany *< 
 
 " They call it Germany now, father," said May. 
 
 " An innovation," said Sir John, "an innovation. May, you don't know what 
 you're talking about, and by allowing your hand to remain so long upon my wrist, 
 you have taken the starch completely out of one of those magnificent ruffles — that 
 is a — to say— one of the most magnificent ruffles." 
 
 "But you have not answered my question, father. Do you think Gerald Clifton 
 will come with Ratchley ?" 
 
 ** I invited him," said Sir John, " and after that thought were superfluous. It 
 is not usually necessary for a person in my station in life to repeat anything, but I 
 have no hesiiation in again saying that I invited him." 
 
 " Ay, then you think he will come ?" said May, her eyes sparkling with plea- 
 sure. " Oh ! that charming dance he half taught Philippa and I, when he was last 
 at the Hall!" 
 
 " What charming dance ?" 
 
 "He called it the tours de grace." 
 
 " The what?" said Sir John, and his countenance fell. "I've not the slightest 
 . hesitation, my dear, in saying, that it is some abominable French importation, and 
 1 must take leave to remark " 
 
 " Oh ! they want somebody else to make up a set," cried May, and she flew 
 from her father's side, and was in another moment engaged in the evolutions of a 
 new measure, which had been struck up. 
 
 Sir John arranged the long ties of his cambric cravat, settled his sword more 
 t comfortably by his side, and then sought consolation by making to himself a 
 series of very small bows in a little mirror that hung over the massive chimney- 
 piece. 
 
 " It's worse than ever," said a farmer, as he came into the ball -room, bringing 
 with him a cold atmosphere, which everybody shrunk from. t( It's worse than 
 ' ever." 
 
 " Do you mean the snow V 9 said rather a starched old maiden lady with a 
 formidable head-dress. 
 
 " Yes, I do, ma'am ; it's up to your knees." 
 
 " Gracious goodness !" said the lady, with a faint scream, " some people are 
 always thinking of what they shouldn't ; as if," she added, in a whisper, to a lady 
 acquaintance, " as if any respectable female ever had knees." 
 
 Some of the guests now flattened their faces against the latticed panes of the 
 windows, and agreed with the last new comer that it was worse than ever. 
 
 That particular dance then being over, there ensued one of those strange and 
 sudden pauses in the general hum of conversation, which even in the largest assem- 
 blies will be noticed occasionally to take place, when every one present, as if by 
 common consent, pauses in what they may be doing or saying. 
 
 Such a circumstance must be familiar to all who have mingled in society. It 
 is not for us to speculate on the fact — suffice it that at precisely at half -past ten 
 that evening at the Talbot, for the space of about half a minute, every sound was 
 hushed. 
 
 It was no human voice that broke that solemn stillness, no casual remark from 
 some bold and free speaker, as is usually the case, dispelled the charm which held 
 all hearts in bondage; but just at the moment when one might have supposed 
 that the silence would be broken, there came from without the inn a loud melan- 
 choly wail of a dog, such a sound as that animal utters in its sagacity, when 
 much distressed by some event which it wishes to communicate to human under- 
 standing. 
 
 The howl struck upon every ear most powerfully, and not one present was there, 
 but who seemed at once to have a presentiment that something fearful had occurred, 
 
. NEWGATE. 19 
 
 Even Sir John Boyes assumed a natural attitude and listened, forgetting everything 
 in the expectation of some catastrophe which had occurred without. 
 
 Again, in a more wailing tone than before, came that lengthened howl. 
 
 " It's only a dog/' whispered some one, and then there was an universal move- 
 .ment. After which, May cried, in a voice of alarm, — 
 
 « Father, father ! I know the voice. It is our old dog Rupert.. Something has 
 happened ; you know his sagacity." 
 
 «' Hush, hush," said Sir John. u In my opinion, it may or it may not be Rupert ; 
 but, still 
 
 ... The Lady May did not wait for the conclusion of his speech, but she moved 
 swiftly towards the door. Before, however, she had reached half way, several per- 
 sons had opened it, and there at once entered among the crowded assemblage a large 
 mastiff dog. He was covered with snow, and, as he stepped, he appeared either to 
 be lame or foot-wearied. In his mouth he carried some dark object, from which a 
 liquid stream came drop by drop upon the old oaken floor. He paused not until he 
 reached the feet of the Lady May, and there, with a low whining sound of suppli- 
 cation, he laid the object which he carried. 
 
 A dozen hands were stretched to take it from the floor. . It was a horseman's 
 glove, so sopped in blood, that, as it was held up to the light, the ensanguined fluid 
 dropped from its fingers' ends with a sullen plash. 
 
 For a few brief moments every one seemed petrified with astonishment and dis- 
 may. It was the Lady Philippa Boyes who then, with a shriek, exclaimed, — 
 
 * That glove is Ratchley's ! that glove is Ratchley's ! he is murdered i" 
 
 L ady Boyes, at the mention of her son's name, in connection with such a catas% 
 tiophe, fainted in the arms of those around her, and the scene of hurry and confusion 
 that immediately ensued, baffles all description. No one knew what to do, though 
 every one seemed to have much to say ; and as for poor Sir John Boyes, the equili- 
 brium of his intellect seemed to be completely overturned, 
 
 " What is it — what is it V he said. " Good God, what is it ? My son Ratchley, 
 heir to a baronetcy, murdered — six feet two on his stocking soles — killed, who says 
 he's killed? He's the image of me. Lady Boyes, don't be a fool. Good gra- 
 cious, do something, somebody. Is this the world, or have we all become common 
 people V 
 
 The Lady Philippa seemed unable to move or speak, after uttering that dreadful 
 suggestion; but the beautiful May, who many would have supposed the least 
 capable of any active exertion, seemed instantly to arouse herself to meet the 
 emergency. 
 
 " If there be men here who know not fear, let them follow me. He may be hurt, 
 but not killed. If this be my brother's glove, is he to bleed to death on the snow \ 
 for want or aid ? Is there no humanity in your breasts ? Do you come here to 
 enjoy the revel and the dance, and leave your better feelings at your homes ? To 
 the heath — to the heath ! let us search the heath !" 
 
 There needed scarcely half such an appeal as this, to induce such a rush towards 
 the door of the old hall, -that it would seem, by the eagerness with which the 
 younger men pressed to leave it, as if each, needless of personal safety, was but 
 intent upon showing to the Lady May how ready he was to do her bidding. 
 
 But ere they could leave, for the door opened inwards, and a small space v* ?. 
 forced to be cleared, there appeared upon the threshold of the hall a young man 
 richly habited. A winning smile was upon his face. He wore a horseman's cloak, 
 which, partially thrown aside, disclosed the costly nature of his apparel. He had 
 one of those pale oval faces, in which resides so much calm intelligence. The 
 slightest indication of a 'moustache embraced his upper lip— there was witchery 
 itself in the smile that played around his almost feminine mouth. He was booted 
 and spurred, as though he had come off a journey. A jewel glittered in the cap he 
 wore, and as he looked from face to face of the astonished throng, he said, with the 
 softest and most winning grace and manner, — 
 
 " I should much grieve if my untoward presence should disturb the hilarity of 
 this happy meeting. I fear " 
 
20 ' NEWGATE. 
 
 Ere he could proceed further, the Lady May had rushed towards him, and 
 seized him by the arm. 
 
 * Gerald Clifton, Gerald Clifton '." she cried, " where is Ratchley — where is 
 Ratchley ? Tell us, oh, tell us he is safe ! Ratchley, my brother— your friend 
 Ratchley. You could not come here and smile, if aught had happened to him. 
 He lives, he lives, and is unhurt ! Speak — speak, Gerald, speak V 
 
 " Gracious heavens !" said Gerald, " amazement sits at my heart. We parted 
 half a day's journey from hence, and — but you jest — he is here — a Christmas 
 jest — I see it now — and I to be so faint of heart ! and yet 'twas cruel." 
 
 " Then," gasped the Lady May, " it is too true." 
 
 But for the protecting arm of Gerald Clifton, she would have sunk insensible 
 on the ball-room floor. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE KNIGHT OP THE ROAD. 
 
 While these stirring events were occurring in the long room of the old Talbot, 
 it must not be supposed that even the desolate heath without was destitute of its 
 scenes of bustle and excitement. Somewhere about an hour before the Lady 
 May had begun to ask her father if it was not full time for the appearance of 
 Ratchley and his friend, a horseman had emerged from among a thick clump of 
 leafless trees bordering one of the hedges of the common land. 
 
 This figure appeared in bold relief against the snow ; and, as such was the 
 case, it may be well that we present our readers with a brief sketch of his per- 
 sonal appearance. 
 
 Man and horse seemed both to be as well appointed as it was at all possible to 
 be. The latter was coal black, and of that rather elegant symmetry which showed 
 that it was much better calculated for speed than for strength. Its coat shone 
 like silk, and its small feet and short arched neck sufficiently indicated the pure- 
 ness of its breed. Its trappings were only just sufficient to enable its rider to 
 maintain his seat, aud exercise the mofet perfect control over its movements. 
 
 So much for the steed ; and now for the rider. He was slim, and appeared of 
 the middle size. There was about him that appearance of roundness and flexi- 
 bility of muscle which gave promise of great personal activity, and as with easy 
 grace he bent with the movements of his horse, his perfect self-possession and 
 skill as a rider might easily be adduced. 
 
 ,He wore a scarlet coat, trimmed with silver lace, horseman's boots up to his 
 knees, and the ruffles that hung from his wrists, if he allowed his hands to drop, 
 reached to his finger nails ; a rich lace cravat, the long ends of which were thrust 
 into the carelessly buttoned-up breast of his coat, was around his neck ; -some 
 costly rings glistened on his fingers, and his hat was looped back with a jewel ; 
 his saddle was provided with holsters, and the heavily silver- mounted hilts of a 
 pair of pistols presented themselves to his hands. 
 
 And yet with all this> although his apparel was of the finest, and his general 
 appointments of the most costly character, no one could have mistaken this man, 
 as he then appeared, for a gentleman. There was a swaggering, ruffia»ly air about 
 him which looked as if he were trying to be something, which it was evidently 
 quite out of his power to become ; and yet, among a certain class, such a man as 
 this was looked up to as something almost more than human. His very vices 
 assumed in their eyes the garb of virtues ; and his ruffianly disregard to all the 
 social relations of life, seemed to place him upon a pinnacle of perfection. 
 
 Our readers, although they may not know who, will have no difficulty in 
 guessing what he was. In the mounted stranger we recognize the highwayman 
 of the old school-— a knight of the road ; one of those bold, daring, insolent 
 spirits which became extinct within the last half century, and now belong entirely 
 to history. He paused and listened acutely, while the horse pawed the snow up 
 with his feet. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 2i 
 
 " Yo ! ho ! Angelo," he said, patting the neck of his steed ; «? be still," he said, 
 * we have work to do to-night. I will give you a reputation that shall stick to you 
 in tale and legend, for by all that's good Til stop the Oxford mail to-night ; 1 have 
 been dared to do the deed; but the snow lies deep, the air is biting cold, and 
 drowsy benumbed passengers, in such a night as this, are little able to make 
 resistance to one with the warm blood dancing through his veins as mine is. Nay, 
 Angelo, Angelo, how impatient you are— yq I ho ! my steed ; and that's not the 
 only job we have to do. 1 have a plot which must be carried out — a bold one, and 
 a necessary one ; for my exchequer presents a melancholy aspect, and I will not 
 meet fair eyes and smiling lips a penniless adventurer. I know not how this will 
 
 end. I do not wish to hurt him ; but with me it must be as it ever has been 
 
 your money or your life. b Tt is my trade, and I will not dishonour the calling. 
 Ah ! Angelo, 3 ou prick your ears. Rare steed I you have never failed me ; and be- 
 fore I, with the minutest attention, can hear the slightest sound, you have often 
 warned me of friend or foe." 
 
 He wheeled the horse round, and again entered the clump of trees from whence 
 he had emerged. The sound of the horse's feet upon the snow was completely 
 hushed as if it trod upon many folds of velvet ; and then all was still for a space of 
 nearly five minutes' duration. 
 
 Even then but faintly could be heard the beat of a horse's feet at a hand gallop, 
 but when the sound had once broken upon the stillness, it momentarily increased 
 in power, until at last it was clear and evident that some mounted man was about 
 to pass close to the ambuscade. 
 
 And now with a sang froid that was one of the remarkable characteristics of the 
 highwayman, he just trotted out from his place of concealment, and whistling a 
 popular air of the day, he placed himself in such a position in the way of the 
 advancing stranger as made it evident he meant to interrupt .him. 
 
 He who was coming on at so good pace seemed to be at once aware that he 
 would not be allowed to pass so readily that little -clump of wood as he had at first 
 supposed. He reined in his steed, so as to come up only at a short trot ; and then 
 when he got so near to the highwayman that it required no exertion of voice to 
 make anything heard upon either side, the. latter said, with a careless intonation 
 and a kind of cadence in his voice,-*- 
 
 " Hilloa ! sir traveller, whither so fast ? We collect a toll here, and we leave' 
 it to the generosity of a gentleman to make it worth our while to keep the gate." 
 " What do you mean by that V said the stranger ; " are you mad or drunk V* 
 " Neither, my good sir ; but if you must have it in plainer language, I have a 
 difficulty of telling the right time of day, and therefore will trouble you lor your 
 watch. I admire jewellery, and if you have any, will wear it for your sake. Dame 
 Fortune has jilted me at cards — I will revenge myself for her frowns by levying a 
 contribution from you ; and if that won't do, why, have it shorter or plainer still 
 — your money or your life." 
 
 " A highwayman !" said the stranger. " Tell me one thing before I punish this 
 insolence as it deserves. Are you Captain Hawk, who is sometimes called the 
 double knight, in consequence of the rapidity of your movements from place to 
 place?" * 
 
 ** Most devotedly at your service," said the highwayman, and he slightly lifted 
 the hat from his head. " 1 admire your delicacy ; you would not be robbed by a 
 lesser hand than mine." 
 
 " I'm afraid," said the stranger, " I shall scarcely merit your thanks; I asked 
 you who you were, in order that I might be quite sure that 1 was ridding society of 
 one of its greatest pests ; and as I am about to make a sojourn in the neighbour- 
 hood, it's as well that I should commence by ridding it of you." 
 
 The young man — for young he was — spoke those words with rapidity, and while 
 the last were upon his lips, he drew from his saddle a pistol, and fired it directlv at 
 the head of the highwayman. 
 
 The report in the dense cool air was loud and clear, and it appealed absolutely 
 impossible that the knight of the road could have escaped the shock. 
 
22 NEWGATE. 
 
 "That was well meant," said Captain Hawk, as his horse reared, and he had 
 some difficulty to bring him round again. 
 
 " And have I missed him V* said the young man. "Confusion !" 
 
 ff It's my turn now," said the highwayman ; and he at once fired upon his adver- 
 sary ; and it appeared with a better aim, for the young man reeled in his seat, 
 although he did not actually fall off his horse, and one of his arms fell powerless 
 to his side. Captain Hawk was close to him in a moment, with his hand upon 
 his bridle. 
 
 " Fool t* he said ; " if you are now taking your last look of this world, it's not 
 ray fault. I would have spared you if I could." 
 
 With professional dexterity then he helped himself to the valuables the young 
 man had about him. They consisted of a watch, a considerable sum of money, 
 and some papers, which, although of no intrinsic value in themselves, were so 
 mingled with the cash, that the highwayman took altogether, without taking the 
 trouble to separate them. 
 
 ** Scoundrel !" muttered the young stranger between his clenched teeth ; " I'm 
 badly hurt, but we shall meet again." 
 
 '* I will hope for that pleasure," said the highwayman ; " and when we do 
 meet again, be a little more careful of your mode of reception. 1 have a charmed 
 lite ; but for all that I will not be attempted by every one who is foolhardy enough 
 to think that he can cope with the Hawk. Adieu." 
 
 Humming an air, he, with all trie nonchalance in the world, turned his horse's 
 head, and trotted gently from the spot. 
 
 " To be robbed," said the wounded man ; " robbed on the highway by one man. 
 How faint I am — I cannot raise my arm ; and I can feel the blood pouring from 
 the finger-ends of the glove ; and there he goes in triumph. Yet, no. Why 
 should he ? I have another weapon here ; there may be virtue in a second bullet ; 
 'tis not a long shot ; and I have hit my mark at a far greater distance. If — if, 
 now, I could but bring him down." 
 
 With his left hand — for it was his right arm that had been broken by the shot 
 of the highwayman, he drew his second pistol from his saddle-case, and taking 
 as steady an aim as he could, he fired after the retreating horseman. 
 
 In an instant the highwayman wheeled round, and came back to him. 
 
 u Ratchley Boyes," he said ; " I know you. For this second shot lowe you 
 one. 1 will not pay you now, because the score will keep ; but remember that 
 the Hawk owes you one, and pav-day always comes. There's your bullet." 
 
 He thrust into the bands of the bewildered young man a leaden bullet, and 
 then clapping spurs to his horse, he galloped at a hard pace from the spot. 
 
 Bewildered by the singularity of the adventure, and exhausted with the loss of 
 blood, young Ratchley Boyes — for it was indeed he— felt a film gather over his 
 eyes. He reeled to and fro in the saddle for a few moments, and then, with a 
 plunge, he fell from his horse. 
 
 The sagacious animal seemed to know that something fearful was amiss. It 
 threw up its head, and snorted, and pawed the ground for a minute or two, then 
 with a sudden plunge it darted furiously and wildly across the heath, while the 
 blood of its rider was changing the hue of the snow about him, as it flowed from 
 the serious wound he had received in his arm. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE OXFORD MAIL. 
 
 " Main cold, ain't it 1 Them as is at home is best off. Be yer got any toes, 
 neighbour V* 
 
 These words were uttered by a rough countryman, at the top of the Oxford 
 mail, to a shivering passenger who sat beside him, and who only vouchsafed to 
 say in reply, in a sulky tone, — 
 
 " Don't bother." 
 
 • 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 2-3 
 
 « Well," added xhe countryman, " I do say it be main cold ; it's enough to take 
 the nose off the face of a Christian. What do you say, marm? How do you feel?" 
 
 *" 1 haven't had any feeling," said the female who was addressed, " for never 
 so many miles, always except a kind of tingling from the sole of my head to the 
 crown of rav foot, ever since we was told that that dreadful Captain Hawk was 
 in the neighbourhood ; the monster, they say, is partial to females.'' 
 
 " Oh, it be too cold to be robbed such a night as this," said the farmer ; 
 " besides, what do you think I've done ? I say, mister, mister, what do you 
 think I've done ?" 
 
 ** D— e !" muttered the man who sat next him. " Don't keep on pinching 
 me in the ribs in that way. I tell you I'm too cold to speak ; so don't bother." 
 
 " Merciful Providence !" cried the woman, " how the coach is swagging!" 
 
 " Hilloa!" cried the guard to the coachman, "where are you going to? 
 We're off the road for a guinea. 5 ' 
 
 " Who can see the road ?" said the coachman. " It's road and no road here. 
 1 sha'nt know Hounslow Heath when I see it." 
 
 " There's a state of things," said the woman, " and I a lone female on the 
 coach ; and Hounslow Heath not to be known. It's a coming down, too, pro- 
 digious ; and I've got another lapfull already." 
 
 The coachman was extremely careful now, for the coach had evidently strayed 
 from the high road, and now and then it shook so ominously from side to side as 
 the wheels got into deep ruts, that the alarm of the passengers momentarily in- 
 creased, and an impression that it would end in an upset became extremely prevalent. 
 
 " Hold hard," said the guard ; " there's somebody a coming as can tell us 
 perhaps where we're going."" 
 
 " 1 sees him," said the coachman ; " I think we're all right, for he's coming 
 exactly in our line, and he's a whistling away as if there was no such thing as 
 being frizzed to death." 
 
 Such a dense mist rose from the horses, that each of them appeared to be in a 
 vapour-bath, and the lamps of the mail loomed strangely through that mimic fog. 
 
 "Hilloa!" cried the guard, as the horseman trotted carelessly up to the 
 vehicle. " Can you tell us where we are ?" 
 
 " Yes, on Hounslow Heath. You'll want a good story to tell when you get to 
 the inn to-night. You can say you were stopped and robbed by Captain Hawk." 
 
 The female passenger on the outside gave a loud shriek, and that roused an old 
 lady within, who answered by a succession of screams. The passengers who 
 had still circulation of blood left to do so, swore, while the guard kept on saying, 
 — " Hush ! hush ! hush !" to every one about him, while he prepared his huge 
 bell-mouthed blunderbuss for action. 
 
 " Hush, hush, hurra! I'll have him. Don't speak — don't breathe — here's a 
 go. I'll have him. Now for it, here's a nobscuttler." 
 
 Click went the lock. No other effect ensued. 
 
 " Why, you d — d fool," said the man who didn't like to be disturbed. " It's 
 been snowing into the' barrel of that thing for the last two hours and a half." 
 
 " La !" said the guard. "My eye ! who'd athought of that P* and he looked 
 carefully into the huge brass-mounted blunderbuss. " Well, all I can say, if it 
 had gone off, it would have split him to pieces nicely. There's twopen'orth of 
 iron tacks in it, besides a dozen of buttons." 
 
 Whether the highwayman calculated upon the disabled state of the guard"s 
 blunderbuss or not, it is difficult to say, but certainly he took no notice of that 
 individual, or his presumed powers of mischief, but calling to the coachman, he 
 said, — 
 
 " You Tom Brown, driver of the coach, I'll lodge a couple of ounces of lead 
 amongst your fat, if you drive on, so now don't be a fool." He was then at the 
 coach door in a moment, and with a rapid glance he saw that no effectual opposi- 
 tion would be offered to him from those within. " Gentlemen," he said, " you will 
 be so kind as to hand me your valuables, and be as quick about it as you please. 
 Ladies, your contributions will be thankfully received j but if there be any little 
 
24 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 article you wish to preserve, such as a ring, a locket, a brooch, i^age d' amour, I 
 always return it for a kiss." . 
 
 " He,'s a very nice man, ma," said a young girl, who was in the extreme corner 
 of the coach. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you hussy — how dare you speak ! A highwayman a nice 
 man ! He'd think no more of — a-hem ! than nothing in the world." 
 
 " Have mercy upon us," said a young gentleman who had been amusing the 
 passengers, for the last twenty miles, with anecdotes of his feats of courage. c< Have 
 mercy upon us, dear sir, if you please. I have a tender parent, sir. I'm only 
 nineteen, sir. Take everything, but don't hurt us." 
 
 Rings, watches, and purses, were handed tolerably freely. The highwayman's 
 policy was always to take as much as he could, and as quickly as possible, but the 
 appeal of the young gentleman appeared to excite his indignation. 
 
 " Why, you ape in boy's clothes," he said, " what do you mean— open your 
 mouth?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; oh ! no, no, no ! Oh, mercy ! Oh, don't. I believe in the Holy 
 Ghost — the forgiveness of sins. Don't, Mr. Highwayman, don't — think of my 
 mother." 
 
 The whole of this scene did not take more than a few minutes enacting, and then 
 the highwayman cried out with a clear voice, — 
 
 " You can go on all, and good night. Tom Brown, don't boast at the Swan 
 again that you've never been robbed." 
 
 He was about to move off, when most unexpectedly two stout fellows, who had 
 descended from the roof of the coach, seized his horse's bridle. 
 
 " Hurra ! hurra!" cried the guard. " Nabbed him at last." 
 
 A blow on the head from the heavy but-end of one of the pistols released the 
 highwayman from one of his assailants, who instantly dropped ; but the other clung 
 to him with a desperate tenacity, so that he was compelled, from the bounds of the 
 horse, and the manner in which he was held, to release his feet from the stirrups, 
 and slip from the saddle. The struggle on foot was short and decisive. The high- 
 wayman gave his opponent a terrific fall, and then, as fast as he could through the 
 snow, he strove to recall his horse, which had bounded off to some distance. 
 
 " He's afoot now — he's afoot now, Tom," cried the guard. " Hurra 1 after him." 
 
 *f Here goes," said the fat coachman, " and blow everything." 
 
 He turned his horses' heads in the direction the highwayman had taken, and for 
 about half a minute there was the phenomenon of a coach and four horses pur- 
 suing a man — then there was a heavy lurch of the cwmberous vehicle — loud shrieks 
 from it — shrieking occupants, and over it went into the drift. 
 
 Captain Hawk had caught his horse, and sprung to his saddle with qne bound 
 from the earth. A glance showed him the state of affairs as regarded the Oxford 
 mail, and with a loud ringing laugh he pushed his *horse at full speed towards it. 
 A tremendous leap cleared the whole obstruction, and before any one dared to look 
 up for fear of the horse's heels, he was out of sight. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE HIGHWAYMAN'S HOME. 
 
 The occurrences which we have related, are not of a nature to be without their 
 serious consequences. The very sound of the name of so redoubted a highwayman 
 as Captain Hawk, was at any time sufficient to produce a large amount of conster- 
 nation in any district. 
 
 His reputation was certainly not quite European, but it extended over every 
 county in England, although the most daring of his depredations were usually com- 
 mitted in the immediate neighbourhood of the metropolis. There can be do doubt 
 that rumour and popular exaggeration had done much more for the fame of this 
 redoubtable highwayman, than he had ever done himself. But yet, notwithstanding 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 all tkis, and that a great many feats of skill and valour were attributed to him 
 wrongfully, he was, as our readers will perceive, a man of no mean accomplishments. 
 
 Tnat he had escaped the fangs of justice so long, was, a hundred years ago, by 
 no means so wonderful a circumstance as it would be now. We have at the present 
 day a better organised police. The counties of England are more highly cultivated 
 and better known ; consequently, the hiding-places of such depredators are much 
 fewer, and the opportunities of perpetrating crime in lonely spots are now indeed 
 few and far between. 
 
 See page 26. 
 
 And is it because the race of highwaymen, such as Captain Hawk, is now extinct, 
 that these doings are now invested with the halo of romance % In the memory of 
 our grandfathers, some of these heroes of the road still hold a place ; but to us they 5, 
 have become matters of history, and never again, in such a country as this, can 
 there ensue circumstances which can bring such persons into existence. 
 
 in our opinion, is it the very ecstacy of foolish apprehension to suppose 
 
 Hence 
 
 No. 4, 
 
26 NEWGATE. 
 
 that the history of such a man as Captain Hawk, with all his skill and boldness, his 
 affected chivalric bearing, and his peculiar notions of generous feeling, can incite 
 even the most unreasoning individual to pursue a similar course. 
 
 The opportunity for making even the attempt to follow in the footsteps of such a 
 man is gone. Hence we join not in the outcry against such historical episodes, and 
 we shall paint with some degree of pleasure the hair-breadth escapes, by flood and 
 field, of this thorough-paced knight of the road. 
 
 After the two perilous adventures in which he had been engaged — for, indeed, 
 both were most perilous — he sped on with a rapidity that showed he still had some- 
 thing upon his mind to do, which presented itself to him under a more important 
 aspect than anything which he had already that night accomplished. 
 
 In his attack upon Ratchley Boyes, he had been deliberate and calm almost to an 
 excess. His assault upon the mail, too, had been conducted as if he had ample 
 time at his disposal, and cared not how much of it the adventure occupied. 
 
 This, probably, was a portion of his system of tactics — one of the means., perhaps, 
 by which he overcame inferior spirits, and taught them to respect his powers ; but 
 if we might judge from his after conduct, Captain Hawk was really on that night in 
 a most desperate hurry about something. 
 
 It was a tangled and most troublesome fcnt of country into which he plunged after 
 that adventure with the Oxford mail ; overgrown with thick brushwood, and inter- 
 spersed with tall trees, with here and there a marshy bit, on which a chance traveller 
 might, to his great mortification, come most unexpectedly. 
 
 This, however, scarcely seemed to be an obstacle to the bold highwayman. With 
 a knowledge of the locality which must have been most intimate, he threaded his 
 way onwards, making a speed even in that apparent labyrinth, whieh few, in so in- 
 clement an evening, would have thought of accomplishing even on the open 
 heath. 
 
 After he had proceeded in this manner about half a mile, the wood in which he 
 was increased in density ; the thick branches of the trees hung closer to the ground, 
 and the place assumed all the appearance of a preserve, allowed naturally to become 
 replete with vegetation, or expressly so thickly planted in order that it might become 
 a cover for game. 
 
 Without a moment's consideration, but as if he had arrived at some particular 
 spot at which it had been his fixed intention to do what he was about to do, he 
 flung himself from his horse, and with great celerity drawing the bridle over the 
 animal's head, he tied it to the stump of a tree ; after which, speaking a word of 
 friendly admonition to the creature, he proceeded forward on foot, through a tangled 
 mass of vegetation which a horseman could not have hoped to thread. 
 
 The boughs under which he walked produced a darkness beneath them almost 
 as intense as if they had been clothed in all the beauty of their summer foliage ; for 
 so interlaced had they become that the snow flakes falling thickly upon them had, 
 in many instances, filled up the small interstices, producing all the appearances of 
 a thatch of spotless whiteness above, but, underneath, as dark as Erebus. 
 
 Suddenly he merged on to a small clear spaofr and then a few steps brought him 
 to the door of a small hovel, which, standing as it did in that waste of nature, shut 
 out apparently from all companionship with civilization, must surely, if inhabited at 
 all, be the home of some person of most singular tastes. and habits. 
 
 It was evident, though, that Captain Hawk presumed upon finding some one 
 to welcome him, even in that wretched, lonely hut ; and it would appear, too, that 
 he judged but a slight summons would be sufficient to announce his presence, for the 
 tap he gave at the door was but with his hand, as he exclaimed, in a voice more dis- 
 tinct than loud, — 
 
 ''Time—time!" 
 
 There was a flash of light from a wretched-looking casement. The low growl of 
 a dog, and then the door was flung open, and a man with a small lantern in his hand 
 appeared, holding back, by a firm grip of the collar, a strange mongrel -looking cur, 
 which seemed ready to dart upon the intruder. 
 
 "Ah, captain," said the man, " Beauty only heard the knock, and not your voice, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 27 
 
 or she wouldn't show her teeth in this way. You're welcome — walk in, captain. 
 Any luck to-night V 
 
 " What's that to you V said Hawk, as he strode across the threshold. " And as 
 for being welcome, it would be hard indeed if a man were not welcome to his 
 
 ° W '« So it would — so it $mld," said the other ; " so you're welcome as flowers in 
 May. What about the Oxford mail, captain ?" 
 
 " Robbed/' said Hawk, " and left in a snow-drift." 
 
 The fellow put down the light he carried, and burst into such a roaring laugh, 
 that Hawk turned fiercely upon him, saying, — 
 
 «D— nyou! I've no time for your folly — how is she? — better or worse — alive 
 or dead?" 
 
 " Raving away, and singing the old songsover again." 
 
 " Curse the old songs!" muttered Captain Hawk. "Take care of these things 
 till I return ; and mind you keep an eye upon her — if she escape you, look to it ; 
 I've not brought her here for nothing. You will remain here till you see me again. 
 Be very cautious ; show no light at night. I — I — shall be in the neighbourhood, 
 and have a keen sight. Here, give me the light." 
 
 Whilst he was speaking, Captain Hawk had taken off the scarlet coat he wore, 
 and cast it on to the floor of the hut. He then divested himself of his hat, and 
 twitched from his head a light brown wig which had covered far more luxurious 
 locks of raven blackness. His huge horseman's boots he likewise got rid of, and 
 then, snatching his lantern from the hand of the man, who had now again lifted it 
 from the floor, he opened a small door at the end of the hut, through which he 
 passed, and closed it behind him. 
 
 " Hilloa, captain !" cried the man, who did not seem at all to relish being left 
 in the dark. " Captain, I say, don't put out the light ; it's the only one I have 
 here, and there's no fire — or at least what's not much better than one, for the wet 
 wood only smoulders on the hearth. Captain ! captain ! I say." 
 
 The door was flung open, and Hawk appeared, saying, in an angry voice, — 
 
 " What is it— what are you bellowing at ?" 
 
 "Oh, I only asked you not to blow out the light." 
 
 "Hush !— What's that?" 
 
 The fellow pointed with his thumb up to the ceiling of the hut, as he replied, in 
 a low tone, — 
 
 A It's her — her above. I thought you'd hear something of her before you went. 
 There, that's the way she goes on day and night. A nice, d — d sort of life this for 
 a fellow to lead — keeper to a mad woman that doesn't know how to say, pretty well, 
 thank ye, if you ask her how she does. There she goes again ; and all her talk is 
 about s " 
 
 " What ?" said Hawk. 
 
 " Newgate." 
 
 At this moment a strange, half smothered, wailing noise from above, came upon 
 their ears — it was that of a femal|. ; and if from its tones an . indication of the state 
 of the speaker's mind could be obtained, some frightful amount of anguish must have 
 found there a home. 
 
 "Innocent! — innocent! — innocent!" she- cried; "I am innocent ; again and 
 again 1 tell you, I'm innocent ! Such a deed were too dreadful to think of — and 
 this is Newgate — Newgate— Newgate ! — the home of despair — the grave of hope. 
 I feel the influence of its suffocating atmosphere; the air is heavy with the hot 
 sighs of despairing wretches. Newgate — Newgate ! why am I in Newgate ? I did 
 not do it — 1 did not do it — God knows I did not do it ! I never saw its eyes — it 
 never looked upon me ! Help ! — help ! — help !" 
 
 " My eye," said the man, " there's a screech ! Captain, did you hear that ? 
 That's just the sort of thing I has to go through. Now and then when I feels a 
 little drowsy and sleepy like, she pitches it strong in the wocal line, and up 1 
 jumps, thinking the place is a fire, or something or other. I say, captain, can 
 you give an idea of how long it's to last ? It's out of my line, and that's the 
 
28 
 
 truth. 'Twas but this morning I went up to her, and I says ' What do you bring 
 
 it in now, raarm ?' — ' Murder !' says she. Here's a mark on my nose ! D d 
 
 if I think she'd leave me such an article on my face. Blow me if some people 
 knows what manners is." 
 
 Captain Hawk said not a word ; but very slowly, as if he feared to make the 
 least disturbing noise, that might give the shrieking maniac aboye an intimation 
 of his presence, he closed the door again, which separated the two lower apart- 
 ments of the hut. 
 
 " Well/' said the man, whom he had now again left in the dark, " I can't say 
 as I knows the rights of it, but the captain does, I suppose. He said he was 
 afraid she'd lay violent hands on herself. No such luck, say I ; 'twas but 
 yesterday I chucked her an old piece of rope and a gimlet, just to give her a 
 chance of hanging herself, but it was no go. Women are the very deuce when 
 
 they does get disagreeable. Die, indeed ! they'll see you d d first ! I think 
 
 I see 'em at that caper. I say, captain, if I was your captain — what an odd fish 
 he is ! Now he won't speak. I don't hear him either. I'll be hanged if he 
 ain't gone— he's popped out by the other way — and now 1 hear the sound of 
 his horse's feet. There can be no mistake about it. If he's put out the light 
 now, I'd just as soon be hung at once." 
 
 The supposition that Captain Hawk had left the hut was perfectly correct. 
 Probably he had only come there to effect one of those remarkable changes of 
 costume at which he had such surprising tact, and which had so frequently 
 enabled him to elude the consequences of his numerous criminalities ; but certain 
 it is he was off, whatever had been his object, and in a few moments the sound 
 of his horse's feet had died away upon the night air, and all was still again as the 
 very grave, save an occasional low moaning wail from that heart-stricken being 
 in the loft above the lower rooms of the hovel, and the muttered curses of the 
 man, who seemed half inclined to defy, and yet to dread doing so, the orders of 
 Captain Hawk to remain where he was as a sentinel over that luckless and ill- 
 starred creature. 
 
 In the meantime, how or by what means the dog belonging to the Boyes 
 family had found the glove saturated with the gore of young Ratchley, no one 
 knew. 
 
 Possibly, having accompanied the remainder of the family to the farm- 
 house, and not being considered a fit guest for the well-filled ball-room of the 
 Talbot, he had taken, of his own accord, a stroll upon the common, and the scent 
 of blood might have taken him to the spot where the young man had met with 
 his misadventure. 
 
 We cannot say that this fortunate finding of the glove was the means of saving 
 the life of Ratchley Boyes, for although he had now fainted from exhaustion, 
 where he lay, the intense cold of the night, and the still falling snow, prevented 
 the further effusion of blood from his wound ; but still he might have been sub- 
 ject to other accidents by flood and field, but for the timely aid which came to 
 him in consequence of the discovery made by the dog. 
 
 We left our guests at the Talbot in a state of the greatest apprehension and 
 alarm. May Boyes was quickly taken from the arras of Gerald Clifton, and 
 consigned to the guardianship of the portly Mrs. Butts, who, folding her in an 
 embrace that perfectly extinguished her, called out for water, as the poor thing 
 had fainted. 
 
 " And the poor thing," said Peter Butts, M will be suffocated too, if you don't 
 let her go: For heaven's sake, wife, set her down. It's like being embraced by 
 a state bed, with full chintz hangings." 
 
 Poor May was rescued from the overwhelming kindness of Mrs. Butts, and 
 seated near to a window, where she soon began to show signs of returning con- 
 sciousness, while poor Sir John, without speaking to any one, went about wring- 
 ing his hands, and looking curiously in everybody's face he came to, as if he 
 expected there to see written the exact particulars of what had occurred to his 
 son Ratchley. 
 
NEWGATE 
 
 29 
 
 "My dear Sir John," said Gerald Clifton, "let my feelings of friendship for your 
 family, and admiration f©r yourself, plead my excuse for being so rude as to request 
 to know really what is the matter." 
 
 "Ratchley, Ratchley !" exclaimed May, who had now sufficiently recovered to 
 hear and understand what was going on around her. " Where is Ratchley ? Gerald 
 Clifton, where is he ? came he not with you ?" 
 
 " A great part of the way he certainly did ; we separated some few miles off ; 
 I had a call to make, and we took separate routes." 
 
 " Oh, seek him, seek him ! he is murdered !" 
 
 "Lights, lights, my masters/' cried Peter Butts ; "the dog hasn't come far, I'll 
 be bound, and if young master Ratchley has met with any accident, you may depend 
 it's on the common. We'll soon find him. Cheer up, Miss May ; a little blood 
 makes a great show ; and after all, if this be Master Ratchley's glove, which I 
 don't see how you can be quite sure of, he may not be much hurt. Come on, come 
 on ; we will have a hunt for him in the snow. Lay hold of all the candles you 
 can, my men, and follow me." 
 
 " And how many candles," said Gerald Clifton, " do you expect will live out 
 of doors on such a night as this ? A stable lantern will answer all the purpose ; 
 and yonder dog, no doub.t, will guide you accurately to the spot where any mis- 
 chief lies." 
 
 " Will you come with us, sir?" 
 
 " Most certainly. Bear with me a moment, and I'm with you." 
 He stooped till his lips touched the ear of May Boyes. 
 
 " Be not alarmed," he said ; " always sufficient for the hour is its evil. A 
 thousand circumstances short of anything serious may have occurred to Ratchley. 
 I love him for his own sake, as well as for the sake of one whom I love better. I 
 will not return to you without news of him. Adieu, dear May ! let me live in your 
 remembrance." 
 
 Before May Boyes could return to him even a word of thanks he was gone, but 
 his words filled her with a strange and new delight. A delight that even 
 successfully struggled into existence, notwithstanding the cloud of depression that 
 was. on her spirits, and the dreadful feeling of uncertainty that hung around the fate 
 of her brother. 
 
 Did she love Gerald Clifton ? she had not yet asked the question of her own 
 heart. Had she asked it, she would have feared to reply to it ; and yet truthful- 
 ness was an inherent principle in the mind of May Boyes. What was it, then, in 
 the few and simple words Gerald Clifton had uttered, which brought so exquisite a 
 sensation of pleasure to her heart ? How was it that he, by merely speaking of 
 hope, by merely starting a favourable supposition on the subject of her anxieties, 
 could make so great a change in her feelings ? 
 
 Could it be possible that that single word " dear," which he had appended to her 
 name, had solved some weighty riddle at. her heart ? Did she from that feel that 
 he loved her ? or was the word one of those chance-spoken ones which slipped from 
 the unguarded tongue in a moment of generous emotion, breathing really nothing of 
 passion, and meaning nothing but a kindly sentiment of humanity ? 
 
 We shall see ; but much we fear that the heart of the beautiful May Boyes is 
 already ensnared ; much we fear that we shall have to sigh over the ruin of her 
 fondest and best affections, and that she is already far from being fancy free. 
 
 But does not Gerald Clifton Jove her? and if loving her, why would we not 
 bestow her on him ? These are questions that time wilt answer, and in the solution 
 of which our readers will share with us. 
 
 That we have paused for a brief moment to pity May Boyes, has arisen from an 
 irresistible emotion. It is a sequence to that with which we are acquainted, to that 
 sad tale of terror, anguish, and despair which we have charged ourselves to tell, and 
 which shall bring woe to thee, thou most beautiful and just. 
 
 But to our tale. Fifty ready hands were ready to do any good service for 
 May Boyes. Peter Butts had no want of assistance in the search he proposed 
 upon the snow-clad common, and that large, thronged room in the old Talbot 
 
30 NEWGATE. 
 
 Inn, which had so lately appeared crammed almost to uneasiness with guests, 
 wore a deserted aspect, while the ruddy glare from the fires within the house 
 shone forth now from the open doors and casements ; for those who went not 
 forth for the search followed with straining eyes those who did, as they saw 
 them, like black specks upon the snow, following the track of the dog, who now 
 bounded on towards the spot where Ratchley Boyes lay in the seeming sleep of 
 death. 
 
 The direct route which the dog took caused many a tumble in the deep snow 
 drift, and there were some laggards on the way ere the party got half the dis- 
 tance betweer? the Talbot Inn and the spot of ground which had witnessed the 
 encounter between Ratchley and the highwayman. 
 
 Quite enough, however, sped forward to render every assistance that might be 
 requisite, and when the dog suddenly paused, and set up a lengthened howl, old 
 Peter Butts, who was the foremost of the cavalcade, stepped forward but another 
 pace, and then held his lantern to the ground, as he exclaimed, — 
 
 " Good God I my masters, he is indeed murdered ! Here's a sight. God 
 help us all 1" 
 
 I There Jay Ratchley, in the midst of such a mass of snow and blood that it 
 was terrible to look upon him ; and although the throng of persons, impelled by 
 intense curiosity, first crowded closely round what they supposed to be the bafayr 
 a kind of terror soon came over th^ra, and with one accord they shrank back, 
 making a wider circle round that fearful spectacle. 
 
 Gerald Clifton, without a word, snatched the lantern from the hand of the 
 landlord, and, regardless of the half-frozen pool of blood around, he flung himself 
 upon one knee by the body, and tearing open the vest, he astonished every one 
 by placing his ear flat upon the region of the heart, as if he were intent upon 
 nestling on the bosom of the dead. 
 
 It was but for an instant he thus remained, and then springing to his feet, he 
 cried, — 
 
 " He livens ! and, if I may judge from his appearance, he is not much hurt. 
 Carry him 'at once to the inn ; he is insensible, but when there we shall soon 
 hear from his own lips some account of what has reduced him to this sad con- 
 dition." 
 
 This round assertion, spoken so confidently, with regard to the existence of 
 Ratchley Boyes, exercised an effect quite magical upon all present. The strange 
 solemnity and the awe- struck appearance that had sat upon every countenance 
 while they thought that they were in the presence of death, immediately fled, and 
 many who probably could not have been induced by any bribe to touch the dead 
 body, now that they believed life only for a time suspended, were the most eager 
 in rendering efficient assistance in the conveyance of the' wounded man to a 
 place of safety. 
 
 Poor Ratchley had become completely frozen to the ground, and it required 
 quite an effort to disengage his apparel from among the snow. Four persons, 
 however, lifted him in their arms, and Gerald Clifton, leading the way with 
 the lantern, and taking rapid strides along the same path they had so lately 
 traversed, they all proceeded with their ghastly burden with far greater speed 
 than they had left the inn, back again to its friendly shelter. 
 
 When they arrived within sight of its time-hallowed porch, Gerald Clifton 
 handed the lantern to the landlord, and then dashed forward alone with great 
 speed, so that he reached the long, low dancing-room some minutes before those 
 who carried the wounded man. He dashed in without the slightest ceremony 
 or preparation. 
 
 "He lives, he lives !" he cried ; "Ratchley lives. He is but slightly hurt. 
 May Boyes, where is she?" 
 
 *' He lives I" cried Sir John, and thought he was sinking into a chair, but in 
 reality fell on the floor. Lives ! then the baronetcy will not be extinct, and 
 the glory of the Boyes will continue unfaded." 
 
 « Where is May?" said Gerald. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 "Young sir," said Sir John, "there ought to have been a chair behind me 
 — some miscreant has removed it ; and as for my daughter, the Lady May, she is 
 in a chamber precisely above this room, as I am informed, carefully attended 
 by " 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," said Gerald, and, turning upon his heel, he dashed 
 from the ball-room, and up the first staircase that presented itself, in a moment. 
 
 The old inn was exceedingly intricate, and it required a person to be most 
 amazingly well acquainted with -all its various staircases and corners to find even 
 any particular chamber that was described to him. It was, therefore, not much to 
 be wondered at that having but the vague direction of a chamber above the ball- 
 room to go to, Gerald Clifton should be somewhat out in his topography when he 
 reached the landing. 
 
 He paused now, as a natural consequence, to think ; not that he did himself any 
 good?by so doing, because he really had no basis for reflection ; never before had 
 he been above the ground-floor of the old inn, and he presented the phenomenon 
 of a man making an apparently laborious effort to remember what he had never 
 known. 
 
 "Confound these old rambling places," he said; "one cannot guess which 
 way to turn. Sir John mentioned the room immediately above the hall. Let 
 me consider. The staircase runs up in a spiral ; surely I must be right. What 
 a strange light the snow casts from its reflected surface into this old corridor. 
 Ah ! I hear the sound of voices ; that must be the room ; the news I bring 
 sanctions my intrusion. PrettyrMay Boyes, if I do not this night advance 
 myself somewhat in your favour it will be an astonishing fact, and no fault of 
 mine." 
 
 It was the murmur of female voices which broke upon the ear of Gerald Clifton, 
 and he doubted not for a moment that they proceeded from the room into which 
 the beautiful May Boyes had been conveyed. His purpose was no vacillating 
 one, however much his progress from the ball-room partook of that character, and, 
 now that he no longer doubted that he was on the right path, he sprang -forward in 
 the direction of the sounds he had heard, and pushing rudely open a door which 
 yielded to his touch, he found himself in the principal bedchamber of the old inn — 
 a large room, the roof of which was crossed and interspersed with huge beams of 
 wood. 
 
 An exclamation of surprisl arose from some one at his entrance, and then a 
 scream from some one else produced universal confusion among the inmates of that 
 chamber. 
 
 But Gerald Clifton was intent upon his purpose, and little heeded what might 
 be thought or what might be said by others. On the bed, partially covered 
 by its ample coverlet, lay May Boyes, her hair dishevelled, her face pale, and 
 apparently far, very far, from recovered from the mental shock she had so recently 
 received. For the bold intruder to spring to her side was the work of a moment ; 
 casting aside all scruples and punctilios of time and place, he seized her hand, 
 exclaiming, — 
 
 " He lives ! he lives ! May, look up, he lives 1" 
 
 " My brother V half screamed the beautiful girl. 
 
 " Yes, Ratchley ; and is but little hurt." 
 
 It was with an hysteric scream ©f delight that she raised herself partially from 
 the bed, and in the impulse of the moment, as if she could not thank enough him 
 who brought her such gladsome tidings, she flung herself upon the breast of Gerald. 
 Clifton, and, while his arms encircled her for a brief moment, a gush of tears 
 relieved her overladen heart. 
 
 In another moment, she fell backward again upon the bed, and then the young 
 man, turning to the astonished females who were in the room, lifted his hat, which 
 he still wore, gracefully from his head, as he said, in such bland and musical accents 
 that they imparted a grace to every word. he uttered, — 
 
 "Ladies, place your gentlest construction upon this intrusion; as I am a 
 gentleman and one who, I hope, will ever feel sensations of honour, I meant 
 
32 NEWGATE. 
 
 no wrong in coming hither. I know that my presence here is unsanctioned b^ 
 custom; let my excuse be, that I brought news of joy to her who is afflicted* 
 and that I profoundly appreciate the extreme courtesy I have received from 
 such a collection of wit, beauty, and intelligence as I now see before me. La dies, 
 adieu !" 
 
 And so he vanished. 
 
 " Quite the gentleman !" said the landlady. " Did you ever, my dear, see 
 such a nice young man ? Intruding, indeed — not him. There's a air and a 
 grace. We's wit, beauty, and intelligence ; there's judgment. He'll die ~ 
 young, I know he will.; such as him always goes first. There's my husband, 
 now, as different a sort of man as may be, no more delicacy than a pig, 
 and stronger than a rum puncheon, When will he go, I wonder ?— ladies, 
 never !" 
 
 " Ah, you've had a great deal to put up with in your time, Mrs. Butts," said 
 one ; " and I must say, if I was asked on my bible oath to say who I thought was 
 the most elegant young man I had ever seen, it would be Mr. Clifton." 
 
 " He lives, he lives !" murmured May, M and in those words I live again. Let 
 me rise ; I am much better now. Where is he ? — where is Ratchley V 
 
 At this moment the sound of many voices, and the trampling of feet, in the lower 
 part of the inn, announced the arrival of the cavalcade bearing the still insensible 
 Ratchley Boyes ; 
 
 May sprang from the bed, and despite a feeble effort to retain her, rushed from 
 the room, meeting the supporters of that corpse-like form, stiffened in blood, 
 before they had well crossed the threshold of ''the inn with their ghastly looking 
 burden. 
 
 She was about to utter some exclamation of terror and surprise at seeing Ratch- 
 ley so immovable, when a voice whispered gently in her ear, — 
 
 " Hush, hush ! dear May. Believe me, there is no danger ; he lives— on my 
 sacred word, he lives 1" 
 
 It was Gerald Clifton. 
 
 " I will be calm," she said ; " I will be calm," and she hung heavily upon his 
 arm. " With your assurance that he lives, I can be calm." 
 
 « Carry him up stairs," cried Sir John ; " no, I mean down stairs ; that is to 
 say, leave him here— or take him into that room, or this, or something. Great 
 I minds are always prompt in danger. Do something, somebody, for Heaven's 
 sake ; and then I'll direct you. This way, this way—no, the other way. That it 
 should come to this ! — one of our family covered with .snow and bleeding ; the 
 precious blood of the Boyes mixing itself up with sand on the floor, of an inn. Run 
 for all the doctors, somebody. What would you all do without me % Bless my 
 heart and soul, how we rise with the occasion, — that's always the way with great 
 minds, too." 
 
 In a clear, audible voice, Gerald Clifton directed that the frozen, bleeding form 
 of Ratchley Boyes should be conveyed into the ball-room, at the further end of 
 which, and sufficiently far from the fire to prevent any ill effects from too sudden 
 a change of temperature, he had him comfortably bestowed upon some chairs, 
 and then, with a skill and readiness which no one thought him capable of pos- 
 sessing, he proceeded not only to examine the wound, but to use such means as 
 it was possible for him to procure for the recovery to consciousness of his friend 
 Ratchley. 
 
 " Bless my heart," said Sir John — " and the nearest doctor lives a dozen miles 
 off. What's to be done now? The heir-at-law of the great Boyes family 
 waiting for a surgeon. These physical people ought always to be following 
 about persons of distinction, in case of being wanted ; but it's always the way 
 with the lower orders, they prefer their own ease and idleness t® their most sacred 
 duties." 
 
 "Let me have some water," said Gerafd Clifton, "and a sponge. I think, 
 Sir John, you may safely trust me, in the absence of the regular practitioner, to 
 o what is requisite here. I have made human maladies much my study ; and^ 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 moreover, I do not conceive this to be a case which will call largely upon any 
 one's skill. 1 want some water and a sponge." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; ah, to be sure," said Sir John ; « water and a sponge ; run every- 
 body for water, and the rest of you for a sponge." 
 
 " I'll go," said May ; ". those requisites are in the room above." 
 
 She was holding the head of Ratchley, and Gerald Clifton saw she was 
 unwilling to forego her trust. 
 
 See page 39. 
 
 " I will go more expeditiously than any one," he whispered. 
 
 ** A thousand thanks," said May ; and away he started to go again to that 
 apartment which he had at first so great a difficulty in finding. He rushed up 
 the staircase with rapid strides, and now he paused not for one moment in that 
 corridor where he had before held council with himself, but, guided by the 
 moonlight which at intervals straggled in through the latticed windows, he made 
 
 No. 5. 
 
34 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 his way towards the door of the apartment. He was within a few paces of 
 reaching it, when a sudden and a fearful yell burst upon his ears. It seemed 
 more like a shout of some wild animal in mockery of a human cry, than aught 
 human, reduced' even to the most dire extremity. 
 
 Well might Gerald Clifton stagger back in terror and anrazement ; and he 
 staggered back but just in time to save himself from a more furious attack than 
 was really made upon him. With a rush, as if propelled by some unseen power, 
 there came sweeping on a human form along that corridor ; to grapple him by 
 the throat was the work of a moment — a brief but furious struggle brought them 
 to the stair -head, and as if he had been an infant in the arms of a giant was 
 Gerald Clifton hurled down the whole flight. 
 
 All this was the work of a moment. Those who were attending upon 
 Ratchley heard the singular cry from above, and many had made their way to 
 the foot of the staircase ; among the foremost of them was Sir John, who, 
 indeed, had ascended a few steps, not knowing what he was doing or where he 
 was going. 
 
 The consequence, however, of this was, that he was immediately encountered 
 by the falling form of Gerald Clifton, and such was the rapidity with which they 
 for a few moments rolled over together, that those around could only look on in 
 speechless wonder as to what was going to happen next. 
 
 It was Clifton who, notwithstanding the severe fall he had had, sprang to his 
 feet first, leaving poor Sir John stretched out upon his back, apparently without 
 sense or motion. Fury was in every look and gesture of 'Clifton, and every eye 
 followed his as he bent an earnest gaze up the staircase. Something dark 
 appeared a considerable distance up, which moved slightly. Clifton had seen it, 
 and before any one could make a remark upon the circumstance he drew a small 
 pistol from his pocket and fired it up the stairs. 
 
 A short crack came fluttering down ; but when the sound of the pistol's 
 discharge had ceased, nothing was heard, and so intense was the dismay and 
 astonishment which had taken possession of all present, that each remained in a 
 fixed attitude except Sir John, who now sat up and was woefully touching his 
 nose, from which drops of blood came drop by drop upon the floor between his 
 feet. 
 
 " Gracious Heavens I" exclaimed May, as she clung to Clifton, for she had 
 rushed from the ball-room upon hearing the pistol-shot; " what has happened ? 
 are this night's terrors never to be done ?" 
 
 " Yes/* said Clifton, " they're over ; some one attacked me in the corridor 
 above, and I fell down the staircase. I think I have had my revenge, but am 
 not sure. Let those search who will, I care not." 
 
 He turned from the staircase, and May Boyes saw it was with a shudder that 
 he did so, and she suspected that dread had more to do than carelessness with 
 his determination not to proceed up the staircase again. 
 
 " I don't see," said Sir John Boyes, " why I should be knocked down and 
 trampled upon under any possible circumstances. I had certainly no idea that 
 society was in such a state, 1 beg leave to remark. Murder." 
 
 He was assisted to his feet, and then Clifton said to him, — 
 
 <f Forgive me, Sir John, it was unintentional. May Boyes, I have forgotten 
 something, but will see you to-morrow morning at breakfast in your father's 
 hall. Adieu !" and then he added, in a whisper, " remember me." 
 
 Without a word of greeting or adieu to another person, he turned and left the 
 inn, encountering, nearly upon the threshold, a melancholy cavalcade made up of 
 all the passengers of the Oxford mail, headed by the guard, with his amiable and 
 peaceable biunderbus in one hand and his horn at his lips, upon which he blew 
 a long and horrible blast, as if they were knights of old arrived at some castle 
 gate, whose frowning portal looked angrily down upon them. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 'So 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE LOVERS' VOWS. 
 
 A week has elapsed, the snow has melted off the heath, one of those sudden 
 and delicious changes has taken place in the aspect of the season which speak to 
 all hearts gently and sweetly of the coming summer. It was a day suggestive 
 of thoughts of deep sunshine, many-tinted and fragrant flowers, songs of birds, 
 and all those sights and sounds which make the vernal season such a dream of 
 delight. The breath of the south wind had melted the icy manacles in which 
 the earth had been bound, the congealed streams again bubbled forth their 
 pleasant music ; there was a pleasant freshness in the air, and the light fleecy 
 clouds lent the charm of spring time to the deep blue sky. 
 
 It was on such an eve as this, one little hour before the coming shadows of 
 the night would envelope all objects, that two figures stood upon a raised terrace 
 which ran along the southern side of Boyes Hall. Some former owner of the 
 large estate must have travelled in Italy, and there contracted a taste for the 
 style of gardening prevalent in that sunny clime. The gardens of Boyes Hall 
 were laid out in that style, half formal, half picturesque, which is ascribed to the 
 Italian school. 
 
 There were vases, grottoes, and fountains ; lorg straight walks, with here and 
 there the statue of some sylvan deity or ancient god ; while the terrace upon 
 which these two persons stood seemed to have been constructed as a stately 
 walk from which to view the far-stretcbing beauties that lay beneath. 
 
 The light of day was gradually decreasing, and the soft, damp, warm Avind 
 which had brought about the wondrous change upon the face of nature, was 
 beginning, now that the brief sunshine was sinking, to show more power, as if it 
 felt more independence. It came occasionally with a briefer and a lustier gust, 
 moaning among the old trees, and bending down their leafless branches with its 
 unseen agency. 
 
 One of those forms was that of a man, not tall, but of that middle height and 
 symmetrical proportion which betokens more agility than brutal strength. His 
 companion is young and beautiful, her hands are locked around one of his, 
 while his disengaged arm encircles that slender waist so seeming fragile; and 
 they are not looking on the gardens or the glowing sunset ; his eyes are fixed with 
 searching earnestness upon her face, while hers, in downcast, maiden medita- 
 tion, seem but to see the marble flags upon which they stand. 
 
 It is Gerald Clifton — bold, handsome, and full of talent — who has stolen out 
 at this sweet evening hour to whisper such a tale to May Boyes as may well make 
 her ears tingle with delight, and her young heart to beat as though it would 
 burst its dwelling-place. 
 
 She loves him ! she loves him with a love such as a being of such sensibility 
 and intelligence alone can feel. She loves him, not with the ordinary affection, 
 which may rather be called a preference than a passion, but with her whole 
 mind, her whole genius, her heart, aDd her soul ; as she loves Heaven she loves 
 that man. Such persons as May Boyes never love but once, and then the i 
 gushing, headlong passion sweeps away all obstacles, and it is the well. spring of 
 a thousand happinesses or the tomb of slaughtered hope ; she has no being but 
 in him ; he is her idol, her breath, her life itself. 
 
 Let those who would blame her for the impetuosity of her passions, hlame 
 rather the prodigality of nature that made her a being of such rare gifts. She 
 could do nothing weakly or tamely. Alas! for the happiness of such beings; 
 they build the houses of their joy on the quicksands of delusion, and at one 
 etmottrlrehin mnt all is wrecked. 
 
 Woe be to those who, like May Boyes, are not of the common herd ; woe be 
 gith a odiyesow i sastrous privilege— godlike though the gift appear — of nobler, 
 
36 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 higher aspirations than their compeers. Fatal gift, that light of genius which 
 illumines the heart but to destroy it ! 
 
 Yes, she loved him. There need no words of ours to paint the pure devotion 
 of her spirit ; nor could she new, so deep-seated was that idol of her heart in its 
 innermost shrines, by any ordinary circumstances of conduct or of action, pluck 
 his image from that dear abiding place. Yes, she loved him ! and in those hrief 
 words are concentrated, as regards May Boyes, a -whole world of devotion. 
 
 And did he return with like affection that young girl's happier, better feelings ? 
 Was he the man to feel for her that torrent of blessed emotion which she 
 deserved, as but a fit recompense for the soul-absorbing tenderness in which she 
 held him? Fearful question ! one that must be answered by acts, not words. 
 
 Let us listen to the lovers. 
 
 It was Gerald Clifton who spoke, after the silence which had been maintained 
 for nearly the fourth part of an hour ; he spoke, too, with enthusiasm, and in that 
 rich, glossy tone which we will not say alway3 masks hypocrisy, but which clever 
 hypocrisy is never without. 
 
 " I have long loved you," he said ; " since first I saw you here on this 
 terrace, when your brother and I returned from f Oxford at the period of our last 
 happy sojourn in this, to me, sacred and sainted house, I loved you. You'll say 
 the passion was of sudden growth, but not the less majestic was it, not the less 
 glorious the fruitage that it bore. That love which wants such careful tending, 
 that from a tender sapling it must be fostered till it grow gigantic, is not of my 
 complexion. I loved you, May, from the first not better than I love you now, 
 and now I love you not the less because I feel that heart responds to heart. Is 
 it not so, my sweet May V 
 
 " Gerald Clifton," was all she could say, and then she seemed to be rather 
 communing with herself, and repeating to her own heart that name which bore 
 about it the halo of a magic spell. 
 
 There was a silence now again for a few moments' duration, and again Gerald 
 spoke. 
 
 " Can you be mine," he said, " knowing so little of me ; feeling, even, that 
 the shroud of mystery is around me ? Can you yet be mine V 
 " For ever !" 
 
 " Bold words, May Boyes ; and yet such as I should not quarrel with. I 
 never loved beforg I saw you." 
 
 " It is destiny," said May. " Let us walk upon the terrace." 
 
 '* Yes, yes, it may be destiny. We will walk ; the air grows chill." 
 
 ** I felt it not. I knew not that it touched my cheek." 
 
 "And, so, May, despite of all your father's anger, perchance, and male- 
 diction, a Another's tears, and a brother's fury, you will yet be mine V 
 
 ".In my thoughts of thee, Gerald Clifton, I have no father, no mother, no ! 
 brother. 'Tis you who can make or who can destroy me! I am yours, yours 
 only ! To live, or to die, to joy, or to suffer, I say again, it is my destiny !" 
 
 " A strange feeling, May, and yet so closely bordering on my own, for I am 
 not one to make a superstitious clamour of it, — I do despair, dearest, of your 
 friends' sanction to our union." 
 
 " Then," said May, ** our union must want our friends' sanction. What are 
 friends to me V 
 
 " You are young, and you are enthusiastic ; as yet you have not known the 
 pressure of a single want. What if 1 am poor ?" 
 " I care not. We'll live as live the forest birds." 
 
 " Nay, May Boyes, you know not that great world of which you speak. But 
 if we fly from here, surely we might take with us something ?" . 
 "Yes," said May, "a mutual love, scorning all things but itself." 
 " Nay, I hear your family have jewels." 
 " We have one of priceless lustre." 
 " Indeed I" 
 
 ''Yes, in our hearts— fit casket for such a treasure." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 37 
 
 " Yes. yes ; oh ! yes. But can we live, dear May, on air or herbs, on flowers, 
 or on romance P" 
 " We can beg/' 
 
 i* A most unsentimental employment. But wherefore talk we thus ? There 
 is much treasure in this house, so I've heard ; we do not value it, for to us the 
 brightest gold is but a speck of dross compared to our pure affections ; still, 
 however, would we be most glad to have the power of holding out the hand of 
 fellowship to deep distress." 
 
 " Ah ! now I know your motive ; but it may not be — but we will touch 
 nothing. Friendless, and penniless, if it must be so, we will go forth. I would 
 not lay a hand upon that Indian cabinet, the glittering contents of which my 
 father sets such store by, to save my life ; it would seem such profanation to my 
 love to mingle it with such grosser feelings. That Heaven, Gerald, which has 
 brought us together, and which has fashioned us of sympathetic souls, will not 
 desert its creatures. We will trust in that, and we will grieve not that the 
 luxuries of life are taken from us, for we shall look upon even its privation through 
 such a medium, as ten times more glorious than its ordinary choicest blessings." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Gerald Clifton, " who can do other with such sentiment, 
 expressed so eloquently ? My beautiful May, it is a pride as well as a delight 
 to hear you. I sometimes wonder to myself what I could have said or done to 
 win you." 
 
 " And I," said May Boyes, with a touch of mournfulness in her tone, " and I 
 believed myself for ever fancy free, and that the trammels of what the world calls 
 love would never fall upon me; and I was told by those who had felt the soft 
 influence, of such a delicious dream, that when I did love, it would be a passion 
 past all bounds of reason ? such a love as sets experience, counsel of friends, and 
 all the world's usual habits, at defiance." 
 
 u And have you found that to be true V 
 
 "Most true, most true." 
 
 « And yet " 
 
 " Why do you pause, Gerald Clifton? Have you a doubt ? If you have, you 
 love not. To doubt affection is at once to discard it for ever from the mind." 
 
 * No, no, my beautiful May, I have no doubt of thee. How well and prettily 
 you turned aside my notions of worldly wisdom when you spoke about the 
 Indian cabinet, which, after all, I dare say contains nothing, but such curiosities 
 as old folks doat upon, things of no intrinsic value, although they may occasion 
 a gape of astonishment from the unlettered multitude/' 
 
 " You're wrong, dear Gerald. But this is a theme scarcely worth our talk- 
 ing of." 
 
 " Most true, except as a matter of mere curiosity. There is wealth, you say, 
 in the Indian cabinet ?" 
 
 "A large amount. One of our ancestors was curious in precious stones. 
 Living in a style far below the commonest and meanest income, he expended 
 nearly the whole of his revenue in the purchase of gems ; he was half a madman, 
 they say, and had some fancy of huge profits eventually from the disposal of 
 them. He died, though, without his dream of ambition being fulfilled ; and, as 
 he left an estate completely unincumbered, the next heir let the precious stones 
 remain, and so the next, and the next, which is my father." 
 
 " What a strange fancy. Dear May, oh ! if I could find but words to tell 
 you »how I love you.'' 
 
 '* None are required ; 1 ask for no asseverations. When I meet you, look 
 upon me as you now look, and I shall be content. Speak gently, yet not 
 timidly ; and when ive part, do it with a tenderness of regret, mingling yet with 
 happiness at the thought of how soon we'll meet again. Our interview has 
 already been prolonged beyond the bounds of prudence ; I am about to visit 
 Ratchley, and will pass into the house by the picture-gallery. Gerald Clifton, 
 come weal or woe, I will love you ! Heaven itself may interpose ; and even 
 then, if it be impiety to love you, I am impious.'' 
 
So 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 She suddenly paused and trembled. Gerald flew to her side. 
 " You're unwell," he said, anxiously ; "your colour flits like the sunshine of 
 . an April day." * 
 
 " A sudden pang/ she said, " from what cause I know not, — 'tis over, and all 
 is well. Farewell, until a few short^hours, and then joy again. It is night till 
 then." 
 
 She walked slowly down the terrace, until she came to one of the deep bay 
 windows that opened upon it, through which she passed into the long picture- 
 gallery of the mansion. 
 
 Gerald Clifton gazed after her, musingly ; his brows contracted, and he com- 
 pressed his lips as if he feared to give utterance, even to the idling evening air, 
 to his thoughts. He muttered something, but so inaudibly that the words were 
 not half formed, and then he turned off in another direction and entered the 
 house. 
 
 # ~ 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 Oh ! what a change had come over the spirit of the beautiful May Boyes ; she 
 was now far, very far, from being the gladsome, happy spirit which she was 
 some short time since. The wild extravagance of her devotion to Gerald Clifton 
 seemed to have robbed her pure spirit of all its gaiety, and so sudden had been 
 the transformation from the happy, laughing girl to the deep-thinking woman, 
 that those who had known and admired her a few short months since, would 
 scarce have recognized her, so altered was her mien and general bearing. 
 
 She no longer w r alked with the same light, dancing step, but with a swan-like, 
 gliding movement she passed from place to place. In her very smile there 
 seemed a melancholy, and that boundless passion which had taken possession of 
 her very soul had evidently drowned in its overwhelming torrent all previous 
 pleasures. 
 
 We will not say that those whom she loved before no longer shared her 
 affections ; her love for Gerald Clifton was of a different character. Her tender- 
 ness for those who were allied to her, and with whom she bad passed some of her 
 happiest days, knew no diminution since the accession of this wondrous passion. 
 
 It bad yet to be seen if they would place themselves in hostile array against it 
 when it should become known to them — which would be the victim ; those old 
 household loves and feelings which had grown with her growth and strengthened 
 with her strength, or this new love for a stranger, which appeared so boundless 
 as to carry her to the verge of credulity ? 
 
 We will follow her to her brother's room. 
 
 Although the wound which Ratchley Boyes had received w T as by no means a 
 serious one in itself, yet the consequences which had ensued upon it had been of 
 a character to excite serious alarm. 
 
 He was a young man in the prime of health and vigour; he had ridden hard 
 to be present as early as possible in the ball-room at the old Talbot Inn, and 
 his blood was heated and fevered when he received the wound from the high- 
 wayman's pistol bullet. 
 
 Notwithstanding, therefore, the considerable loss of blood which, of course, 
 had tended greatly to delay the danger of inflammatory symptoms, poor Ratchley 
 had lain for several days in a most precarious condition. 
 
 The strictest orders had been given by the medical men attending upon him, 
 that he should not be pestered with questions concerning the manner in which 
 he had received his wound, and now that he bad sufficiently recovered that this 
 interdict was removed, the young*man himself was taciturn and distant upon the 
 subject, turning off the conversation always into another channel, as if it were 
 one he would fain not converse on. 
 
 Sir John Boyes had been the most curious of the whole family to know the 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 ,39 
 
 particulars of how anybody could forget so far what was due to his patrician 
 blood, as to spill any of it upon any pretence whatever. 
 
 But Ratchley bad answered his father distantly, merely saying that the man 
 who had attacked him was a highwayman, and that further he could say nothing. 
 
 Sir John Boyes had, therefore, only the melancholy satisfaction of writing a 
 letter to the secretary of state for the time being, to whom he detailed the 
 atrocious circumstance, and requested the government, through him, the secre- 
 tary of state, to take some uncommon steps in the proceeding, and to offer 
 instantly a large reward for the discovery of the offender. 
 
 To this proposition, he had a reply full of politeness and terms of consider- 
 ation, the gist of which was, however, that the government was very sorry 
 through him, the secretary of state, but that, on the whole, it rather advised him 
 to offer the reward himself. ^ 
 
 It was May Boyes alone who seemed to read in the eyes of Ratchley that 
 there was surely some secret connected with the mode.&nd manner of the 
 attack. She did not long to know, but yet she had a feeling as if it would have 
 much gratified her to be made acquainted with its minutest particulars. 
 
 Noiselessly she enters the sick chamber ; Ratchley was sleeping, and she places 
 a chair by the bedside, on which she sinks to watch his repose, and after indulge 
 herself in the dreary thoughts incidental to her passionate love. 
 
 The sleep of Ratchley was anything but profound, moans and impatient mur- 
 murs came from his lips, and at times he tossed his arms to and fro, saying, as 
 he did so, — 
 
 " Off— off— off. Murderer, off !" 
 
 May watched him intently, and believing that a sleep like that could be in 
 no way refreshing, she gently awakened him, and, holding his hand in both of 
 her's, she whispered to him in soothing accents, — 
 
 "Ratchley, Ratchley, awake ; 'tis I, your sister, May. What visions are 
 those that disturb your slumbers ?" 
 
 He gazed upon her for a moment in silence, and then, in a low voice, he 
 said, — 
 
 " Have I spoken, May ? What have I uttered ?" 
 
 "Nothing, Ratchley, of reason. Nothing, that the judgment could come to 
 any conclusion from," 
 
 " It is well— it is well," he said. " Oh, that I were off this bed of pain and 
 suffering. Where is Gerald Clifton ?" 
 
 "In the house, brother, an honoured guest, for your sake, as well as for his 
 own." 
 
 " Sister/' said Ratchley, " are we quite alone V 
 " Yes, yes ; what would you say ?" 
 
 f It is a secret which I thought to hide deep in the recesses of my own bosom 
 until I could myself, hand to hand, meet him of whom I am now about to speak." 
 
 " What means this preparation ? Speak freely, Ratchley, and at once, to me." 
 
 " Before I go further, sister May, answer me some questions. I fancied that 
 at our last vacation here you had a kindness for this Gerald Clifton, my college 
 friend ; but whether that has proved fleeting, or has deepened, 1 know it will not 
 prevent you answering me truly that which I shall ask of you." 
 
 " It will not," said May, in so low a voice that it scarcely reached her 
 brother's ears. 
 
 " Then, does Gerald Clifton pass his evenings with the family ?" 
 
 " No, brother; he has a sick friend some miles off, and let the weather be what 
 it may, hail, rain r sleet, or snow — let the loudest wind that ever howled from 
 Heaven be blowing, he mounts his horse, and goes upon his pious errand. Is it 
 not great and noble of him ?" 
 
 " Very," said Ratchley. 
 
 " That ve^," said May, " sounds not like a genuine affirmation of the senti- 
 ment. Beware, brother, for one moment breathing aught evil of Gerald Clifton." 
 " Why beware, May ?" 
 
40 
 
 JSEWGATE. 
 
 t% Because it is impossible you should be right." 
 
 '* Alas ! my sister, this is blind faith— intolerant bigotry. I am not strong 
 enough to carry on a long discourse ; but beneath yon table lies a small valaise ; 
 some two hours since it was brought to me by our faithful servant, Andrew. For 
 the first time he found it unlocked in Gerald Clifton's chamber." 
 
 " Brother \" exclaimed May, " do I hear aright, or is this some dream P Is 
 not Gerald Clifton our guest, and has any one, knowing him to be such, dared so 
 far to violate the holiest rights of hospitality, as to pry into that which alone 
 belongs to him V* 
 
 " Husb ! sister, hush ; you take too inflated and romantic a view of this busi- 
 ness. It remains yet to be seen who has violated the rights of hospitality ; 
 honest Andrew, who has acted under my directions, or Gerald Clifton. " 
 
 " What mean you ? What hideous mummery is this ? Brother, brother, you 
 know not what you say." 
 
 " Open the valaise, and look at its contents." 
 
 " Never!" 
 
 " This is infatuation. In that valaise is a suit of clothing I have seen before ; 
 j or, at all events, one of a similar pattern. A scarlet coat, richly trimmed, horse- 
 ! man's boots, lightly made, and folded up into a small compass, a cap looped with 
 
 j a jewel, the arms and the accoutrements of him who " 
 
 ! " What, what, brother — what ? Is this a time to pause V 
 j " It is not — I will finish — who shot me on the heath." 
 
 A wild kind of laugh came from May Boyes' lips, as she cried, — 
 
 " This is madness — this is madness ! rank insanity — the delirium of fever. 
 Oh ! Katchley, Ratchley, speak of this to none but me." 
 
 " Ah, ah ! I do perceive but too truly," said Ratchley, " that you have warmed 
 ] this serpent in your bosom but to sting you." 
 
 "Serpent!" " 
 
 " Yes, May ; 1 tell you now I have a feeling as strong as that I have in 
 Heaven's mercy, that it was Gerald Clifton's self who stopped me on the heath ; 
 at the very time, and when the cold moonbeams fell upon the face, each moment, 
 well disguised as it was it grew more familiar to me, and 1 knew him Hush, 
 sister, not a word — not a word till I am up and stirring ; but keep you an eye 
 upon him for my sake, for your own sake, and for the sake of all you love that 
 ' are in this house. 1 tell you, sister, that man is not what he seems." 
 ! MaV Boyes sat for some moments motionless as a statue. She then rose 
 ! from the chair by her brother's bedside, and moving to the door with a strange 
 j gliding movement, she muttered,—. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I will watch him— who will watch him as I shall ? Gerald Clifton, 
 Gerald Clifton, this of thee 1" 
 
 She reached her own chamber, she clasped her brow for a moment, and then 
 she wrung her hands. 
 
 " No — no — no !" she cried, and then, as if alarmed at the sound of her own 
 voice, she placed her finger on her lips and added, — u Hush, hush ! if it be so, 
 it is my destiny. I love him still." 
 
 She dashed a quantity of cold water upon her face. She was death-like pale 
 as she mechanically arranged the long tresses of her silk-like hair, and then 
 she walked down to the principal hall, where well she knew that Gerald Clifton 
 was wont to linger ere he went on what she had described as his deed of great- 
 ness and piety, with the hope of a glance from her, or some fond pressure of 
 the hand, ere he mounted his steed and was away, 
 j Sir John and his lady were in the hall, and Philippa, as well as Gerald Clifton, 
 | who was smiling in his own fascinating way. 
 
 " Ah, May," he said, " I'm off again ; my poor friend is no better. He calls 
 my visits like angel's, few and far between, and yet I see him each day ; is not 
 that wilful of him? Adieu, adieu, we shall meet in the morning ; or, perchance, 
 I may be in early." 
 
 May gave him her hand, but the smile with which she accompanied it was 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 41 
 
 forced and painful. In the hurry of the adieu he noticed it not, and in another 
 moment he had mounted his horse, and was trotting slowly down the avenue of 
 ancient trees that led to the lodge gates. 
 
 " My dear May," said Sir John, " it strikes me, that in consequence of an 
 improvement in the symptoms attendant upon Ratchley's wounds, we may pro- 
 nounce him a little better, and I do not myself entertain the slightest doubt in 
 the world, that if he goes on continually improving, and don't get any worse, he 
 will eventually get well — that's my private opinion. I don't tell it to everybody, 
 but in the bosom of one's family one may be confidential." 
 
 Se^ page 42. 
 
 " Certainly, father," said May, as she suddenly left the room. 
 
 " Dear me," said Sir John, " that's a very abrupt mode of replying to me. 
 Ah ! it's a fatiguing thing to have to think for a whole family, and when, after 
 immense mental labour you have, as it were, arrived at a singularly happy con- 
 clusion, all you get is ' certainly/ as if people knew it before." 
 
 No. 6, 
 
42 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " But you know, Sir John/' said Lady Boyes, " that May has been rather 
 strange of late." 
 
 "Then, it's very wrong, my lady," said Sir John ; " it's very wrong, and 
 things that are wrong, you know, are directly erroneous — that's my opinion 
 again. I have arrived at some conclusions to-day, and I wish to give my family 
 the benefit of them. Philippa, how dare you laugh ; oi.e would think that you 
 did not belong to the family of the Boyes, for we very seldom laugh — laughing 
 betrays a vacant mind, and so we don't laugh." 
 
 " But not for f$a.r of betraying ourselves, I hope, father," said Philippa. 
 
 " What do you mean?" said Sir John, wrinkling up his brows, — " What can 
 you mean ? I never desire any of you to think about anything ; I am quite will- 
 ing to do it all, and when I do it all, I don't expect anybody to laugh." 
 
 Sir John was highly affronted, and he went with a majestic air out of the 
 room, carrying his majestic mind with him, to the great delight of his wife and 
 daughter. 
 
 But it is of May that we must now speak; whither went she when she left 
 the room so hurriedly ? She was not won.'t to behave rudely, even to her tire- 
 some father. 
 
 She has a stern purpose, a sudden one, and yet inflexibly strong. The words 
 of her brother had fallen like molten lead upon her brain. She must prove him 
 wrong before she sleeps that night ; at least, so she tells herself. The idea of 
 verifying them never for a moment crosses her imagination. 
 
 With a quick light step she seeks the stables of the mansion — her own favourite 
 palfrey is reposing in its stall — the sound of her well-known voice is sufficient, and 
 the animal is roused. She seeks no idle, lounging groom, but, with her own 
 hands, as quick as thought, she caparisons her steed ; but a few minutes have 
 elapsed since she left the hall, and she is mounted — a hazardous leap takes her 
 into a meadow — a hard gallop across its surface brings her to a point beyond the 
 lodge gates — there is a thick hedge of evergreen, and there she pauses ; both 
 horse and rider are still, as if sculptured— to watch Geralddifton. 
 
 Yes, she kad now determined upon watching him. He cannot escape her ; he 
 always walks his hoise id'y t down the avenue ; she has seen him do so often from 
 the windows' of the hall, and then the porter has to be roused, and the lodge gates 
 opened. Oh, she has plenty of time ; but how furiously her heart beats ! Hark ! 
 he comes. She presses her hands upon her throbbing bosom to still its tumultuous 
 beating. He comes — he comes — him in whom her very existence is centered ; he 
 comes. She hears the sound of his horse's feet ; there is to her heart a magic in the 
 very tread of the animal who bears him. In the dim and dusky eve she sees him ; 
 he passes ; all is still, save the solemn tread of that horse's feet upon the hardened 
 ground. She scarcely breathes till he has passed some distance, then she speaks, 
 which is to the horse. 
 
 " On- — on !" she cries } and like the wind she skirts the road across the meadows, 
 and makes a rapid detour; she feels that, at the pace she has been going, she must 
 be far a-head of him again, and then she pauses — horse and rider motionless as 
 bef®re. 
 
 Oh ! what a dreadful chase was that for such a heart as^was then wildly beating 
 in the bosom of poor May Boyes. Heaven help her, th#n ! alas! she has much 
 need of its assistance — ample need, and surely it will notHesert her. 
 
 Breathless again — and still again, as a painted horse and a painted rider, do they 
 stand. 
 
 Again he comes. He has increased his pace to a trot ; and as he nears her, the 
 trot becomes a canter. Faster —faster still he comes ; and now he sweeps by most 
 rapidly. 
 
 " A chase — a chase !" she cries. <f Let it lead me where it will, I'll join it." 
 
 She has cleared the hedge; her steed is put to a gallop ; they are on the heath — 
 the pursued and the pursuer. Surely some evidence of what was following so hard 
 upon his track had reached Gerald Clifton's mind, for his fleet horse was put to its 
 utmost pace, and, for a time, he was gaining rapidly. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 43 
 
 A kind of madness seized on May. By voice and g sture she urged that fa- 
 vourite .palfrey to a perfect fury ; the hot breath steamed from his dilated nostrils — 
 foam gathered at his mouth, and drop by drop the heavy perspiration reeked from 
 its sides ; but never did wild steed carry a wild rider with more fearful velocity, 
 over hillock and glen, or brake, bush, and brier, than did that small, favoured steed 
 carry irs fearless burden. 
 
 And now she paused again, breathless and motionless as a statue, until Gerald 
 should again reach the spot, which she knew he must pass. She felt a conviction that 
 she had distanced him, arid that, in the gloom of the evening, she had far ©ut- 
 stripped even the .headlong progress of that wild, daring steed of his, that seemed to 
 know no curb, but heedlessly to spring forward, as if inspired with the very soul of 
 its heedless ride,r. ,She could feel the palpitation of her own heart; and, to her per- 
 ception, that sounded louder than the tramp of Gerald Clifton's horse's feet, as now 
 she felt, assured thai she was in advance of his progress. 
 
 The small, fragile figure of that girl, mounted upon that slender-limbed and now 
 panting palfrey, was in clear keeping against the pale night sky ; and, as so motion- 
 less they both'stood, the appearance of the horse and its rider was strangely spectral. 
 It was but -the dim outline of both that could be seen, for, ever and anon, a darker 
 and gloomier cloud would sweep across the horizon, and then May and her steed 
 seemed both to vanish into thin air, but to rise again, like spectres, from the earth, 
 when the temporary obscuration had passed away. 
 
 Did she really wish now that Gerald Clifton should see her? It would almost 
 seem as if she did,, for still and statue-like she stood in his very path. 
 
 But he was sweeping onward, and his chief attention was directed to what sounds 
 might come upon his track behind. The thought that he was pursued had once 
 found a place in his heart ; and now the most trivial sounds that came upon the 
 night air were, to his imagination, full of danger, and the heralds of capture, and, 
 perchance, of death. 
 
 And so was it that he came upon the form of that young girl so suddenly and 
 unawares, that it appeared to him as if from the very night air around her she had 
 sprung into existence, and stood there like some warning spectre to turn him from 
 his path. The sudden movement he gave to the rein of his steed imparted terror to 
 the animal — for no living creature is so soon aware of its master's fears or hesitation 
 as the horse. Then, too, he gave a short, sharp, sudden cry of surprise, and the ' 
 animal reared upon its hinder feet, with a snort of alarm, almost throwing from his 
 seat even the skilful, daring rider that bestrode him. 
 
 May Boyes remained as motiorless as though she had determined, to the very life, 
 to enact the part which Gerald Clifton's fears assigned to her ; and yet how little did 
 she dream of personating aught unearthly. How far — very far distant from her 
 imagination was such a thought. Perhaps there was a lingering, clinging hope that 
 he might pause — that he might know her even amid that universal gloom of nature 
 — that his heart might tell him who she was, and fitly translate her errand. She 
 thought' that the most distant sound of Gerald Clifton's footsteps would to .her be a 
 charm to awaken a consciousness that he who was the fond dream of all her hopes 
 was near, and if so blessed and mysterious an influence attached her soul to his, 
 wherefore should not the fond delusion linger, too, at his heart? 
 
 It was a dream— one of those romantic dreams that such a being as May Boyes ; 
 might well be supposed to indulge in. The only sensation that Gerald Cliftoa felt 
 was one of terror. He fancied that some spectre of the past had risen to dispute his ' 
 pathway across the heath ; he fancied that, at the next moment, he should hear 
 some denunciation upon his head. Alas! had he stayed, he might have had a j 
 blessing ; but the Heaven above, that knew him unworthy of it, urged him on, and ; 
 not for one brief moment did he pause, except to battle with his steed, and to dash S 
 away the sudden gush of perspiration that broke out upon his brow, as he made a ' 
 complete circuit to avoid what he considered the spectral appearance which seemed 
 to stay his path. 
 
 Then May Boyes smote her hands. 
 
 " lie does not Jove me," she cried. " He does not love me. Just Heaven! : 
 
4.4 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 there must be a victim J God grant that I may be born to suffer, not avenge. On 
 — on — on !" 
 
 Clifton was now far distant ; terror had added speed to the flight of his horse. 
 He had plunged the spurs rowel-deep in the before sufficiently goaded animal's 
 flanks. Some half-remembered prayer of childhood had at the moment risen to his 
 lips, but soon it was changed to curses, and he seemed to wish to defy rather than 
 wish to propitiate the supernatural power which had, to his imagination, appeared to 
 warn him of his destruction. 
 
 And then again he heard his wild pursuer speeding on ; there was the sullen beat 
 of the horse's hoofs upon the heath. 
 
 " Curses !" he cried. " There are but two beings this night on Hounslow heath 
 — myself and some demon who would chase me to the gallows ! Oh, for the shel- 
 ter of the hut ! Oh, for bars and bolts to keep the grim intruder out. I shake in 
 every limb. What fiend is this that chases me across the heath?" 
 
 With lips pale and compressed— eyes preternaturally fixed and open, and the 
 damp hair hanging about his brows, did Gerald Clifton at length arrive at that thick 
 plantation, nearly in the centre of which was the hut where the highwayman so 
 short a time before had halted for change of raiment and refreshment. 
 
 Need we attempt to keep a secret our readers have already guessed ? — that the 
 knight of the road and the accomplished Gerald Clifton, the lover of the beautiful 
 May Boyes, the almost murderer of her brother, the winner of all hearts, the grace- 
 ful, the gay, the witty, and the intelligent, are — one ! 
 
 We wish not to deal in mystery. We trust not the interest of our eventful nar- 
 rative upon such a foundation. Rather would we that our readers went with us in 
 their interest in what we tell them, than in dreamy conjecture of what we keep from 
 them. How it was that talent was misapplied — how it was that the dearest results 
 of education were cast away, and how it was that an intellect of a really powerful 
 order should, in the case of Gerald Clifton, have resulted in nothing more than the 
 production of an accomplished highwayman. We must leave to those who have 
 more leisure than ourselves to search into the hidden sympathies of the human 
 mind, and to find causes for effects. 
 
 We aspire but to be the faithful chroniclers of times gone past ; we rather say 
 what people did than why they did it. We can provide the material for reflection, 
 but we cannot pause to reflect ; events hurry us on, and we will not for another mo- 
 ment forget that beautiful and enthusiastic being, who was now, as it were, trem- 
 bling between life and death, as hopes or fears predominated in her mind. 
 
 Conviction surely must have reached her now. Could she longer doubt ? — was 
 there a suspicion of her brother now unverified? — not one, if she could have suf- 
 fered her heart to obey its soberer dictates. 
 
 But yet she would see with her own eyes further evidence that Gerald Clifton's 
 was the arm which had been raised against her brother's life. She saw his form 
 disappear on the precincts of that little wood ; and, ere she was aware, she reached 
 a point where stood his panting steed tied to the overhanging limb of an aged beech, 
 while its master, on foot, was threading the intricacies of the plantation. 
 
 " Here will I pause," she said, and she said it in the strange false tone of one 
 whose heart is bursting with suppressed emotion. " Here will I pause, and wait 
 for him." 
 
 Into the gloom she rode her horse, and there, completely hidden, she paused for 
 the coming forth again of that being who might have been the blessing, but who 
 was the bane of her existence. 
 
 No heed had she of time or place, she saw nothing but the horse without its 
 rider, she thought of nothing but that very rider, and the only words she spoke 
 were, once, when the sighing wind even among the leafless trees created a not 
 ungentle murmur, that almost with an echoing answer as to sound, she said, — 
 
 *' I love him still — I love him still 1" 
 
 How long she waited she knew not ; the biting cold affected her not — she felt not 
 the keen breeze that now blew across the heath, for, as the night advanced, stern 
 winter once again seemed to have assumed his sceptre, and to have swept from off 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 45 
 
 the earth's fair surface all those gladsome indications of the coming spring, that 
 had made daylight so beautiful. 
 
 And what had now promised to become a gentle rain, descended in slow flakes, 
 mingled with sharper icy particles ; but still she waited. Ay, and until the break 
 of dawn would she have waited there, if human nature could have supported her, 
 rather than not see Gerald Clifton as he should come back again. 
 
 And now her straining ears catch the sound of some hasty footsteps, and she 
 knew that he was coming. This, indeed, was a crisis in her fate. How would he 
 come, and what appearance would he bear ? Will the idol of - her heart be changed, 
 or will he wear the self-same aspect that he wore? — momentous question. If back 
 he came the Gerald Clifton that he went, unchanged in outward seeming, she might 
 be happy yet. 
 
 But, hark ! nearer, nearer he comes, and now she hears his voice. His courage 
 is returned— the brief attack of horror he has shaken off — the courage and the daring 
 of the wine-cup is now in him. She hears his voice, she knows it is his voice ; 
 but, oh ! it is not the voice that has spoken to her in the low, soft accents of affec- 
 tion — 'tis not the voice in which seemed to her imagination divinity in every tone. 
 No, no ! no more is he the Gerald Clifton of her dreams — no more is he that pure 
 spirit — God's masterpiece — without fear, without reproach. 
 
 " God of Heaven !" she exclaimed, " I loved an angel — he has become a man." 
 
 A ribald song was coming from his lips, such a half-tipsy laugh as might have 
 graced the purlieus of St. Giles's. She heard him emphasis the coarser jests with 
 which it teemed ; and now forth he came into the dim light, by which she could 
 observe him. Oh, what a change was there ! 
 
 We have already described to our readers the dashing highwayman, the foppery 
 of his half military costume, the elaborate decoration, and the brilliant colouring of 
 his clothing^ the assumption of a desire to shine in his iniquity, and to affect its 
 being a fancy pursuit, to require an elaboration of toilet to set it off. Our readers 
 know all this, but it was new to poor May Boyes. jL* 
 
 She saw him tighten his saddle-girths, she heard him talk to the horse, an!* then 
 she saw him mount. She could not speak, but she stretched forth her arms. She 
 felt at that moment that she must for ever loathe him, or for ever love him. The 
 scales hung even, and then surely some evil spirit whispered him to make disgust 
 kick the beam. He paused a moment ere he galloped to the heath, and with one 
 of those old and well-remembered sighs, that ever seemed to come from the very 
 bottom of a heart replete with the best and noblest of the human sympathies, he 
 said, — 
 
 " Poor May Boyes, I am sorry that she loves me ; she deserves a better fate." 
 In an instant he was gone. 
 
 " Gerald, Gerald I" cried May. " Gerald Clifton, yet a moment ! turn, Gerald, 
 turn. He is gone. Oh, Heaven ! where are your friendly lightnings now ? here, 
 at least, is a head that will not shrink from the fell stroke. Gerald Clifton, Gerald 
 Clifton, J love you ! yes, I love you still." 
 
 She drooped her hond upon the neck of her steed, tears fell fast, from those sweet 
 eyes, that were proverbial through the county for their laughing joy. Her heart 
 was breaking— the night of her destiny had come. Never, never again would the 
 sun of joy illumine the best and dearest heart that ever beat in human bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SIR JOHN SURMISES. — AN ACTIVE -MINDED MAGISTRATE. 
 
 Sir John Boyes «at in great state that night in his own hall. The eccentric 
 combination of notions which he [called his mind, was uncommonly severe,' and 
 from about mid-day had been extremely dictatorial. The fact is, he had been 
 dreadfully alarmed at Ratchley's situation, but now that he had been assured by so 
 cunning a leech, that he looked upon him as a kind of Solomon in the physical 
 way, to use an expression of his own, of the certain convalescence of the youngv 
 
46 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 man, Sir John had dismissed all his fears, and continually spoke in aphorisms upon 
 the most trifling subject. 
 
 He had put on his most elaborate laced cravat, and his fingers were loaded with 
 those family rings that made so graceful a scintillation, and spread out such corus- 
 cations of light, whenever he imparted to his illustrious hand that tremulous motion 
 for which he was so celebrated. 
 
 '* Lady Boyes," he said, " upon casting my eyes around this apartment, and 
 observing that our daughter May is not present, I am irresistibly led to the conclu- 
 sion that she is a — a — in a manner of speaking, somewhere else. Let her be 
 summoned. " 
 
 And the Lady May was summoned, but she came not, and so half an hour more 
 passed away, and Sir John began to get a little fidgetty. The family rings some- 
 how did not look quite so bright, and the faultless tie of the cravat no longer fixed 
 j his gaze in the mirror opposite to him, for Sir John always looked at a mirror, and 
 ; took care to sit in such a position in the room, that he always had that opportunity. 
 Moreover, he began to perceive that Lady Boyes went in and out of the room 
 repeatedly with an anxious expression of countenance, so that the idea of there 
 | being something amiss, began gradually to develop itself .through the intellectual 
 fog which generally obscured his perception. 
 
 He heard, too, a great deal of running up and down stairs, and finally, when he 
 turned round to address an observation to Philippa, to his astonishment he found 
 that he was left completely alone. 
 
 *' What's the meaning of this?" he said; "the heir of all the Boyeses left, by 
 himself ! I never did hear of such a thing in all my life — it's monstrous. Perhaps 
 they expect me to fall back upon my own thoughts, but I can't do it ; and my un- 
 equivocal opinion is, that when a man's left alone, he has not a soul to talk to. God 
 bless my soul, who are you ?" 
 
 This exclamation arose from the fact that the door was slowly opened, and a 
 strange, rough-looking fellow made his appearance, who, immediately that he saw 
 Sir John observed him, placed his fingers on his lips, and said most mysteriously, — 
 " Hush ! don't say anything, old cock. Have you any idea where I shall find 
 any of them V* 
 
 We certainly feel quite unqualified to present to the reader anything like a lite- 
 ral picture of Sir John's face at this moment. It was so expressive of mingled 
 feelings, that if we were to describe it in any one of if s phases, we should be doing 
 an injustice to it in some other particular; but from what our readers already 
 know of that illustrious baronet, they can have but little difficulty in supposing 
 the effect so singular and so sudden an intrusion was likely to have upon him. 
 
 The idea of any one walking into his ancestral home, and unannounced getting 
 to Him, face to face, and then and there addressing him as an old cock, amounted to 
 a series of extravagant propositions which completely bewildered poor Sir John, and 
 at the same time it induced a belief that the whole framework of society was shat- 
 tered to pieces. It completely choked his utterance, so that he could do nothing for 
 some moments but glare at the visitor with something of the singular expression 
 of some great fish newly dragged from his native element into the open air. 
 
 " Mum's the word," said the man. *' Snug as poss. Eh ! is there anybody at 
 •home ? Why, what's the matter with you ?" 
 
 " Eh, eh !'" said Sir John ; « who am I V* 
 
 <: Well, T don't know, you look like a thundering fool. I want to see Sir John 
 Boyes. What sort of a fellow is he ? active, bold — eh ?" 
 " Where am 1 ?" said Sir John. 
 
 " D — n it all," said the man ; " is this a lunatic asylum ? If it is so, it's very 
 badly guarded, for the deuce a soul I met as I walked in here. But my business 
 won't bear delay — I want to see some of the family." 
 
 " I am the family," g-.isped Sir John- " What do you want here? and how came 
 you into the presence of the thirteenth baronet of this house in such a manner V ' 
 < " You !" said the man ; «' vou don't mean to say you're Sir John Boyes ?" j 
 
 « Well, 1 think I am," said Sir John. 
 
MEVVGATE. 
 
 47 
 
 «* Really, sir, I beg' your pardon ; but as I found you sitting here all by yourself, 
 and that anybody might walk in, I couldn't believe it was you. I have come all the- 
 way from London to see you. The Secretary of State — you understand " 
 
 "The Secretary of State !" exclaimed Sir John, and he immediately raised his 
 cravat. " Sir, are you a government messenger?" 
 
 " Whv, yes, in a manner of speaking, Sir John, I may be called a government 
 messenger. I'm a runner." . 
 
 " A what—a rummer, did you say V 
 
 " No ; a runner — a Bow-street runner." 
 
 " A thief-taker ?"- - 
 
 11 Precisely, whenever I can catch them. My name's Long, and I'm rather, you 
 see, long by'nature. The Secretary of State has received information that Captain 
 Hawk, the famous highwayman, had been in this district. The fact is, the Oxford 
 mail has been robbed. But there wouldn't have been much fuss about that, only 
 that there happened to be in the mail-bag some correspondence of his lordship 
 which has fallen into the hands of somebody— Heaven knows who ; at all events, 
 as it was all through Captain Hawk that the confusion arose, his lordship, after 
 swearing some tremendous oaths, has made up his mind to have him nabbed." 
 
 " Oh !" said Sir John, who was rather bewildered at the rapidity with whieh the 
 Bow-street runner spoke. 
 
 " You will, therefore, perceive," he continued, " why I'm down here. Hawk 
 never leaves a district without perpetrating some outrageous robbery by way of 
 leaving a little relic behind him. Now the probability is, that he will take an 
 opportunity of 'breaking into your house ; for, as his lordship says, the greater the 
 goose the greater the danger." 
 
 " The greater the what?" said Sir John. 
 
 " Oh, never mind that ; I want to know if Captain Hawk has been seen in the 
 vicinity?" 
 
 " I can't tell you, Mr. Strong,'' said Sir John. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my name's Long." 
 
 "D— n your name, sir, you're an impertinent fellow !" 
 
 " Very good, go on," said Long, and he gave his hands such a clap together that 
 Sir John jumped again ; " go on, go on, don't mind me." 
 
 " Confound you !" said Sir John, " if ever I met with your equal. There's my 
 son, sir, the representative that will be of the Boyeses, six feet two and a quarter 
 in pumps, and amazingly like the family, has been shot at by this very Captain 
 Hawk ; and I've no objection to offer a hundred — that is to say, I mean fifty— or 
 ten pounds, or so, to anybody who will catch him ; but I don't want to have any- 
 thing to say to you, Mr. Gong." 
 
 " D — n it, Sir John, my name's Long !" 
 
 " I don't care what your name is — get out of my house ! You may be Long 
 and Strong, and Strong and Long, and Gong too, for what I care." 
 
 " Oh, stuff, stuff, stuff," said the officer, as he threw himself into a chair ; (t don't 
 expose yourself." 
 
 " Don't do what ?" 
 
 " Now, my dear sir — now, my dear sir " 
 
 " Was ever a great Boyes so insulted ? But I'll pretty soon put an end to this ! 
 D— n it, sir, I'll have you tossed in a horsepond and clipped in a blanket J" 
 Sir John rose as he spoke, and rang the bell violently. 
 
 " There he goes again," said the officer, as if he were addiessing some third 
 person ; "just the very character I heard of him — an ass to the back-bone." 
 
 Sir John's summons to the bell was so powerful a one, that not only did he suc- 
 ceed in alarming the whole house, but he brought the rope down in his hand, and 
 there he stood, looking like a maniac, as two or three of the servants rushed into 
 the hall. 
 
 " Turn this Mr. Prong out!" said Sir John. "Kick him out! Am I to be 
 insulted in my own house? By the bones of my ancestors-— kick him out, kick 
 him out'!" 
 
43 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Well," said the officer, rising, " of all the infernal fools that ever T. met with at 
 pronouncing a fellow's name, you're about the worst. You know my name's Long, 
 well enough — L-o-n-g, stupid !" 
 
 Sir John danced in agony, exclaiming,— 
 
 " Am I to put up with this ? Is the whole family to put up with this ? Are the 
 Boyeses to be nonentities ? Is this to become a family tale, to be told to the family 
 ears V 
 
 " Oh," said Long, "you acknowledge to have some asinine appendages, do you? 
 Come now, Sir John, we'll make it all square over a bottle. I'll forgive you — per- 
 haps it's natural." 
 
 " D — n all the world L" roared Sir John ; " is this fellow to be turned out or 
 not V 
 
 There were two or three stout serving men who had come into the apartment ; 
 and now that they had really got over their first surprise at the astonishing imper- 
 tinence of the stranger, they flung themselves upon him, and lifting him up bodily, 
 they carried him from the room. 
 
 • " Thank you, thank you," said the imperturbable Mr. Long. " Now this is 
 kind — easy there, mind that corner. Bye-bye, Sir John ; turn it over in your 
 mind, and I'll look in again in an hour. As for all of you, my good fellows, you'll 
 find a jug of ale apiece at the Talbot. Heaven forbid that I should be ungrateful ; 
 and mind, never forget, whatever your master may say, that my name is Long— 
 L-o-n-g, and that 1 came about Captain Hawk, the celebrated highwayman — 
 remember that, will you ?" 
 
 He was flung down the hall steps without much ceremony, whilst Sir John sat 
 puffing like a grampus, and in*a state of mind which, as the novelists say, transcends 
 description. Never before had his dignity been so cruelly insulted ; never before 
 had anybody hinted to him a suspicion that he was not to the full as great a man 
 as he believed himself ; but now to be told plumply to his face that he was an ass — 
 to have the chances of his house being broken into first speculated upon because he 
 was the greatest goose in the county ! It was too bad, and Sir John felt certain, 
 although he wanted breath just then to say it, that some great social revolution was 
 at hand, which was probably a precursor of the end of the world. 
 
 He forgot for the moment the anxious search for May ; all his senses and all his 
 feelings were absorbed in a contemplation of the dreadful insults he had received, 
 and at length, when Lady Boyes and Philippa entered the apartment, he was so be- 
 wildered that they found him quite incapable of answering, even as rationally as 
 usual, to what might be said to him. 
 
 " Oh ! Sir John," said Lady Boyes, " we cannot find May anywhere." 
 
 " D— n Strong !» said Sir John. 
 
 "We've searched for her," said Philippa, "through the whole house. Ratchley 
 says she was with him about an hour ago, but no one has seen her since." 
 " That scoundrel Gong !" 
 " Mother, what is he talking of?" said Philippa. 
 
 " I don't know," said Lady Boyes ; " but I'm afraid his poor wits are gone." 
 
 " Poor wits," said Sir John ; " d — n it ! I wonder what next. Is my own 
 family joining that villain Strong against me ? Am I to be continually abused by 
 everybody? I'll have him smashed, pounded, and destroyed, root and branch ! — 
 Confound him, say I !" 
 
 "It is in vain," said Lady Boyes, "to appeal to your father, Philippa; it is 
 evident he knows not what he says." 
 
 " Yes, I do," said Sir John. " There's been a rascal here of the name of Gong, 
 or something of that kind, and he's been insulting me past all bounds of modera- 
 tion. I can't stand it, and I won't !" 
 
 There was a tremendous knocking at the hall door of the mansion, and in a few 
 moments a servant came into the room and said,— 
 
 " If you please, Sir John, Mr. Long's come back again. He says he's only 
 one observation to make, which he wishes you particularly to hear." 
 
 "The devil!" roared Sir John. "Knock him down! Good God Almighty! 
 
NEWGATE. 49 
 
 See page 31. 
 
 am 1 to be tormented all my life with this Long ? Don't let him into the house on 
 any acccount ; throw buckets of water over him — kill him, if you like 1" 
 
 The servant left the room, and then Sir John wiped the perspiration from his 
 brow with the end of his cravat. 
 
 " This is rather too dreadful/' he said. " I'll write to the secretary of state to- 
 morrow and claim his protection against Long. What were you saying, Lady 
 Boyes, when you came in V 
 
 " That our child May has disappeared, Sir John." 
 
 " May — May ! You don't mean May Boyes— a scion of our illustrious house 
 disappeared % — We never disappear !" 
 ^ " Alas !" said Lady Boyes, •* it is too true." 
 
 She sat down and burst, into tears, and at the moment she did so, the door of the 
 apartment opened, and May glided in. She was very pale, but with a voice of per- 
 fect composure she said, — 
 
 No. 7. 
 
50 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " What is too true, mother V 
 
 A scream of joy escaped from Lady Boyes, and she flung herself round the 
 neck of May, while Philippa clasped her sister's hands and looked all the joys she 
 felt at her return. 
 
 Poor Sir John sat and fidgetted about in the most ludicrous manner. 
 
 ■■' I don't understand what you're all about," he said. " Here's been Long, and 
 Strong, and Gong, and Prong, here ; and then you set to crying, and then May's 
 gone and May comes. I don't understand it ; and I believe I may remark, that 
 when I don't understand anything, 1 don't comprehend it." 
 
 " What is it all about ?* said May. " I very much fear that a heedless ramble 
 I took upon the heath has caused you all disquietude." 
 
 " Oh ! my child,"" »aid Lady Boyes, "how could you go out at such a time and 
 so alarm us V* 
 
 " I am very sorry, mother," said May. 
 
 "And you look pale, and worn, and ill !" said Philippa. *' Tell me, dear May, 
 has anything happened to harass you ?" 
 
 " Nothing," said May ; " all is well — very well — very well. It was careless of 
 me, at such a time, to ramble to the heath ; but now you see I'm returned, think 
 nothing of it. 1 have some letters to write, and shall be in my own room an hour 
 or more." 
 
 She smiled as she spoke, and left the room — but it was not that smile that of 
 yore made her look so beautiful. It was very sad, pitifully sad ; and none present, 
 • not even the apathetic Sir John, could fail to notice it. 
 
 " Let her be," said Lady Boyes. " Of late I have observed that these melan- 
 choly moods have seized upon her ; 'tis best to leave her to herself, for I have 
 found that she recovers more quickly and more completely." 
 
 " Very good," said Sir John ; ** but I don't see why anybody should 'be melan- 
 choly but me. Nobody has been insulted but me, and of course that makes all the 
 difference. Is the library lighted ?* 
 ! " Yes," said Lady Boyes ; " it has been for some time." 
 
 " Then I shall go there," added Sir John,. » and endeavour to quiet my nerves 
 by consulting the works of one of those greafc men of antiquity who remind me so 
 much of myself. I always feel like Julius Csesar — don't let me be disturbed unless 
 I ring." 
 
 So saying, and having recovered a good deal of his solemn gravity, Sir John rose, 
 and took a small lamp from a side table ; but, before he could reach the door of the 
 apartment, it was opened again, and one of the domestics stood in a very hesitating 
 { manner upon the threshold. 
 
 [I "I beg, your pardon, Sir John," he said, and then he paused. 
 I " What is' it ?" said S ; r John. " Speak freely, my man — what is it?" 
 ; " Why, Sir John, I hope you won't be offended with me — but— but — — " 
 \ t£ Will you have the goodness to explain your errand? Is the representative of 
 one of the oldest baronetcies in this country to be kept waiting your leisure V ' 
 
 " Certainly not, Sir John. I only beg your paidon ; but since your worship 
 gives me leave to speak, I've come to say that Mr. Long has come again, and he 
 ,says — — " 
 
 " Fire and fury !" said Sir John ; " when is this Long persecution to end ? Am 
 I to be bull-baited here by a Long ? Am I a badger — that's what I ask you all— 
 ! am I badger, Lady Boyes — do you take me for a badger ?" 
 
 "Beg pardon, Sir John," said the servant ; "I thought you'd be angry, sir, but 
 really, sir, Mr. Long is so civil, and such a gentlemanly man, that we hardly 
 knew him again. Of course, Sir John, we kept him outside till your pleasure was 
 known." 
 
 "A thousand devils!" said Sir John. 41 Hang his civility! souse him with 
 buckets of water, and then thrash him off the premises ! — I'll hold you harmless of 
 the consequence." 
 
 " Yes, Sir John, if it's your pleasure ; but he says he comes from the secretary 
 of state." 
 
51 
 
 $ I know it, the hardened ruffian ! D — n the secretary of state and him too I 
 — do as I bid you, or I'll turn every man Jfick of you out of the house !" 
 
 The servant went his way, and from the general confusion which in the course 
 of five minutes ensued, it may well be presumed that Sir John's instructions were 
 amply carried out, and that the unfortunate Long at length met with a due 
 reward for his impertinence. Somehow or another he seemed rather surprised 
 when he was soused with buckets of water, and well cudgelled to boot. lie 
 protested that his name was " Long, but the servants said they knew it, and then 
 when he said that he came from the secretary of state about Captain Hawk, 
 they told him that they knew that too, but that it was Sir John's orders, so that 
 Long was effectually silenced, as well as effectually beaten, and the last any of 
 the establishment saw of him was, his crawling like a half drowned rat from the 
 estate. 
 
 Sir John was told all this, and he felt profoundly satisfied ; Long was punished, 
 and so his wounded dignity was appeased. He went into his library almost with 
 a smile. 
 
 Such folks as Sir John Boyes have always a sufficient fund of personal vanity 
 to draw upon under any emergency, and, therefore, it was that he so easily got 
 over the effects of the highly injurious expressions used by that impertinent Long 
 when talking of his, Sir John's, mental endowments. 
 
 He sat down quite in a comparatively amiable frame of mind, and it so 
 happened that he sat directly opposite to one of the long windows, stretching 
 from the roof to the floor, and which opened doorlike into that identical terrace 
 where the beautiful May Boyes had, at an earlier hour of the evening, held that 
 enthusiastic discourse which we have recorded with Gerald Clifton. 
 
 He reached a volume from one of the shelves around him, and commenced 
 reading, fancying that he fully understood the author's meaning, looking exceed- 
 ingly pompous the while, and occasionally tapping the front of his forehead, as 
 if to give a hint to any part of his intellectual organisation which might be 
 slumbering, that he fully expected it to be up, and at work. 
 
 "Ah!" he exclaimed, "that is precisely my opinion. It is an astonishing 
 fact how, from age to age, and from period to period, when great minds commence 
 a course of — of rational thought, how they continually go on, in a manner of 
 speaking — that is to say, from age to age, and from period to period." 
 
 Sir John looked up at the ceiling, as if he had uttered something profound % 
 but he was soon recalled from this formidable metaphysical flight by a noise at 
 the window opposite to which he sat. Sir John's mouth opened to an alarming 
 width, and so did his eyes, as one half of the window swung gently into the room 
 upon its hinges, and a figure appeared, such as he had never seen before, but of 
 which common report had frequently given him rather an accurate opinion. 
 There was the scarlet coat, trimmed wfth rich lace, the costly cravat, the riding- 
 boots, the hat and leather, looped with a diamond, all the insignia complete of 
 no less a personage than the celebrated Captain Hawk, the highwayman. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir John Boyes," said this apparition, " but I've left my 
 watch at home ; can you lend me yours ?* 
 
 Sir John could not speak. The impudence of Long was nothing to this, and 
 then, before he uttered a word, the highwayman stepped lightly into the room, 
 and taking up Sir John's watch, which lay by the book beside him, he held it 
 close to its owner's face, saying, — 
 
 " You will remember on your oath, that it is half-past ten.* 
 
 A half mask was on this mysterious visitor's face, and the voice was evidently 
 an assumed one ; then, before Sir John could at all recover sufficiently to do more 
 than, with one vacant lGok at the watch, see that it was half-past ten, the high- 
 wayman had glided away, and closed the window again, leaving all as profoundly 
 still as before, so that Sir John Boyes, if he had chosen it, might have gone on 
 being as philosophical as he pleased, the only alteration in circumstances being 
 the abstraction of his watch. 
 
 So utterly astonished was he, that after the highwayman was gone, he began 
 
52 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 pushing his chair backwards from the window until he caught the hind legs of it 
 in a ruck of the carpet, when over he went, and there we shall leave him lying 
 for some time, while we again take up our station on the desolate heath, and 
 listen to the sobs of the beautiful May Boyes, as the tear drops fell like rain from 
 those sweet eyes which surely were marred by destiny, or they would ever have 
 beamed with serenity and joy. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 Vain would be the task to attempt to describe fully the state of feeling in 
 which May Boyes was left when assurance become doubly sure that he to whom 
 she had given her heart's best affections was not that which he assumed to be, 
 and which her more than partial fondness had pictured him. 
 
 Our readers must for themselves depict to their own imaginations the desolation 
 of spirit which swept over that young and beautiful being, and if, as we hope, 
 those who have besought to beguile an hour by the perusal of these pages, have 
 gone with us in an appreciation of the excellence of such a character as May 
 Boyes, there will be no difficulty in conceiving how fearful a void must have been 
 left in such a bosom by the occurrence of the last few hours. 
 
 We do not hold her up to human nature as a model of discretion, and worldly 
 wisdom ; all we seek to paint her is as a being to be loved, and one whose very 
 foibles look so like excellencies, and lean so much to virtue, that we love her 
 not the less that she is human enough to have some faults. 
 
 For some moments she remained in the attitude which we have depicted, and 
 the all- searching eye of Heaven alone could at such a moment see the world of 
 emotions which found a place in her imagination. At' length she spoke, and as 
 if the mind had exerted so much power over the physical frame as to alter the 
 very voice, the tones in which she spoke were not those which any one who 
 knew her in her happiness would have recognised as hers ; but in a strong and 
 altered manner she thus gave utterance to the aspirations of her deep afflictions. 
 
 *' 'Tis past — there is no struggle now — all is over — the romance of life has fled 
 for ever, and a cold reality, sterner far than ever man pictured, has usurped its 
 place ! and what now is life to me ? Can I longer joy in the sweet sunshine, or 
 think the green earth beautiful ? No ! I cannot live for love, but I can die for 
 devotion ! Gerald Clifton, it is not by reproach that I will wring your soul, but 
 by a contrary course from that which pride might dictate. I shall hope that 
 even you may feel your triumph too complete. There shall be a sacrifice, and 
 there shall be an opportunity of redemption V 
 
 She raised her head from the inclined posture which it assumed, and gazed 
 around her then lowly she bent into an attitude of listening, and she heard the 
 sound of his horse's hoofs in a particular direction. 
 
 My soul tells me/' she exclaimed, "that to-night will be some crisis in Gerald 
 Clifton's fate ! He is bent upon some deed, which, perchance, to his imagination, 
 paints itself in glowing colours. Oh ! if but for one moment I could make him 
 listen ! and' if Heaven would gift me with the persuasive eloquence to turn him 
 from this path of life, methink8 that I could die content !" 
 
 She urged her steed some distance from the margin Jof the wood, and scarcely 
 had she emerged fully upon the open heath, when some one hailed her, and with 
 a familiarity which showed that, seeing her at such an hour, and unattended, he 
 guessed not her real social position, he cried, — 
 
 " Hilloa ! my lass, can you tell me which is Sir John Boyes' mansion ?" 
 
 u It is the first house you come to," said May, " by pursuing the bridle path 
 you are on." 
 
 " Thanks. I wonder that you venture abroad alone at such a time !" 
 ** Wherefore ?" 
 
 " Are you not aware that the celebrated highwayman, Captain Hawk, is in the 
 
NEWGATE. 53 
 
 district, and that it is well known that he has sworn to stop and rob Judge Holme 
 on his way from the assizes V* 
 " Arid will he keep his word ?" said May. 
 
 " I think not ; but I know he'll try it. Get home, my lass, as quick as you 
 can. There's likely to be rough work on Hounslow Heath to-night." 
 " I thank you," said May. 
 
 The man passed on, and at the moment she heard the neighbouring clock 
 strike the hour of ten. 
 
 She counted carefully the strokes, and then muttered to herself, in a low, 
 strange tone, — 
 
 " Ten o'clock. Let me consider ; he has gone to the commission of that 
 crime which surely Heaven in its own way has given me notice of. Ten o'clock ! 
 Can I save him ? Can I have now revenge for his duplicity which, if he be 
 human, shall touch him to the quick ? I can, I can ! Home, home, home !" 
 
 She urged her palfrey again to its speed, and in a short time reached the Hall. 
 Alighting from the steed, she tied it to the garden gate, as it was called, a small 
 private entrance, of which the actual members of the family alone availed them- 
 selves. Then she entered the house, with that strange appearance of firmness 
 and self-possession which sometimes shows itself when the feelings are wrought 
 up to the very highest pitch. With many minds under such circumstances there 
 must be a furious storm or an absolute calm ; it was the latter with May Boyes, 
 but she was as pale as a statue, her lips were colourlous, and her features wore 
 a fixed and rigid aspect. 
 
 Some twenty minutes might have elapsed when, from that same garden gate, 
 again there emerged a figure, which, had Gerald Clifton seen it, would have made 
 Gerald Clifton think he saw himself, so perfect was it in imitation of him when 
 in his real character of the bold, daring knight of the road. There was that 
 scarlet coat, with its meretricious profusion of lace, that rich cravat, the diamond 
 looped hat, the ostentatious display of finery to catch the vulgar eye — surely it 
 must be he. 
 
 And yet a different route he took across that heath ; and now, upon a second 
 glance, we shall perceive a slimness and a symmetry about the figure that belongs 
 not to the stronger sex. Thought crowds on thought ; — that valise which had 
 been removed from Clifton's chamber surely has provided the devoted May the 
 means of assuming outwardly an aspect so foreign to the mind within. 
 
 His figure was not the tallest or the most robust for that of a man ; hers was 
 about the middle height of woman. She looked in outward seeming all that he 
 could look, for a half mask hid that face of sweet intelligence and beauty, which 
 else had made the glaring costume so incongruous. 
 
 She does not mount her steed, but passes onward through the grounds of the 
 old Hall by old familiar paths. The terrace steps are reached, and once again she 
 stands upon the spot where she had plighted such sweet vows with that idol of 
 her heart, now rudely torn from its shrine, but still so dear to her. He had 
 fallen, fallen from his high estate in her pure thoughts, but with him she was 
 content to fall likewise. 
 
 A light beamed from the windows of the library ; she reaches one of them, and 
 looking into that spacious room, it is her father whom she sees, and, for a mo- 
 ment, her face was as a tablet of unutterable thoughts. We know what followed. 
 It was May Boyes, the beautiful and gifted, who so much astonished Sir John, 
 and who robbed him, under his own roof, of his ancestral watch, and left him 
 speechless with amazement. 
 
 Then with a light step she again proceeds the way she came, and ere five 
 minutes more have elapsed, she is mounted and on the heath. For a moment she 
 pauses, as if considering her route, and then turning her horse's head directly 
 away from the path she was certain Gerald Clifton* had taken, she swept onwards 
 at a speed which, considering the nature of the ground and the darkness of the 
 night, was most terrific. *C 
 
 Mansion after mansion was passed, a/Pd she paused not. The inclemency of 
 
54 NEWGATE. 
 
 the weather kept all but those whom sheer necessity forced abroad from their 
 homes, and after four or five miles of hard riding, she first met a heavy waggon 
 slowly making its sleepy progress along the country road. 
 
 As if with all the speed of a preconcerted design, she rode forward and arrested 
 the progress of the lumbering vehicle, that is to say, she stopped the half asleep 
 leading horse, and then all the rest tumbled one against the other, and stopped 
 in regular succession, till the whole concern was at a standstill, when, the jingling 
 of the bells" naving ceased, they all fell asleep at once, to the dismay of the 
 waggoner, who saw not the obstruction in front. 
 
 It must have been by the force of habit that he cried " whoa !*' for there was 
 no occasion for it, or perhaps he could not himself think of stopping in his lazy, 
 lounging march without the use of that conventional order to stand still. Certain 
 it is that he did then come to a halt, and give a loud crack with his whip ; but 
 the acquired momentum of the team and the waggon was gone, and such a 
 machine was not to be set in motion again quite so easily. 
 
 He took a lantern which hung suspended from the shaft, and walked along the 
 whole eight horses to see what was the matter, a proceeding which finally 
 brought him tfp to May Boyes, who had yet not spoken. 
 
 The waggoner held the lantern so as to throw a full light upon her figure, and 
 then, with an assumed carelessness of tone, she said, — 
 
 " Have you anybody worth robbing in the waggon ?" 
 
 This was a cooi piece of effrontery which so astonished the man that he only 
 stared the more, but made no reply. 
 " Can you not speak V* added May. 
 
 Then he gathered courage, and in a broad provincial dialect, which we should 
 despair of putting upon paper, he said, — 
 
 " This be the fast fly to Uxbridge and Kingston ; there's two old women and 
 one young one. Who are you P" 
 
 " Captain Hawk, the highwayman. What's the time, my friend ?" 
 
 " It wanted a minute of eleven, at last 'pike. Take our throats, but don't cut 
 our money, good sir. The Lord have mercy upon us ! I've heard of you." 
 
 He flopped down upon his knees in the road, and began bellowing like some 
 great, lubberly schoolboy. May Boyes gave the rein to the palfrey, and like ah 
 arrow from bow she shot past him and was gone. 
 
 ** On, on, on," was all she said, as she dashed from before her face some of 
 the stray ringlets from her beautiful hair that escaped from beneath the confine- 
 ment of her hat. " On, on, my steed, to London ; I will save him yet, and he 
 shall feel that it is to her whom he has deceived that he owes redemption. I 
 will die yet to prove to him the sincerity of my affection, which should have been 
 a blessing, but has become a theme for despair." 
 
 By voice and gesture she still urged that steed beyond its ordinary powers, and j 
 soon the huge metropolis— even then huge, comparatively with the villages that 
 studded its suburbs, but many of which now form integral portions of it — loomed 
 upbn her sight. 
 
 The redundancy of vegetation vanished, intervals without houses became less 
 and less frequent, and the roads began to be dimly and duskily lighted by the j 
 old, inefficient lamps, which cast about as much radiance round them as the 
 faint halo of a giow-Worm in a mist. 
 
 ' She passed the royal abode at Kensington, and Tyburn gate, then in all its 
 glory and all its celebrity, was close at hand. But still she slackened not her 
 speed ; for a moment it occurred to her that she was penniless, aad that should 
 she be stopped at that gate she must retrace her steps. Two horsemen seemed 
 to be taking change of the toll-keeper, who, shading his eyes with his hands 
 from the glare ot light which came from a lantern with a strong reflector that 
 was placed over the door of the toll-house, remarked, — 
 
 " There's somebody coming in a hurry, at all events. Bob, look out; close the ! 
 gate, it's a bilk. No, no, by all that's good; d — n it, it's Captain Hawk. 
 Hurrah I hurrah ! there he goes ; there's the fellow for my money. Ah ! lacfcs- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 a-daisey, if I was only him ; dear, dear. Gentlemen, that's Captain Hawk, the 
 highwayman. Bless yer, I knpws him, I never takes no toll of him. Oh, he's 
 an out-and-outer ; he'll be a matter of history, he will ; there he goes. I tells 
 you what, gentlemen, if you, and me, and the blessed gate, and ever so many 
 more obstructibles had been' all in the way, d — d if he'd have stopped— not he ; 
 he's a rum 'un." 
 
 The long straggling line of Oxford-street was half traversed, and then May 
 Boyes drew up at what was then a little, low change house, with a roof half of 
 thatch and half of broken tile ; the door was, ingeniously contrived that every 
 one had to stoop at entrance, and there was a step so ingeniously placed that if 
 a stranger failed to fall over it, and measure his length on the sanded floor, he 
 might well cry out, a miracle. The sign was that of the Goat in Boots. It was 
 a well-known house, and stretched far away backward, containing numberless 
 low- roofed and odd- fashioned rooms, such an would take a full month of resi- 
 dence in the place to become acquainted with. 
 
 There were some loungers at the door, from whence issued hut a faint stream of 
 light, that rendered objects but puzzlingly distinct. 
 
 There was a visible sensation among all present when May Boyes drew up close 
 to the kerb. 
 
 " The captain, by jingo !" cried a man. 
 
 " Wine," said May ; " wine !" 
 
 There was a rush into the house to see which should obey the order first"; and in 
 less time than it would seem possible to do so, a very fat man, with a bald, shiny 
 head, rushed out with a brimming cup of some ruddy -looking liquid in his hand. 
 
 " Here you are, captain— here you are. Lord love us, the sight of you's good for 
 sore eyes. Why, let me see, it's a matter of one — two — three " 
 
 May Boyes was fearfully exhausted, and she drank a drop out of the wine-cup— 
 the residue she threw, accompanied by the cup itself, at the landlord's head, and 
 then, without another word, she spurred onwards. 
 
 " Ah ! that's like him,'' said the fat landlord, « for all the world. I knew he'd 
 do that. Never mind — who cares? — he's the best customer that ever crossed the 
 threshold of the Goat in Boots. He knows the way to do business ; he flings a 
 full purse, now and then, into the door, and he says, says he, 6 Landlord, keep score, 
 and be d d to you, till that's gone.' * 
 
 "Enough— enough !" said May, in low, plaintive accents, when she was out of 
 sight of that thieves' house — which, in the inefficiently lighted state of the streets at 
 that period, she might very soon be — '* enough ; and now for home again." 
 
 She turned her horse's head up a narrow thoroughfare to the left, and then, mak- 
 ing a large detour, she come out somewhere beyond the village of Bayswater ; and 
 still, with her face wearing that marble-like expression, she forced the horse to gaJlop 
 onwards along the tract she had so recently passed, until once more the home of her 
 race — the ancient halls, within which she had first drawn the breath of life — rose 
 before her ; and more like an automaton than a living, sentient being, she paused 
 again at that garden-gate, whence, so short a time before, she had emerged to take 
 her nearly twenty miles in so incredibly short a space of time. 
 
 She dismounted, and tottered to the gate ; she spoke kindly to the horse, but the 
 animal heeded not the well-known call. It had done its work ; a shudder pervaded 
 its frame, and it fell dead at her feet. 
 
 May clasped her hands, and seemed on the point of uttering some frantic ex- 
 clamation of grief ; but she suddenly checked herself; and, in a deep, sepulchral 
 voice, she whispered, — 
 
 " Be it so. One by one, and my turn next. I have saved you, Gerald Clifton 
 — I have saved you V' 
 
 Then, like one walking in a dream, she sought her chamber. Along the dim and 
 dusky passages, she crept up the mansion staircase, and along the echoing cor- 
 ridors. 
 
 She met no one; but, like some perturbed spirit, glided to that sweetly-adorned 
 apartment, where she had passed so many happy hours of girlish joy. She's safe ! 
 
56 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 — the door is closed — the key turned in the lock. She staggers to the bed, with a 
 half shriek pronounces the name of Gerald Clifton, and then she falls, alike insen- 
 sible of joy and sorrow. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE MURDER ON THE HEATH. 
 
 The mists of night, like a routed army, had disappeared before the marshalled 
 hosts, which attended upon the sweet sunshine. Once again stern winter seemed, 
 shivering, to have crept into some icy cave, leaving the day to the influence of kind- 
 lier spirits — sweet precursors of the dear delights of summer, who wooed the soft 
 west wind once more to play gratefully upon the brows of all who looked with hope 
 upon that smiling morn. 
 
 The streams again ran free, murmuring their sweet music to the upper air ; moist 
 exhalations hung on every bough, and those free denizens of nature, the forest birds, 
 lifted up to heaven many a song of mirth to think that the dear sunshine once had 
 come again. 
 
 It was a soft and lustrous morn ; the damp freshness of the invigorating air lent 
 life and energy to all things animate, awaking once again a hope that the stern sea - 
 son had, for a time, bidden adieu to the young springtime, and no longer, like some 
 lusty warrior, thought it great to do unequal battle with the lithesome young anta- 
 gonist. 
 
 .There was breakfast jn the Hall — such a breakfast as puts to sliame the puny deli- 
 cacies of the modern repast of that name. Flagons of old ale, hissing from the 
 cask, and bearing on their surface a mantling cream, were side by side, with sub- 
 stantialities such as are now undreamt of. 
 
 The rich paraphernalia of the tea equipage was unknown at Boyes's Hall, where 
 it had been the pride and delight of Sir John, during his ownership of the family 
 estates, to ape the good living of his ancestors, if he could not come up to them in 
 his intellectual endowments. 
 
 And the whole family breakfasted together at what was considered a very re- 
 spectably late hour, namely, eight o'clock. Such a man as Sir John Boyes, in the 
 present day, would, with his views and perceptions engrafted upon modern fashion, 
 have shrunk to show himself at so plebeian an hour. 
 
 About a hundred years ago we were not so refined a race ; and those who had 
 escaped the primeval curse of earning their bread by the sweat of their brows, did 
 not at all consider it necessary to turn night into day, for the purpose of thoroughly 
 establishing such a fact. 
 
 Sir John was always very great at breakfast-time, and uncommonly fresh and vi- 
 gorous. " The mind,""as he himself frequently expressed it — " the mind, when it 
 hs resting, tastes of repose, and heirs of illustrious houses rise in the morning, when 
 they get up with a kind of a — a — precisely.*' 
 
 And as this was an opinion of Sir John's, and one, too, uttered at his own table, 
 it would be extremely unpolite to quarrel with it, or to hint at the possibility of it 
 being a whit more intelligible. 
 
 Still, however, upon this particular morning, notwithstanding the mental freshness, 
 vigour, and serenity which might be supposed to result from his illustrious slumbers, 
 the circumstances of the over night would most uncomfortably intrude themselves 
 between him and his ale, his haunch of venison, his pasties, and, more than all, his 
 personal appreciation of himself. 
 
 Sir John was now confidential upon the point ; and, therefore, we cannot say how 
 long he lay upon his back in the library, after being so coolly robbed of the ancestral 
 timekeeper. Certain it is, however, that when he did resume a perpendicular posi- 
 tion, he remained some time in an attitude which fully indicated that some unusually 
 elaborate effort of cunning was developing itself in the chambers of his brain. 
 
 The attitude was that expressive one during which the fore finger is placed upon 
 the side of the nose, whilst the eye which answers to that side of the face occasion- 
 ally executes a wink at nothing. We are told that a shake of the head from Lord 
 
 i 
 
NEWGATE. 57 
 
 Burleigh meant a great deal ; and so, when a man like Sir John 'Bpyes winks and 
 looks so amazingly cunning, we may, perhaps, be excused for almost expecting in a 
 short time to see the Thames in a blaze. 
 
 Assuming that privilege, which we certainly have, of listening to everybody, we 
 shall take the liberty of overhearing the profoundly sagacious remarks of Sir John 
 
 See page 51. 
 
 concerning the untoward event which made him dependent upon an ancestral clock, 
 in the hall, instead of an ancestral watch in his pocket, to know what the time of 
 day was. 
 
 The idea of being robbed at all, and of his watch, too, wa§ most certainly gall 
 itself, and for that robbery to be committed under his own roof, nay, under his own 
 nose, implied certainly an unlimited quantity of wormwood added to the gall ; there- 
 fore was it that Sir John set the rather eccentric piece of machinery which he called 
 his mind in motion, for the purpose of getting out of the dilemma in some more 
 dignified way than by a candid confession of the fact that a thief had walked in at 
 
 ■ : SftXtfisEBmi 
 
 No. 8. 
 
58 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 his window, asked him what a clock it was, and pocketed his watch, without so 
 much as a word of remonstrance from him, the great representative of all the Boyes. 
 
 Alas ! poor Sir John. Heaven help you in the concoction of a plot, for, without 
 some extraneous aid, we have terrible suspicions that you may go on thinking for an 
 unlimited period of time without taking anything by the motion. 
 
 But Sir John himself, notwithstanding the prevailing opinion of every one else, 
 could not be very well expected to become impressed with an opinion of his own 
 want of capacity to get up something stunning in the way of an excuse for the 
 absence of his watch ; so that after a considerable time spent in doubts and hesita- 
 tions, he had thoroughly made up his mind to say, that for the first time in human 
 remembrance, something had gone wrong in the internal economy of his time- 
 keeper, and that he had sent it to London to be repaired, but never expected to see 
 it again, inasmuch as, with a too generous confidence in human nature, he had 
 intrusted it to one of the most decided rogues in existence. 
 
 Who that rogue was, moreover, he intended to decline stating, for fear he should 
 be thought censorious, so that he fully considered that, take the thing all in all, he 
 was getting out of the affair as nicely and pleasantly as any one could expect. 
 
 Indeed, so admirable did he consider this device, that it almost reconciled him 
 to its loss, and he considered that the skilful and elaborate manner in which he 
 was getting out of the scrape, might fairly be pitted against the want of nerve he 
 had exhibited when the daring highwayman so very unexpectedly made his appear- 
 ance before him. 
 
 It was at this very breakfast time, on the following morning, that. Sir John had 
 determined to carry out this little piece of domestic duplicity ; but some how or 
 another, in the most extraordinary manner, nobody would give him the least oppor- 
 tunity of doing so, and he rather "dreaded plunging into the matter in such a way as 
 to make it amount to nothing. 
 
 In vain he angled for a question as to the time ; nobody seemed to care at all 
 what o'clock it was, or if they did, they satisfied themselves quietly in some other 
 way, so that at last, when the morning meal was nearly completed, and in a few 
 moments Sir John knew the family would be dispersed throughout the house, a 
 feeling of desperation came over him, and by way of quelling all suspicion, he gave 
 one of the most eccentric and singular laughs that could be imagined, and then, 
 having thus attracted all eyes, he with great cleverness, said, — 
 
 <* It may appear to you all extremely improbable, when you come to consider the 
 intellectual and fundamental nature of my mental organization, what I am going 
 simply to state, but it carries a truth upon the face of it, so let nobody doubt it, or 
 think for a moment that it is not just the faet. Ha ! ha ! something's gone wrong 
 with my watch." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Lady Boyes. <c I'm not surprised; it never went well." 
 <l And now it's gone altogether," said Sir John, with a grim look. 
 "Gone, Sir John !" said Lady Boyes. 
 
 rc Yes, my lady ; I have intrusted it to a skilful artizan, who has promised to 
 amend its irregularities. He has gone to London, and it's extremely droll, but I 
 don't expect it to come back again, and I believe I may say, as a general thing, 
 that what I don't expect. I don't anticipate, and, consequently, if it comes to pass I 
 ain't surprised, and if it don't it don't astonish me. So you understand, all of you, 
 it's no use your asking me what the time is." 
 
 " But goodness gracious, Sir John," said Lady Boyes, "you've surely not given 
 that handsome watch into the care of a stranger — an article, too, of such taste and 
 value, and such skilful workmanship, though it was a little out of order. I declare 
 it was quite a curiosity ; to think that the works could be got into such a space ; I 
 don't think it measured above six inches across it, and was not a bit thicker than a 
 toilet pincushion." 
 
 " My lady, my lady," said Sir John, " drop it." 
 
 " Drop the watch, Sir John t* 
 
 This was a happy suggestion ; Sir John gave himself a gracious smile, and then 
 atfcded, — 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 " The fact is, I dropped it, my lady — that put it out of order. It's gone to 
 London, and that's all I know about it, and all I shall ; the individual who has it, I 
 am afraid, will be dilatory in returning it ; but you all perceive that the affair is 
 extremely simple, and that it is, in fact, just as I tell you, and that there's nothing 
 at all to conceal. It is by no means — quite the other way — don't think so, for a 
 moment ; but allow me to remark, that what I have stated is a fact." 
 
 " No one, Sir John, dreams of doubting it," said Lady Boyes. 
 
 " They'd better not," said Sir John. " When was I ever doubted? — I believe 
 never ; and when such a thing does occur, the institutions of this country will be in 
 an extremely ticklish position. As is my highly intellectual custom, I'm now going 
 to converse with ancient authors for an hour ; do not let me be interrupted. When 
 I'm thinking, you may always assume that I am engaged in thought. You know, 
 my dear Lady Boyes, that when I was anticipating being called to the councils ef 
 the king, I was compelled to adopt the somewhat novel expedient of sticking a 
 green wafer on the extremity of my nose when my thoughts were of too abstruse a 
 character to be intruded upon by any of the common details of every day life ; 1 
 discontinued that wafer when jealousies of superior ability prevented his majesty 
 from requesting me to form a ministry ; but if I am interrupted during my converse 
 with the ancient authors, I shall be compelled to again append a green wafer to my 
 nose, at even the personal inconvenience of squinting, which you may recollect it 
 gave rise to on the last occasion." 
 
 Sir John rose as he spoke, and walked gracefully from the room, occupying an 
 amazing space, and sending the full skirts of his coat with a sway, first to the one 
 side and then to the other, as he proceeded in a style of progression peculiar to 
 himself whenever he was on the happiest* terms with what he called his intellectual 
 organisation. 
 
 " I believe," he said, as he rubbed his hands together, " I have managed that 
 matter with my usual exquisite tact, and that I have accounted for the loss of my 
 ancestral watch in a manner which will procure me sympathy and reputation, in- 
 stead of a smile of astonishment that I should have been robbed by any single 
 individual." 
 
 He walked into the library with a solemn movement, adjusting his cravat as he 
 went. He smiled benignly in the glass, and made a bow to his own reflected figure 
 in it, then sinking into a luxurious easy chair, he remarked, — 
 
 " I am rather inclined to be of opinion, that the present representative of the 
 great Boyes, is a remarkable individual." 
 
 He then looked at the calves of his legs complacently, and smiled, — 
 
 " I managed that affair of the watch amazingly well," he added, after a pause. 
 " Tact, tact, tact — what a remarkable and wonderful thing is tact — ha ! who could 
 have done it better?" 
 
 He rose, and paced the long apartment, with his hands clasped behind his back, 
 and with such an ineffable look of self-satisfaction upon his face, that it was quite 
 delightful to see him. 
 
 Turning, then, at the end of his long march, when he had got to the further end 
 of the room, he came up again towards the ancient fire-place with a light and airy 
 footstep, and then he stopped abruptly, and his jaw fell, for exactly opposite to his 
 nose, above the chimney-piece, was the ancestral watch hanging on an ancestral 
 hook where it had been wont to dangle time out of mind, while Sir John held com- 
 munion with the ancient authors. 
 
 Poor Sir John ! his face was the finest exhibition of bewilderment and dismay 
 that any one could imagine. He retreated back a few steps, and then advanced, 
 and then he retreated again, and then he rubbed his eyes and looked the picture of 
 the most intense astonishment. 
 
 «< My — my— ancestral watch I" he gasped ; and, in the silence of the apartment, 
 he heard the sonorous tick, tick, of the unwieldy machine. " What shall I do now ? 
 — here's a circumstantial circumstance ! How came it here — how came it to go, 
 i and how went it to come ? Gracious Providence ! I don't know what to think. 
 There's some more tact wanted now— God bless me, what shall I do V 
 
00 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 He staggered into the great chair, and there he commenced patting his forehead 
 in the vain hope by so doing of awaking &ome briJliant suggestion which would 
 get him out of the dreadful fix in which he found himself. 
 
 " Oh, why was I so precipitate ?" he said. " If I had but found it before I lost 
 it ; or, after finding that 1 had lost it, if I'd only thought, now, with my usual 
 tact, of losing it, then the finding it would have been all right ; but now, here I am, 
 the victim of an ancestral watch, and its very ticking will proclaim the untruth I 
 have uttered, which is equivalent to a mechanical means of giving me the lie. Oh ! 
 if I had thought for a moment that there were wheels within wheels. What shall 
 I do ? that's the question." 
 
 Sir John resorted to all the attitudes suggestive of profound thought, that he had 
 ever seen, read, or heard of ; but it was of no use — there was the watch, a damning 
 evidence of the fact that it had not gone to London, and that he had invented the 
 tale of its being intrusted to the cunning artizan, with the defective perception of 
 meum and tuum. 
 
 (t You wretch V he apostrophised the watch ; " you ancestral mortification. 
 You — no, no. What an idea — glorious ! I wonder I didn't think of that before 
 now ; but great men never come to hasty conclusions. We take a long while to 
 think, but when we do decide, it is a decision rather. I'll hide it. Ha ! ha ! a good 
 idea, a capital mental suggestion of the mind. One of those refulgences of thought 
 which, in a manner of speaking, are of a kind — of — of — yes. I'll hide it, and 
 nobody shall know what the time of day is from my ancestral watch again, till 
 some of these days — ha ! ha ! — I'll produce it, and say, [that dread of me, and of 
 my distinguished position in society, has compelled the ordinarily dishonest watch- 
 maker to bring it back. Oh ! a capital idea — there's tact." 
 
 At this moment the door of the library was flung open with such irreverent haste 
 as it had never been opened before, and one of the servants made such a rush in, 
 that he came within an inch of Sir John's very nose, before he could stop himself. 
 
 " Oh-o-o~o- o-o-o !" 
 
 " Murder ! what do you want here ? hilloa!" cried Sir John. (t D — n it — come, 
 come, keep off. My watch ain't hanging over the maiitel-shelf — there's tact." 
 
 He had placed his back against the watch, and putting up one of his arms behind 
 him, he took it off the hook, but somehow or another it unfortunately slipped 
 through his fingers, and fell with a terrible crash on to the marble hearth. * 
 
 " Oh-o-o-o-o-o-o I" said the servant, " such a smash. Oh ! Sir John." 
 
 " Villain ! it's all through you," said his master. 
 
 « Me, Sir John % I didn't kill him." 
 
 " Kill him !" 
 
 " Yes, Sir John, that's what I come to tell you. Oh ! such a spectacle." 
 u What do you mean % What's a spectacle V 
 
 " My hair stood a-hend, and the blood crept jingle-jingle, from the crown of my 
 foot to the soul of my head. Oh ! Sir John, excuse haste — somebody's done it." 
 
 " Done what, you wretched character ? How dare you come here and scratch 
 my ancestral chronometer, and then say, somebody's done it V 
 
 " I can't explain. Jervis found him, and all the world and his wife's coming to 
 you, Sir John." 
 
 " What next?" said Sir John. " Here's a world. There'll be more tact wanted 
 now." 
 
 Through the open library door now came two or three persons, among whom were 
 Lady Boyes and Sir John's private secretary, a youth more learned than his master, 
 and who immediately said, — 
 
 " Sir John, there's been a dreadful murder on the heath — a murder which will 
 live in the recollections of men for many a day. Judge Holme is murdered — his 
 dead body was found beneath the wheels of his own carriage, from which the horses 
 had escaped, and farther on, in a ditch by the road-side, lay his coachman, badly 
 wounded." 
 
 " Judge Holme murdered ! one of the judges of assize V* 
 
 " Yes, Sir John, and this house being the nearest, his body now lies below." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 61 
 
 " Good God ! why didn't, they take it to the Talbot ? here's a perplexity. I 
 shall have to go to the secretary of state. Who has done this ?" 
 
 * The notorious Captain Hawk, Sir John, the highwayman, if any one. Who 
 will sleep safe in their beds after this V 
 
 " It will require a wonderful deal of tact," said Sir John. " Have they caught 
 
 " We know nothing but of the finding of the dead body." 
 " Hark, hark ! what means that shout V 
 
 " He's caught, he's caught," cried a man, rushing into the room. " They've 
 caught the murderer. The officers have him, and are taking him to London. He 
 may be seen from the window. There — there, passing the end of the avenue. 
 Look, Sir John, 'tis he in the scarlet coat, with the rich trimming — that's Captain 
 Hawk, Sir John, the great highwayman. If you step out upon the terrace, you'll 
 see him at the turn of the road plainly again." 
 
 This advice was at once adopted, and the whole family, with a most unexpected 
 addition in the person of Ratchley, who suddenly, half dressed, appeared among 
 them, looking pale and haggard from the effects of his recent wound. 
 
 And the beautiful May, too, was there ; she stood with hands clasped, lips 
 rigidly closed, and as immoveable as if even carved in stone, gazing in the direction 
 indicated by the last speaker, and apparently oblivious of every other thought but 
 the one of seeing that bold, bad man, for whose sake she had made such incredible 
 exertions, conducted past her own home in custody. 
 
 Not a word was spoken, for intense curiosity fixed every one, and in a few 
 moments, as the road wound round a clump of trees, half-a-dozen mounted men 
 appeared, in the midst of whom could be caught a tolerable glance of the knight of 
 the road, attired in his gay and glittering costume, presenting as he did, a marked 
 contrast to the dark and sombre habiliments of the officers. 
 
 His hands were fastened behind him, and the face, for even that was caught sight 
 of for a moment, was nearly as white as the driven snow. In places, too, his 
 apparel was torn and soiled. Some blood had trickled from, a gash above his brow.; 
 perhaps it was the presence of that ruddy stream which tended to give the remainder 
 of his countenance that absolute colourless appearance, as if, indeed,- 'twere painted 
 white. 
 
 It was but for a moment that the cavalcade could be seen, but it appeared to all 
 upon that terrace, as if the captured man turned his eyes towards the assembled 
 forms thus looking at him. If he did so, it was but a glance — stern, cold, and pas- 
 sionless, and then he was gone. 
 
 " I know him," gasped Ratchley. 
 
 A shudder pervaded the frame of May Boyes^as'she added,— 
 " And I." 
 
 Sir* John heard these low uttered expressions, and with a groan, he appended to 
 them, — 
 
 " D — n it, and so do I. Now it'll all come out, 1 suppose. More tact, more 
 tact. Here's a situation for one of the oldest baronets in the kingdom — here's a 
 pretty predicament for a justice of the peace, and a custos rotolorum. I'll — I'll — 
 yes — I'll — do something — I don't know what it's to be exactly, but it shall be 
 something with a wonderful deal of tact about it." 
 
 " A murderer," murmured May. " A murderer. God of heaven ! not in vain 
 was the warning given. Taken, taken — the heath — the murder — the gaol — the 
 trial, and the scaffold." . 
 
 " May, May, you're ill," said Ratchley. 
 
 " All is lost — lost to me ; but he shall live. And, oh ! that the mysterious cir- 
 cumstances which shall now become developed, may turn his soul to Heaven, blood- 
 spotted though it be. Oh ! that he may yet live to pray — then — then shall I have 
 not toiled in vain.'' 
 
 " May, May, what, means this strange insanity % Sister, why do you fix your 
 eyes upon vacancy \ Do you dream V 
 " No, Ratchley, no ; and why are you here V 
 
62 NEWGATE. 
 
 f< To look at him — to feel— to know that in the highwayman, the thief, the mur- 
 derer, the blood-stained ruffian I beheld " 
 
 " Hush !" said May ; " hush ! brother, I know what you would say." 
 
 " Gerald Clifton, sister, that is the name that I would utter. The apostate — the 
 false friend— the betrayer — the glozing fiend in human shape— but he will die a 
 felon's death, to expiate my wrongs." 
 
 " Indeed !" said May, and she looked calmly in her brother's face. " Indeed, 
 Ratchley, you think so." 
 
 " I'm certain. Caught, taken in the very act." 
 
 " And yet saved," said May. " Saved by the very act." 
 
 « Saved !" 
 
 " Yes, saved yet for repentance — yet for good— yet for mercy. There will be a 
 sacrifice — there must be. The blood of the murdered will not cry out alone to 
 Heaven in vain, for vengeance, I say, brother, there will be a sacrifice. And, oh! 
 God, let that sacrifice be of expiation. There is one who yet will die for Gerald 
 Clifton. Not for love of him as he is on earth — not for love of the intoxicating 
 dream of being his for ever — not to bask in those sweet seductive smiles, which 
 might win an angel out of paradise — not to listen to those tones of eloquence which 
 are, in themselves, a whole world of beauty, but for the sake of that better part of 
 him — his immortal soul — shall there be a sacrifice ; he shall not die." 
 
 " Sister, sister, you are mad. You know not what you say." 
 
 *' Too well, too well," said May, and in another moment she was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE CRIMINAL. 
 
 A more desperate deed than that which had been committed upon Hounsiow- 
 heath, as was supposed by the redoubted Captain Hawk, had never inflamed the 
 imagination of the lovers of the terrific. 
 
 Judge Holme, who had been murdered on his return from the assizes, was a 
 man, although rather moulded of the sterner elements of humanity, universally 
 respected and esteemed. He held a high place in his profession, and most de- 
 servedly so, for, indeed, there seemed to be in almost his every action a sort of 
 Roman rigidity of virtue, such as is rarely found. 
 
 Not the slightest breath of calumny or censure had ever assailed his name, and, 
 indeed, he was considered as a man who had borne himself well amid much domestic 
 suffering. It was generally known that in a moment of indiscretion, he had con- 
 tracted a marriage early in life with one whom he could never raise to his own high 
 State, one having no sympathies in common with himself, and towards whom, if he 
 accorded that deference due to her position as his wife, it must evidently proceed 
 from a strong sense of duty, rather than from that affectionate longing to do honour, 
 where both honour and affection are due. 
 
 And so the world had praised Judge Holme for his forbearance, and many had 
 wondered that such a man should for a moment have dreamt of uniting himself to 
 such an one, who could so ill supply the place to him of an affectionate, domestic 
 companion. 
 
 That, in his marriage, this man of haughty resolution and stern modes of thought, 
 had made a fatal mistake, there cannot be the shadow of a doubt ; but if the mis- 
 take were to him fatal, how much more fearfully so must it have been to her, who 
 held the state and dignity of his wife, but yet felt that in every word, and in every 
 action, she was an alien to his heart. 
 
 Alas ! such a state of things is but too common. Men of judgment and of intel- 
 lect — of elevated aspirations and nobility of thought — men with a keen sense of 
 the beautiful, a high appreciation of the great, and that delicacy of mental struc- 
 ture which doats upon all the intellectual refinements of existence — these are the 
 men who most commonly unite themselves to the pretty plaything of the moment, 
 whom, as if by the magic of their own breath, they have invested with a thousand 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 mental charms, each one of which has no more a substantial status , than the airy 
 fabric of a fertile brain making its own beauty from the slenderest foundation. 
 
 And then, alas! too soon the stern realities of life strip the goddess of her beauty. 
 The mental fever fit is passed, and, as she is, they find the being to whom they have 
 tied themselves irrevocably, not as she was. 
 
 Blaming, then, not as they fairly ought to do their own romance, which, like an 
 ignis fatuus, has led them far astray, they call that being changed whom they them- 
 selves had made so beautiful, but after a time to strip her of her gorgeous decora- 
 tion, and mourn over the delusion and the sacrifice. 
 
 And then ensues the fearful struggle between duty, honour, religion, and all those 
 attributes ©f moral feeling men hold dear, and the dread chill of a disappointment 
 which searches to the heart's very inmost core. There may be men who can triumph 
 over this— men whose strong sense of right may enable them themselves to be 
 the sacrifice, and unselfishly perchance to pass a long life, wandering among the 
 fading flowers of their once radiant hopes, scarcely catching as they tread upon 
 those withered leaves, a reminiscence of their once fancied perfume. There may 
 be men who can do this, but they are few and far between. To the world, Judge 
 Holme was one of them ; but if the curtain of domestic privacy were drawn aside, 
 some who gazed with admiration upon what passed before its ample folds, weuld 
 shrink to see its secrets revealed, and dethrone from their high estimation their 
 godlike idol. 
 
 There were years of suffering, and then Lady Holme was found dead in her 
 bed ; the stern judge wept; some feeling, transient yet beautiful, of early love had 
 touched the chords of feeling, even in his breast ; they answered gently, and the 
 stern man wept — once, and once only — then, again, all was cold and passionless, 
 and that portion of a dread domestic drama was over. 
 
 The grave had closed over her whom, it may be truly said, he had wooed to 
 her destruction. Oh ! it was cruel to take her from her lowly state, and then 
 mock her that she had not the attributes of his ; but the deed was done, and 
 now she had passed away in all her beauty — for beautiful she was— and 
 such beauty as might well have adorned a humble home and graced a lowlier 
 station. 
 
 But there was one to whom that stern judge owed words of explanation ; there 
 was one before whom even he shrank, and whose keen glance he dared not 
 abide ; one before whom he shook and trembled, ay, even more than the veriest 
 wretch who ever, at the bar of justice, heard from his stern lips the fiat of his 
 destiny. 
 
 And that one was his son. A son combining much of the intellectual power 
 of his father with the weaker, but gentler, attributes of his mother. A son who 
 had no affection to struggle against, for cold and stern had been that father to 
 him, and if in his heart there really was a well-spring of affection for his child, 
 he had ever kept its* fountains sealed, wherefore, no one knew ; perchance he 
 saw too much of the mother in the boy. 
 
 Let not our readers fancy we are wandering from our tale in talking thus of 
 the dead. It i3 not so ; much that is hidden will yet be known, and the issues 
 of that which has occurred have yet to be declared ; and now we will paint a 
 picture which, pages after this, will show itself before the mind's eye of the 
 attentive reader, bringing with it its own explanation. 
 
 We will step back ten years, to present to those who have followed us so far 
 this living sketch. 
 
 There is an antique chamber in a gorgeous house, and in it are two persons ; 
 one on whom time has placed some ot its most significant marks, the other in 
 the very spring-tide of his youth and beauty, a youth physically matured beyond 
 his age, and looking with a stern and seeming passionless gaze upon the senior's 
 gaze. 
 
 They are the haughty judge and his son, and it is the evening of that day on 
 which the wife and the mother has been consigned to her last, cold resting-place, 
 and yet, to her, less cold than those arms which once had circled her so fondly, 
 
G4 NEWGATE. 
 
 and, in the whispering accents of the tenderest affection, vowed a love which was 
 as fleeting and unsubstantial as Heaven's prismatic bow in a summer sky. 
 
 There was a silence of many minutes' duration ; thought was fearfully busy 
 in both their hearts, and yet each seemed to fear to speak, and the old man, for 
 old he looked, trembled as he gazed upon that slim and youthful form which 
 stood so silently before him. 
 
 It was evident a conference must ensue, of what nature we shall now record. 
 Finding, probably, that his father would not speak, it was the son who first gave 
 utterance to the thoughts which were swelling in his bosom. 
 
 " Father," he said, " my mother was unhappy ; she has told me so a hundred 
 times. She is dead ! tell me now, before I again sleep beneath this roof, is there 1 
 nothing at your heart which tells you ' conscience doth make cowards of us all ?' " 
 
 " Nothing I" said the judge. 
 
 "I would probe you to the quick. Did she die broken-hearted? Washer 
 whole life bitterness and disappointment ? Did you make for her a sunshine or 
 a gloom ? Speak to me, and speak truly. Did she die of your unkindness, or, 
 has nature in its due course snatched her from the world some scruple not to say 
 you made so hateful to her ?" 
 
 " She is dead I" said the judge. u I know no more." 
 
 "I abjure you," cried the young man, " fey every hope of peace you have here, or 
 happiness hereafter — I abjure you, most solemnly, by the great God above, whose 
 ordinances you even make a great parade in keeping— I abjure you to tell me if 
 but one word of kindness to my mother has passed your lips within twelve 
 months V 
 
 " Not one," said the judge. 
 
 "I'm answered," said the youth. " Henceforward we are strangers — more 
 strange than strangers even, for the remembrance of what we might have been shall 
 plaee a gulf between us, which I will not, and which you dare not. pass." 
 
 He strolled from the apartment. With a gasping sob, the stern man called to 
 him. . He wrung his hands for a moment. 
 
 "Stay — stay," he cried ; "my son—my boy I" and then all was still, cold, and 
 passionless as heretofore. 
 
 With scrupulous care he arrayed himself to receive some sympathising gue&ts ; 
 and never was the calmness of dignified grief so well acted as by Judge Holme that 
 night. 
 
 And now our little episode is over. We again rush onwards in the chariot of 
 time ; and without another glance behind, we proceed to detail those stirring events 
 consequent upon what has already been related to the reader. 
 
 It was dreadfully to the chagrin of Sir John Boyes that Judge Holmes's body 
 should be brought to the Hall ; but having. once been brought there, he shrank from 
 ordering its removal ; so that now he walked about with a distressed look, making 
 a curious chuck-chucking noise with his mouth, indicative of affairs not being at all 
 in their proper trim. 
 
 Poor Sir John, as his lady frequently remarked, was not the best hand at seeing 
 what was passing under his nose ; and so the occurrences upon the terrace of his 
 own house, although most significant of some pregone conclusion to any acute ob- 
 server, passed away quite unheeded by Sir John. 
 
 In fact, his mind was so fixed upon the mysterious circumstances connected with 
 the abstraction, and then the return of the ancestral watch, that the most transparent 
 plot in the world might have been carried on around him without his being a bit the 
 wiser. 
 
 After his wonder at Ratchley being so well as to be able to get up— for that was 
 the only view he took of it — he had nothing further to remark about, except, in- 
 deed, a passing wonder as to what had become of Gerald Clifton, who had only gone 
 out to visit a friend, and had made so protracted a stay. 
 
 ; This he tormented everybody with for about half a day, but as the only two par- 
 ties in the household, namely, May and Ratchley, who could give him any informa- 
 tion upon that subject, were silent, he gathered no information. 
 
NEWGATE. 65 
 
 And it was strange, too, how these two seemed, as if by mutual consent, to avoid 
 speaking of Gerald Clifton. It was not likely to be a theme upon which May Boyes 
 would wish to converse ; and as, so far as llatchley knew, she was only suffering 
 that kind of gentle affliction which was consequent upon finding that she had mis- 
 placed an affectionate preference, he thought it best to let her grief, if it amounted 
 to so much, take its course, and to say nothing whatever to her upon the subject. 
 
 This was a strange and anomalous state of things, when both their hearts were so 
 full of the matter ; but it continued, nevertheless, and on the following day, when 
 the inquest on the body of the judge took place, neither Ratchley nor May made any 
 appearance upon the occasion. 
 
 Although it was sufficiently notorious to the whole household, as well as to the 
 neighbourhood, that Ratchley Boyes had been attacked and robbed upon the heath 
 by Captain Hawk, yet the interest and the consternation created by the greater 
 crime of the murder of Judge Holme, had completely swallowed up the lesser, and 
 ___ 
 
66 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 nobody thought of even mentioning a robbery, although attended wLh violence, 
 when u hiatal murder was on the tapis. 
 
 The evidence was short but conclusive. It was proved satisfactorily, if a proof 
 of human guilt can be satisfactory to anybody, that Captain Hawk had made a 
 boast that he would rob Judge Holme coming from the assizes. It was further 
 proved that he had been seen in the vicinity of the heath, and that it had become 
 notorious he was about Hounslow, a fact of which the robbery of the Oxford mail 
 sufficiently attested. 
 
 There was no direct evidence, however, of any one who had seen the deed com- 
 mitted. The judge's servant, although not quite dead when picked up, had 
 ceased to breathe very shortly afterwards, being quite unable, in so brief an inter- 
 val, to detail anything with sufficient accuracy to be relied upon. 
 
 However, his capture in the immediate vicinity of the spot at which the murder 
 was committed, his manner when charged with the deed, and his general appear- 
 ance, were more than sufficient to stamp him with its authorship, and accordingly 
 the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against — Hawk, commonly called 
 Captain Hawk — for no one knew him by any other name. 
 
 To be sure Sir John made some remarkable observations upon the jury, but as 
 our readers may form for themselves a pretty good estimate oi what that illustrious 
 person was likely to remark, we need not transfer those observations to our 
 pages. 
 
 At that time there was no squabbling between coroners and magistrates. Hawk 
 had been taken to London at once, inasmuch as a warrant for his apprehension 
 on the charge of robbing the Oxford mail had been placed in the hards of some 
 of the most experienced officers, so that, irrespective of the new and much more 
 serious charge in which he was involved, they had taken him to London by 
 virtue of the warrant they held, and it was not until late of the next evening that 
 Sir John received notice that the prisoner would be brought back again to undergo 
 his examination before the local magistracy regarding the murder. 
 
 This was done as much for the convenience of witnesses as to keep the forms 
 of justice intact, because if he had been apprehended lor the murder, as he was 
 not, the officers would not have taken him past a local magistrate residing on the 
 spot where the deed was committed. 
 
 Our readers will imagine the consternation of Sir John when he received a note 
 from the chief magistrate of London, announcing that the prisoner would be 
 sent down to him, and, doubtless, he would see the expediency-of committing him 
 for trial upon the charge of murder, when he could be at once safely lodged in 
 Newgate. 
 
 " God bless me!" exclaimed Sir John, when he read the note, "it's not over 
 yet, and consequently it's not done. It'll all come out now about the watch, and 
 I sha'n't know very well what to say. To be sure it's quite right to bring him 
 here to roe. The authorities in London, no d^ubt. have h< ard of me, and they 
 know that if 1 commit him, there can .be no mistake. But what if he says any- 
 thing to me about the ancestral watch, what shall I reply I I should like to know 
 how he got it back again, and hung it upon the hook ; but 1 tremble to ask him, 
 and I shall sit upon nothing but hooks all the while he is here. The rascal, to place 
 one of the oldest baronets in the kingdom in such a situation. I'll commit him 
 as quick as I can, and get him out of the place. The deuce take it, why did they 
 send him here ? I did think, at all events, I'd got rid of him." 
 
 There was a terrible combat between Sir John's gratified dignity and his dread 
 lest this affair of the watch should come to light, so that by the time the prisoner 
 • was expected at the Hal), he worked himself into a perfect fever, and so strangely 
 did he feel the necessity of doing something clever upon the occasion, that after 
 many qualms of conscience, he made up his mind to consult his young secretary 
 as to the most advisable course to pursue, not being entirely perhaps without a 
 faint hope that that individual might be kind enough to take upon himself some 
 of the onus of the transaction, and so relieve his great principal from his 
 difficulty. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 67 
 
 " Good Master Lucas," began Sir John, " I'm extremely satisfied with you ; 
 you are a remarkable youth." - 
 " Thank you, Sir John.'' 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! it's very funny, ain't it ? I've got something here/' and he tapped 
 his forehead mysteriously. P You wouldn't think it, Lucas, but I've got some- 
 thing here." 
 
 " No, Sir John," said the lad, drily, " I shouldn't think it indeed." 
 
 " Weil, you must know, Lucas, that when I intend to do anything for the 
 benefit of society at large, and human nature generally, in the—the — great — the 
 great — what do you call it — of thought, I search about for the best method of 
 proceeding." 
 
 "Certainly, Sir John, I've no doubt you do." 
 
 " And sometimes the vast mental resources which I am forced to bring into 
 play become dreadfully complicated. I'm thinking of something new, and as I 
 wish to push you on in life, you shall be a sharer of the enterprise. Not to con- 9 
 fuse you, you know, 1 mean not to tell you how it will end ; but you shall say 
 that you were sitting in my library, you know, after I told you, you know, to 
 give my watch to a very doubtful character to clean, and that Captain Hawk 
 _caraein, and took it from me, and then he brought it back again, you don't know 
 how— you understand me, Lucas." 
 
 " But you didn't, Sir John, and I didn't, and Captain Hawk didn't." 
 
 " That's, the beauty of the plot, and if nothing's said about it, you needn't 
 say anything; but if anything is said, you can say that, and Til forgive you. The 
 human mind, you know, Lucas, resembles a— a — which is precisely like it, you 
 know." 
 
 " But, Sir John, I really can't understand." 
 
 " Then you are not the intelligent character I took you for. I cannot supply 
 you with comprehension, you know, Lucas. If you cannot understand what I 
 have said to you, I am sorry, very sorry. I may say extremely sorry, which is 
 equivalent, generally speaking, to regretting the circumstance." 
 
 Lucas, upon this, saw that it was highly necessary that he should comprehend; 
 and, perhaps, with some degree of reluctance, he was going to say that he would 
 endeavour to obey Sir John's orders, when, fortunately for him, the- conversation 
 was interrupted by an announcement that nearly drove Sir John frantic, and 
 made him dance round the library table like a madman. This was no other than 
 a statement by a servant of the arrival of the indefatigable Long, who, as usual, 
 had something of importance to say. 
 
 " D — n him ! I thought he was dead !" said Sir John. "Turn him out, turn 
 him out! Kick him, and pummel him I" 
 
 "Sir John Boyes," said a quiet and gentlemanly man, entering the room, "I 
 have perhaps rudely, sir, followed your servant into your presence, because I feel 
 it to be necessary, before I commence proceedings against you, that I should ask 
 you if you've any rational excuse for the extraordinary course of conduct you have 
 pursued towards me V 
 
 " Towards you ?" said Sir John. " Why, I never saw you in my life." 
 
 " I know that well enough, Sir John." 
 
 *' D— n it ! then, what do you mean ?" 
 
 *' Why, d — n it, sir, I mean you took good care not to see me, by having me 
 tossed in a blanket, and buckets of water thrown over me for the mere attempt." 
 <• You ?" • 
 
 "Now, Sir John, it's very well to try and shuffle out of it, but I feel myself 
 much aggrieved, and shall seek redress." 
 " And who the devil may you be ?" 
 ff Long, sir, Long. My name's Long, sir." 
 Sir John staggered. 
 
 " Poh ! poh !" he said, " I know better ; u you ain't Long, nor Strong either." 
 " I shall be strong enough, Sir Jokn, to let you know that when I am sent 
 here by the secretary of state to do you a service, I'm not to be half killed with ( 
 
• 
 
 68 NEWGATE. 
 
 impunity. I mean to trounce you, Sir John, for your conduct. I shall bring 
 my action against you, and I tell you that's the only way to make men such as 
 yourself feel ; and now, sir, having settled my private business with you, I 
 assume my public and official capacity." 
 
 " But you ain't Long/' said Sir John. "Where's Long V* 
 "I am Long, sir. This is the coolest piece of effrontery that ever I met with, 
 to treat a man as I have been treated, and then try to bamboozle him oat n ir.ifi 
 name." 
 
 "Did vou apply the term bamboozle to me?" said Sir John. 
 " I did." 
 
 " And do you know who I am P" 
 
 " Yes ; the d 1 fool that ever I came across !" 
 
 Sir John took up an inkstand and flung it at LongY bead, which, however, it 
 missed, but it hit the devoted watch which had been restored to its hook, and 
 further added to the derangement of that ancestral heir-loom, by knocking off a 
 corner of its physiognomy. 
 
 " I'm glad of that," said Long ; " and there's evidence in the room, too." 
 
 "Sir John, Sir John," cried Lucas, "I'm quite certain that this is not the Mr^ 
 Long who called first upon you." 
 
 u Yes, he is," said Sir John ; " he knows that. I'm a d— d fool ! and that is 
 what he called me before. Did you or did you not, sir, come and advise me not 
 to be an ass V 
 
 " This is the first moment I set foot in your presence," said Long ; " but I 
 must confess that you are in need of some such friendly admonition. I came 
 here, Sir John, from the secretary of state, who received private information that 
 in your house, under an assumed name, was the celebrated Captain Hawk, the 
 highwayman." 
 
 " In my house ?" 
 
 " Hold !" cried May Boyes, as she suddenly appeared at the door, accompanied 
 by Ratchley. 
 
 " Under what name?" roared Sir John. " I will know." 
 
 " Let it be spoken," said Ratchley ; " let it be spoken, May, at once." 
 
 "Under the name of Gerald Clifton," said Long. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE MYSTERY. 
 
 Hir John was bewildered, and well he might be ; a wiser man than Sir John 
 Eoyes would have been bewildered at being suddenly told that a cherished guest, 
 whom he had considered the pink of gentility, was a highwayman. Indeed the 
 whole party, with the exception of Ratchley and May, looked the astonishment 
 which such an announcement was calculated to produce. Lady Boyes and 
 Philippa, both of whom had glided into the apartment upon hearing high words 
 between Sir John and some one, uttered exclamations of the greatest surprise, 
 while Ratchley whispered to May, — 
 
 " Fear nothing, sister— say nothing. This is a truth which sooner or later 
 must have been known. Let it be a relief to you that it is known so soon." 
 
 " I am content," said May. 
 
 "But, Mr. What's-your-name," said Sir John, "you don't mean to tell me 
 that there's no such person as Mr. Gerald Clifton ?" 
 
 "Sir John," said Long, "you may obliterate from your memory either of the 
 personages you please, but that Captain Hawk, the celebrated highwayman, has 
 been staying at your house under the name of Gerald Clifton, is a truth of which 
 you may be assured." 
 
 " Well, then," said Sir John, " 'tis one of the most extraordinary things in the 
 world. Here are two men suddenly proved to be only one ; while, to make up 
 
NEWGATE. 69 
 
 for the deficiency, Mr. Long, there are two of you, for most certainly you are not 
 the Long that was here before." 
 
 *' 1 have it," said Long ; " I now begin to see what has occurred. You've 
 been imposed upon, Sir John. The tricks and finesse of Captain Hawk are 
 familiar to the police ; I have no doubt at all that one of his own associates, 
 ascertaining by some means what was in the wind, got here before me and per- 
 sonated me." 
 
 Sir John tapped his head, and, with a melancholy look, assented to the pro- 
 position, on which he and Long became much better friends, and a hint at some 
 little pecuniary compensation soon put matters to rights, so that Sir John felt 
 more at his ease, and began to talk of the approaching examination of the pri- 
 soner with some sort of satisfaction. 
 
 " Of course," he said, " we shall confine ourselves solely to a consideration of 
 the murder, we have nothing to do with anything else he has done ; for instance, 
 if he had stolen anybody's watch, that's of no consequence in comparison to the 
 more serious charge ?" 
 
 " Certainly not," said Long, " except it be in some manner collaterally con- 
 nected with it, then it would become a matter of some importance, especially if 
 it had anything to do with the question of timi in regard to the manner in which 
 the prisoner was engaged on the night of the murder." 
 
 Sir John gave a half groan, for he recollected well how particularly his atten- 
 tion had been called to the hour when his watch had been taken from him. He 
 felt half inclined to divulge to Long the difficulty he was in ; and, indeed, it 
 seemed highly probable that the politic Sir John would, by degrees, tell every- 
 body, under a plea of strict secresy, and get such a multitude of advice that, if 
 such a state of things wer#possible, he would be more confused than ever. 
 
 However, upon second thoughts, he said nothing more to Long ; and as now 
 the intervening time before the examination of the prisoner took place was more 
 full of anxiety than interest, we will pass it over, and proceed at once to more 
 stirring incidents of action. 
 
 Sir John was what the whole county considered a very painstaking magis- 
 trate ; that is to say, he took twice the time that any one else would have taken 
 to deliver a result, and whenever anybody else considered a case as finished, he 
 had a sad knack of beginning it completely over again. 
 
 This mode of procedure as regarded the petty larcenies, trespasses, and offences 
 against the game laws, which chiefly occupied the attention of the suburban 
 magistracy, was of little importance, but should he take it into his head to come 
 out terrifically strong upon the murder case there was no knowing where it 
 would end. 
 
 Our readers will fancy the great hall, in which justice was administered in 
 that ancient mansion, crowded with wondering spectators. There had been 
 time enough for the bruit of the transaction to reach all the surrounding gentry, 
 and that kind of curiosity which casts such a halo of romance around extraor- 
 dinary criminals had induced a large concourse of spectators to assemble at 
 Boyes Hall, for the purpose of seeing the celebrated highwayman, whose 
 numerous escapes from the hands of justice had been themes of wondering 
 gossip throughout nearly the whole of England. 
 
 This kind of attention was rather flattering to Sir John, for, as he meant to be 
 enormously didactic upon the occasion, of course the larger the audience the 
 greater would be the amount of self-glorification he was likely to feel. 
 
 At each new arrival he seemed to stand at least an inch taller, and he assumed 
 such an air of profundity that he could not at all look where he was going, but 
 stumbled over every table and chair that was in his way. 
 
 The prisoner had not arrived, but he was momentarily expected, and as Sir 
 John considered it infra dig. for him to take his place in the hall of justice before 
 the proceedings actually commenced, the spectators had some time to gossip 
 among themselves concerning what they considered the unprecedented circum- 
 stanc$s of the whole affair ; and yet how little did they know of the real nature 
 
70 NEWGATE. 
 
 of these circumstances, or of the extraordinary mystery in which some of them 
 were still enshrouded. 
 
 It was about a quarter before twelve when Sir John, who was pacing the 
 library to and fro, received iniormation that the prisoner had arrived, and that 
 everything was ready to commence the examination. 
 
 Assuming, then, a withering look, he walked with a stately air across a cor- 
 ridor which led him to the ^arge hall, from whence he could already hear the 
 hum of many voices. On his own account, he intended to demolish the prisoner 
 by a glance ; for, although he intended not to allude to the fact of his having 
 been an inmate of his house, yet he felt that there was something due to himself 
 for so grievous a take in. 
 
 He was preceded by two servants, for Sir John had a tolerable eye to effect, 
 and fully intended that his entry should be of as imposing a character as possible. 
 
 But, alas for human intentions ! had Sir John been a little less proud, he 
 unquestionably woutd have walked in prouder, but when a man's eyes are fixed 
 upon a ceiling, he cannot be expected to see obstructions in his path, and con- 
 sequently Sir John's first appearance in the great hall was head foremost, and in. 
 a horizontal position over a strip of matting he had himself placed to increase the 
 effect of the preparations. 
 
 His most sanguine notions cf the effect he should produce upon his entrance 
 were a long way off that which he really effected, and the universal glare of 
 astonishment to see only the upper part of Sir John's illustrious person, while 
 his long rambling looking legs were out in the corridor, and the two domestics, 
 with horror in their looks, appeared as if they had just knocked him down, alto- 
 gether presented a picture of magisterial dignity such as poor Sir John had never 
 anticipated. f 
 
 Sir John had never heard of the quotation, or he would have wished himself - 
 five hundred fathoms under the Rialto at that moment ; and, when he did rise to 
 his feet, how sadly the dignity of the judge was marred by a ruddy stream from 
 the apex of his promontory, which had come in extremely forcible contact with 
 the oaken floor. 
 
 Everybody was full of commiseration, but that was so disgustingly different 
 from admiration that Sir John sank into his seat with a deep groan, and, far 
 from casting a withering look upon the audacious prisoner, he felt completely 
 withered himself. 
 
 He could hardly muster courage enough to order the proceedings to commence, 
 and, when they had fairly done so, it was a great relief to him to see a roly -poly 
 little man suddenly advance and put himself into an oratorical attitude. It was 
 most likely somebody to quarrel with, and Sir John began to feel that if he could 
 successfully put anybody down he should be more himself again. 
 
 " Who are you?" said Sir John. 
 
 " A very apposite question," said the little roly-poly man ; " I am Mr. Pump, of 
 the Temple." 
 
 " And pray what's that to me/' said Sir John, " whether you're Mr. Pump of the 
 Temple, or Mr. Temple of the Pump?" 
 
 " 1 dare say not much," said the little man ; " but I come here as the advocate 
 of the prisoner before you. By my advice he offers no objection to your com* 
 mittmg him for trial, although so entirely innocent of the crime that is laid to his 
 charge ; therefore, Sir John, if you please, you may commit him upon the smallest 
 amount of circumstantial evidence which you may think may justify you in so doing." 
 
 This was spoken in an off-handed sort of manner, as if he would have added, 
 " We really would rather be committed, than have the trouble of explaining to you 
 that we didn't do it," and consequently, it became a sore place now in poor Sir 
 John's mind. 
 
 Although he could not look witheringly upon the prisoner, he did upon Mr, 
 Pump, as he said, — 
 
 " Sir, I'll commit you, if you don't behave yourself with greater decorum before 
 the representative of majesty." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 71 
 
 Mr. Pump smiled and bowed, as he replied in bland accents, — 
 
 " Y«ur worship is very much mistaken if you consider, for one moment, I wish to 
 treat you with disrespect ; attached to the law and to legai authorities as I am, the 
 office you hold would, in my eyes, sanctify a donkey." 
 
 There was a titter, which human nature could not suppress, among the audience, 
 and young Lucas whispered to Sir John,— 
 
 " Pray, sir, treat him with silent contempt. It's Mr. Pump, the well-known 
 thieves' advocate ; he don't care what he says, sir ; and he always tries to pick a 
 quarrel with the magistracy. Treat him with silent contempt, sir— that's the 
 only way." 
 
 " I will — I will," said Sir John, " for 'tis difficult to know what to say. It's 
 beneath one's dignity to be witty or sharp with such a man. Call the witnesses ; 
 I will hear the case." 
 
 The evidence, as we before remarked, as it at present stood, was much more of a 
 negative than of a positive character. Without finding, in any one respect, Cap- 
 tain Hawk to be guilty of the murder, it rather, by implication, made him so, by 
 clearing everybody else, and leaving the onus of the deed upon him, as the most 
 likely person to have committed it. 
 
 And then the proceedings were necessarily narrowed, because the prisoner's coun- 
 sel said nothing, contradicted nothing, but smiled so blandly at the witnesses that 
 every one left off in a state of great aggravation, and with an indistinct notion that, 
 in some mysterious manner, he had put his foot in it, and that, among the notes 
 Mr. Pump made in a memorandum-book, something or another would come out 
 hereafter, of a most uncomfortable character. 
 
 This was all dreadfully unsatisfactory to Sir John, who had no idea of acting 
 so purely a mechanical part in the business, as that which seemed to be thrown 
 upon him ; and when the evidence was finished, he looked as stern as possible at 
 the prisoner, as he said, — 
 
 " Young man — young man — young man — what have you got to say to all this V* 
 
 " Nothing," said Mr. Pump ; " but a reiteration of our entire innocence." 
 
 " Tt will be my duty^" said Sir John, " to commit you to Newgate." 
 
 " Very good," said Mr. Pump; "we're willing to go; and when our innocence 
 becomes apparent, as it will, we shall n«t blame you for doing your duty." 
 
 " Have }Ou anything to say to me?" said Sir John, as he thumped his fist upon 
 the table. 
 
 " Do you address me V said Captain Hawk, for the first time breaking the 
 silence he had maintained. 
 
 " Yes, you vagabond ; you came into my house in the disguise of a gentleman." 
 " I don't know you," said the prisoner. 
 
 " You don't know me ? Come, come, Mr. Clifton ; you know very well you've 
 eaten and drunk at my table, sir. You shot my son, sir ; and you made yourself 
 agreeable, sir, d— n you ! to my daughter. But 1 shall have the pleasure of see- 
 ing you hung. It's a pleasant ride, sir, from here to Tyburn, on a fine morning ; 
 and d— -e, ill come, if it rains, even." 
 
 <' Very good," said Mr. Pump, "very good, indeed. Pray go on, your worship. 
 This is delightful, because it comes fresh from the heart. Pray go on, sir; you're 
 a pleasant speaker to follow. I've got it all down in my memorandum- book." 
 
 " I won't go on," said Sir John. 
 
 " Then stop, sir." 
 
 " Nor I won't stop. Mr. Clifton — can you look me in the face ? I'll have the 
 spoons counted when you're gone." 
 
 " Not forgetting yourself in," said Mr. Pump, " as the largest family specimen 
 of that article in the house." 
 
 " Did you hear that, Lucas ?" said Sir John. *« Lucas— did you hear that V* 
 
 " Yes, nearly," said Lucas, very reluctantly. 
 
 " Can I commit everybody ?" said Sir John. 
 
 " I rather think not, if you please, sir." 
 
 " Can I put Pump in the stocks, eh?" 
 
72 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 rt Why, I wouldn't do it, sir. Treat him with silent contempt, sir." 
 
 '* Silent contempt be d — d, Lucas ! I suppose, if somebody were to kick me 
 round my own hall, you'd advise me to take no notice of what passes behind my 
 back." 
 
 " Kick you, sir John ; oh ! dear, that's impossible. I should humbly advise that 
 you calmly commit the prisoner, and break up the proeeediHgs." 
 
 " I will," said Sir John ; " but, sooner or later, this shall be a dreadful day for 
 Pump." 
 
 The committal was accordingly drawn out ; and Hawk was delivered into the cus- 
 tody of the officers who had brought him from London. It was evident that 
 throughout the whole affair he had been acting a part ; and that the cold, silent 
 aspect he wore, was the result of some preconceived plan of action. He walked 
 from the hall with the same calm demeanour he had entered it, and probably he 
 thought to leave that house unnerved; but such was not to be. As he passed 
 though the outer hall which led to the flight of stone steps, he was intercepted for 
 i r a moment by a female form ; and then, for the first time he shrunk, for he knew 
 that it was May. She laid both hands upon his fettered arm, and while a crimson 
 flush now mounted to his face, she spoke, — 
 (e You will be saved — saved for repentance." 
 
 ** No," he said, " no. Farewell for ever — my destiny is fulfilled — no human 
 power now * 
 
 " Hush !" said May ; f you will be saved. Make your peace with God. Man 
 will yet hold ye harmless." 
 
 Mr. Pump, who was close at hand, heard these words, and addressing May, he 
 said, — 
 
 <f If you have any evidence that will be of service, communicate with me." 
 
 May answered him not, but, turning slowly, she glided from the hall. Gerald 
 Clifton perceptibly trembled as he looked after her ; he seemed about to speak, but 
 one of the officers plucked him by the arm, and he gave up the intention. The 
 mantling colour again left his cheeks, and, probably from the contrast, they looked 
 paler than before. He said nothing, but allowed himself to be conducted into the 
 open air and mounted on a horse ; an officer road on each side of him, one led the 
 way, and another brought up the rear. They showed him, befoie starting, that 
 they were well armed, and warned him that death, or some grievous wound, would 
 be the result of any attempt to escape. 
 
 That night he slept in Newgate. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 Probably never, in the history of judicial investigations, had so intense an 
 excitement been created as that which now filled the public mind with clamorous 
 curiosity, regarding the trial of that bold, bad man, who, like a moral pestilence, 
 had spread a blight around him, dealing the destruction of those who trusted him 
 not, and that worse destruction of spirit to those who did trust and love him. 
 
 No fabled hero of romance could have stood for the time so high in popular esti- 
 mation ; not, probably, that that would have been the proper word to apply to the feel- 
 ing with which people regarded the man, for no doubt general consent would have 
 proclaimed him a ruffian of the first class ; but then to the imagination of almost all 
 persons, the bold and daring acts of such men, not the less bold and daring because 
 they are criminal, have about them such a dash ol romance as to become irresist- 
 ably and delusively delightful. 
 
 Sober, pains-taking, plodding folks rather look at the physical stamina which 
 will induce a highwayman to stop the belated traveller, than at that far mere en- 
 nobling moral courage which would have induced him to procure a living by 1 oaesU r ; 
 and less precarious means. 
 
 Thus was it that Captain Hawk appeared to most persons something in the shape 
 
 4 
 
NEWGATE. 73 
 
 See page 55. 
 
 of a bold and brave adventurer, who was only in a critical position because he had 
 been beaten by the society against which he had waged war. 
 
 And then, in these cases, the great mass of mankind are bat speculators ; their 
 feelings, wishes, and interests, have no connection with the event which calls 
 upon their curiosity ; of course, but very few of the dense population of England 
 had been robbed by Captain Hawk, and probably still fewer were called upon to 
 decide his fate judicially ; and hence was it that the greater number of persons felt 
 neither anger nor concern, but simply watched the little episodial drama with that 
 kind of interest with which we sit to see the mimic scene depicted by able actors. 
 
 His portrait adorned shop windows. Many who slaved from morning to night 
 for a bare subsistence, thought, with a sigh, over the merrier roving life of the 
 knight of the road, and looked upon him, in their hearts, as a kind of hero, who 
 had shaken off the trammels of tyrant custom, and carved for himself a new path to 
 
 No. 10. 
 
74 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 pleasure, well worthy of imitation. Songs were sung to his honour ; the startling 
 anecdotes of a hundred highwaymen, by flood and field, were all appended to his 
 name ; and, like many a hero, he was enveloped in a cloud of laurels, but very few 
 of which he could lay legitimate claim to. 
 
 But the multitude must have its idol, and why not a highwayman as well as, if not 
 in preference to, many a character of greater cunning, but of less desert, who has 
 held the highest niche of f ime in the temple of popular opinion ? 
 
 The distinction then, likewise, between the two great classes of society — the rich 
 and the poor — was then far more marked than it is at present ; there was much real 
 arrogance on the one side, and much affected humility on the other; while, on both, 
 there was dislike and suspicion. 
 
 Hence all the sympathies of the lower classes, and those who had nothing to 
 lose, went with such a man as Captain Hawk, who, of course, took nothing from 
 them ; and one or two stray acts of generosity, in which he had taken from the rich 
 and given to the poor, made him appear to their imagination rather like a knight- 
 errant in the cause of virtue than a depredator. 
 
 In the, giitter of the few guineas which were cast from the highwayman's pouch 
 to a wandering beggar by the way-side, the crime by which he had obtained the 
 means of being so lavish of his bounty was forgotten. 
 
 The public press— which must write to live, as well as live to write — then, as 
 now, found it necessary, in some measure, to pander to popular taste, and something 
 daily about the popular highwayman was generally to be found as palatable food for 
 gossip. 
 
 There was a mystery about who and wlat he was ; a thousand suppositions were 
 rife with regard to his origin ; and what with these suppositioi s v.ith regard to 
 Captain Hawk's own private history, and the numerous others which the histories 
 of all who were in any way connected with him gave rise to, there was food enough 
 for wonder and conjecture for many a year. 
 
 Even the dead escaped not, and the old story, of how unequally mated had been 
 Judge Holme and his wife, became again the current topic. The particulais, too, 
 of what occurred, on the night of the opening of our tale, at the old Talbot Inn, 
 scon reached the public ear. The story of the robbery of the Oxford ma 1, with a 
 hundred exaggerations, was retailed from mouth to mouth ; and hence, by the time 
 the day of trial arrived, there was a degree of popular excitement such as was 
 rarely witnessed at those times. 
 
 The greatest precautions were taken to provide against any outbreak among the 
 lower orders of society, for it was well known by the authorities that the lower 
 districts of London would, on that day, pour forth their myriads of inhabitants to 
 make high holiday, whether Hawk were convicted or not. 
 
 Vague reports, too, had reached the ears of those most interested, of projected 
 attempts to rescue the prisoner, should he be found guilty ; so that every one, from 
 the lorest official up to the sheriffs, were uncommonly alert to keep proper custody * 
 of their prisoner. 
 
 If, however, any such intention was entertained, it was completely unknown to 
 Captain Hawk, who had been by far too strictly taken care of during his residence 
 in Newgate to be able to make any such hostile arrangements. 
 
 In the then defective state of the police arrangements, still such an idea was an 
 extremely natural one, and based upon actual experience. There had been, at 
 different times, powerful attempts made by well organized masses of people, to take 
 from the custody of the officials notorious offenders. 
 
 In some cases these attempts had resulted in success, although not in many, so 
 that the police were certainly justified, not by fear, but by common prudence, in 
 taking as good care of Captain Hawk as it was possible to do. 
 
 It was very strange, but no less strange than true, that the very circumstances 
 which certainly made his crimes more serious than they would otherwise have been, 
 namely, the bo.dness and cleverness with which they were perpetrated, seemed to 
 point him out as a special object of popular esteem. 
 
 People dilated upon the skill with which he had, at various times, eluded capture 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 75 
 
 and upon the boldness with which he had robbed this one or that one, under circum- 
 stances of unusual difficulty. 
 
 The crime, too, of which he was now accused, did not happen, to the popular eye, 
 to preset any peculiar features of condemnation. In the first p'ace, all persons 
 who are in any way connected with the a Iministration of the laws are unpopular ; 
 and Judge Holme wa« peculiarly so, inasmuch as his whole course as a judge h ad 
 been marked by an unmitigated severity against all evil-doers. 
 
 No one could accuse him of being other than an upright judge, but, at the same 
 time, everybody knew that he could not be called a merciful one. Nobody loved 
 him, and his death, even at the hands of a murderer, did not tend to awaken any 
 amount of sympathy. 
 
 Some people even went so far as to say that Judge Holme had his own obstinacy 
 to thank for what had occurred— forgetting that he was past thanking anything or 
 anybody — for that he knew Captain Hawk meant to rob him, and either ought to 
 have travelled with such an escort as to make the attempt perfectly futile, or have 
 let himself be robbed, and not interposed an useless resistance. 
 
 They declared it would be as much murder to hang Hawk as it was in him to 
 shoot the judge, and, consequently, well might the authorities look forward with 
 alarm to what might occur when the highwayman vas declared guilty, and con- 
 demned to death, as, without a doubt, he must be, on the evidence which would be 
 brought against him. 
 
 In those days — we believe there are still many noodles who call them the good 
 old days — the hanging a man was a matter of very minor importance to what it is 
 now ; and when we come to consider that the individual who had been murdered by 
 Captain Hawk was a judge, it is not to be supposed that the rest of the legal frater- 
 nity felt towards him any very tender feelings. 
 
 If ever a man's doom before his trial was fixed, Hawk's was. 
 
 And now the eventful morning arrived on which he was to be placed at the bar of 
 justice, and great, indeed, was the throng and excitement throughout the precincts of 
 the court. 
 
 The wirnesses had been, over night, accommodated within Newgate, for, other- 
 wise, it was feared that those who were known to have adverse evidence to give 
 against the prisoner would scarcely be permitted by the mob without to enter the 
 court, or, if- they were, it would only be as a result of a victory obtained by the 
 officials, so that there would have been a petty war carried on all the day. 
 
 The likel hood, however, of this was obviated, as we say, by the witnesses being 
 lodged in Newgate, among whom were our friends from Boyes' Hall. 
 
 Poor Sir John was in a most serious state of alarm and perturbation, and, from the 
 singular replies he made, even to the most trivial questions, it was quite evident 
 that his evidence would be of a very remarkable character, and probably far from 
 easy to understand. 
 
 Ratchley was with him as well as May, and those were the only actual members 
 of his family who accompanied him to London. Several of the servants of the Hall 
 had been subpoenaed by the prosecution as well as for the defence, although it was 
 difficult to imagine what 'hey could be brought to say in favour of the prisoner 
 which should have any effect against the mass of evidence tending to convict him of 
 a crime concerning which there could be no extenuation. 
 
 But we give Rill credit to Captain Hawk's attorney for knowing what he is 
 .about. 
 
 The trial took place on a Friday then, as a matter of course, in consequence of 
 the charge being one which affected the life of the accused, because, if found guilty, 
 and sentenced to suffer the extreme penalty of the law, Sunday being a dies non in 
 law, it gave him another day to live before the sentence was carried into effect, 
 which the law declared should be in twenty-four hours after conviction. 
 
 The court s t an hour earlier than usual^ as the trial was expected to be a pro- 
 tracted one, so that by about ten minutes past eight all things were in readiness, and 
 the ju ige had taken his seat, having by his side the lord mayor and several person- 
 ages of rank who had come, from motives of curiosity, to hear the proceedings. 
 
7G 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 The moment the doors of the court were opened, the throng that rushed in and 
 filled up every avenue and corner into which any human being could, by any possi- 
 bility, be thrust, was prodigious. 
 
 In vain was some sort of order endeavoured to be maintained. The officers and 
 other official personages of the court were carried along by the mob, like chaff be- 
 fore the wind, and it was then a full half hour before the proceedings could be com- 
 menced. 
 
 It is doubtful if, even then— such was the struggle to get into the court — anything 
 like order would have been obtained, had not the judge himself suggested to those 
 who had succeeded in getting in, the propriety of assisting the officers in preventing 
 the mob without endeavouring to force an entrance. 
 
 This had some effect, and those who were nearest to the door fought with the 
 foremost of those without, who were striving to effect the impossibility of making 
 a given space hold more persons than could stand upon it. 
 
 At length, at about a quarter before ten, some appearance of silence and tran- 
 quillity was apparent, and the business of the court commenced. 
 
 Let us, however, now, before the prisoner is placed at the bar, take a brief notice 
 of the persons most interesting to the reader, who are already accommodated with 
 seats in the court of justice. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE TRIAL CONTINUED. 
 
 We linger feelingly upon the crisis which we believe to be approaching, as regards 
 those persons in whose fortunes we feel ourselves to be so largely interested. 
 
 We know the sequel of events has yet been but dimly shadowed forth to the reader. 
 We know what the single-hearted, and the beautiful, the constant, has yet to suffer; 
 and mo^of all for thee, May Boyes, do we feel acutely, because we love thee, even 
 for thy Mry faults. The light that has betrayed thee is light from Heaven. It is 
 through thy best and gentlest feelings that thou hast erred ; and beautiful, and 
 entitled to admiration art thou, even for thy profound affeetion, and clinging ten- 
 derness to one who is far from meriting even the smallest portion of thy esteem. 
 
 But let us look again around that crowded court, let us look among the multi- 
 tude of faces now upturned towards the judge, and those who sat with him upon 
 the bench, as 3ome remark fell from his lips, and then again tuna with eager atten- 
 tion to the dock, where the celebrated prisoner was momentarily expected to make 
 his appearance. Let us look, we say, among them for those familiar faces which 
 have become to us as household charms, as subjects of deep contemplation, or of 
 painful regret, and we shall see how they stand out, as it were, like living, breathing 
 pictures of the past, reminding us of a thousand little incidents in the progress of 
 our story, which else might have merged into forgetfulness like some forgotten 
 dream. 
 
 The whole of the Boyes family was present — they were introduced into the court 
 before the mob from the outside, or it would have been quite impossible for them 
 to have found their way there. 
 
 There was poor Sir John, with looks of comical agony, his thoughts most pain- 
 fully intent upon the family watch, and the incidents connected therewith, revolving 
 in his mind what he should say, and what he should not, in order to get as hand- 
 somely out of the chronometrical entanglement as he well could. 
 
 The only difficulty he eventually experienced was, that none of the questions he 
 imagined would have been put, were put at all, and that he forgot all his projected 
 answers to what were put. 
 
 Then there was Lady Boyes, looking fidgetty and amazed, anxious to do the 
 dignified matron, and yet not knowing how to set about it ; in a terrible fume, for 
 fear anything contrary to the honour of the family should come out, or that it should 
 be suspected for one moment that any daughter of hers cared so much as the 
 smallest particle of chaff for a highwayman. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 77 
 
 Ratchley, too, was there, pale and anxious, ever and anon casting sad and uneasy 
 glances upon his sister's face, agitated almost beyond his powers of self control. 
 His arm was still suspended by a sling, and there were about his whole appearance 
 the traces of recent severe indisposition. 
 
 Philippa, May's kind and really affectionate though quiet sister, came purposely — 
 for otherwise she had no wish to be present at such a scene, nor was she called to 
 it — to succour and assist her whom she knew felt so fearful an interest in all that 
 was proceeding. 
 
 And there sat May ; but, oh ! what pen can hope to describe the world of im- 
 passioned thoughts that sat upon her face. She was more beautiful than death, but 
 just as sad to look upon — the seal of the destroyer seemed to be set upon every 
 feature — the brain, overwrought, was preying upon itself ; her very lips were of 
 a marble hue ; her eyes looked large and lustrous, but the lustre was not of this 
 world — it looked as if, for a time, they had borrowed some sparkling light from 
 kindred stars ; her hands were clasped painfully, rigidly : and ever and anon those 
 pale lips moved slightly, as if uttering some sound which it was necessary so to 
 utter, in order t® give a double assurance to some mental aspiration. 
 
 Philippa leaned forward to catch those words, and she heard them faintly uttered ; 
 they simply consisted of,— 
 
 " He will be saved yet ! he will be saved yet !" 
 
 Her eyes wandered not from that one spot which had been indicated to her as 
 that on which the prisoner would stand. There she bent all her energies — she heard 
 nothing, she saw nothing, but that one vacant place, too soon to be filled by the 
 I man brought there by his fellow man to be accused of great crimes — of awful lapses 
 | from righteousness, while yet, yes, yet he was her heart's idol. 
 
 It was but for a moment, as a person passed close to her face, hiding the object 
 of her gaze from her fixed and concentrated observation, that she looked in the 
 face of the intruder. 
 
 'Tis all done — 'tis all done V she said, in a strange hysterical manner, as she 
 leaned forward in a moment. 
 
 " All, all," was the brief reply, and the man passed on. 
 
 May relapsed into her former attitude, and again Philippa heard her mutter those 
 words which alone seemed to stand between her and mental alienation. 
 " He will be saved yet ! he will be saved yet V* 
 
 " Oh ! May, May," she said, * ( why did you come here ? You will never, never, 
 sister, be able to go through this scene." 
 
 " Yes, Philippa," said May ; *' you will see how well I can enact my part. Watch ! 
 me, watch me well !" 
 
 " Eh!" said Sir John, behind ; " who says anything about a watch ? Is it the | 
 family watch of all the Boyes's, you mean, because I have a particular desire, in a 
 manner of speaking, that it shouldn't be mentioned ? The fact is, my dear, that 
 watch, as you're all well aware, is just at the present moment a kind of a — a— 
 precisely — I hope I make myself quite understood, when I say that — that — that— 1 
 just so." 
 
 " Yes, father," said Philippa. 
 
 " Very good," said Sir John. « Ratchley, how do you feel ?" 
 * Much as usual, father. The air is oppressive." 
 
 " It is, it is— it's really terrific to think, when people of distinction— a-hem ! — and 
 representatives of old families, have to come to any of these exhibitions, that the 
 common herd, the canaille— the— a— the— the — the— are not kept out." 
 Hush ! hush ! hush !" said May. 
 " Hush, indeed!" exclaimed Sir John. " I believe, in a manner of speaking, 
 it is not often that I make a remark, but when I do, there are not many people who 
 take upon them to say, hush ! Ratchley, my dear." 
 " Yes, father." " 
 
 " The next time you speak to me, say Sir John— say Sir John, in order that that 
 fat old gentleman behind may know who I am. Call me mister, and ask me the 
 time of day ! My dears, call me Sir John— call me Sir John. It is just as well 
 
78 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 people should know when they are in distinguished company, that they may com- 
 port themselves with that kind of — of— sort of — of— a — a— yes." 
 
 But we had nearly forgotten that there was still another member of the 
 family, or, at all events, of the establishment of the Boyes's, in court. Sir John 
 had been determined that, by some means or other, his dignity should be kept up ; 
 and having on fns establishment a very tall serving-man, he ordered him to ditss 
 himself in the state livery of the Boyes's, and push himself in on that event! ul morn- 
 ing, and then he could tell everybody that he was one of Sir John's servants, and 
 that there was Sir John, the gentleman with the commanding physiognomy, and the 
 Roman nose. 
 
 This little manoeuvre would have succeeded in attracting some attention doubt- 
 less, had not the serving-man been despoiled of his coat in his efforts to get into 
 the court at all, so that the appearance he presented inside was that of a big, 
 awkward-looking brute, attired in yellow plush breeches and not a very clean 
 shirt, while a waistcoat of some indescribable pattern, with coach- trimming 
 borders, hung in shreds and patches about him. 
 
 The judge's manoeuvre, in getting the people inside to resist the people who 
 were out, was, as we before remarked, sufficiently successful to induce something 
 like the appearance of order, and a'l the preparations appeared to be complete for 
 the commencement of the business of the day. 
 
 Kvery one knew now that the prisoner would, in a few moments, appear at 
 the bar. All felt conscious that he was even now upon his way through those 
 gloomy passages that lead from the prison to the court. Yes, he comes, he 
 tomes ; there is a stir among the multitude, an uneasy shifting of position, and 
 a straining of every eye ; those who knew him by sight looked for him, peihaps, 
 with far greater interest than those who had never set e\es upon his form before. 
 
 But, oh, what was all that interest and expectation concentrated, and then 
 multiplied a thousand fold, compared with the feelings that swept across the 
 breast of May Boyes as she, too, felt that the man who was her destiny — and 
 such, indeed, be was — would in another instant meet her ardent gaze. 
 
 She did not tremble; she told herself she would not shrink ; but, with such a 
 gaze as some forlorn wretch might cast upon the wreck of all hope, she looked 
 towards that one spot in which had centred all her regard, but never with such a 
 fearful interest as now. 
 
 He comes, he comes ! there is a footstep. The flooring slopes downward from 
 the dock, and his head alone is visible for a moment ; another, stride and more of 
 him is seen ; another, and he stands before the multitude — Captain Hawk, the 
 knight of the road, the idol of the people, the bold, bad man with blood upon 
 his hands. 
 
 A strange, gasping sort of sob came from the lips of May, and she clasped the 
 wrist of Philippa with a force that made the latter utter a shoit cry of pain. 
 " May, May," said Philippa, " for God's sake, be calm !" 
 " I am very calm. I am-— .very calm. He does not see me yet." 
 The tall form of the highwayman, as he stood at the bar, not undivested of 
 the graceful bearing which had been remarkable always in him, produced an 
 evident and favourable effect upon the multitude. He was actually greeted with 
 some such a murmur of applause as might succeed the appearance of some 
 favourite actor. 
 
 And in personal appearance he was, indeed, wonderfully gifted to ensnare the 
 minds of the unthinking. The white light cast by the looking-glass upon his 
 face did him no harm ; it only imparted a kind of spirituality to the almost 
 feminine beauty of his features. He was pale, but his eye had lost none of its 
 brilliancy ; his lips were compressed, and their nearly bloodless appearance 
 seemed to arise from that compression than from any other cause; not a muscle 
 t>eemed to quiver, and yet some thought the attitude in which he stood was one 
 of studied case, rather than a natural one. 
 
 His dress was costly, but it was divested of those professional insignia which 
 marked tim too well, when out on his marauding expeditions, for what he really 
 
I 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 79 
 
 was. He wore a coat of silver-grey cloth, trimmed with white lace; there were 
 no ornaments about him, and his apparel rather merited the appellation of rich on 
 account of the costly quality of its material, than for any mere'ricious gauds. 
 
 It was no wonder that, coming from the darkness of a cell and its solitude, 
 through a few gloomy passages, into light, and before such a throng of persons, 
 he should be unable to distinguish, for a few moments, even the most familiar 
 facps from those most strange to him. 
 
 He seemed, as no doubt was really the case, more intent upon making a favour- 
 able impression for himself than upon observing anything or anybody before him. 
 
 The murmur of applause, which the judge did not attempt to check and the 
 criers could not, for it was done and over too suddenly, satisfied him, and then 
 his keen eye could be seen running over the faces before him, as if to pick out 
 from that human mass enemies from friends. 
 
 It was a moment or two before he saw the Boyes family, and then his glance 
 evidently first fell upon Sir John, to whom he made a courteous bow. 
 
 " D — n his impudence V said Sir John ; " in a manner of speaking, people of 
 distinction have come to a pretty pass." 
 
 Then it was evident that he saw May ; a flush of colour came across his face, 
 and he shook and recoiled from the front of the dock the whole length of his 
 arm, which clutched it convulsively; his lips moved, and no one knew what 
 sound they would have uttered ; but she, who was love's own prescience, knew 
 well that it was her name that came like an echo from his heart. 
 
 The short intervals of silence in which the few words were spoken which we 
 have occasionally recorded, and during which some of the incidents occurred, 
 were much less, in amount of time, than it takes us to present these circumstances 
 to our readers. 
 
 Probably from the moment that Captain Hawk first made his appearance in 
 court, to that when the clerk of the arraigns rose to gubble over the unintelligible 
 jargon called the indictment, did not exceed, at the most, two or three minutes. 
 
 But in two or three minutes a heart may be broken, or a kingdom lost. 
 
 The indictment charged the prisoner, by a number of aliases, "'ith having, to 
 the disturbance of good order, the violation of the peace of the king, and contrary 
 to law, slain, murdered, and taken away the life, wrongously, of George Holme, 
 knight, and one of his majesty's judges, on the king's highway, in defiance of 
 peace. 
 
 There were several counts to the indictment, one of which charged him with 
 an aggravated assault, and another with a highway robbery; but the first and 
 most serious charge of course stood foremost, and to anyone who knew anything 
 of the circumstances, it seemed but too probable that the jury would not at all 
 be troubled about the others. 
 
 Perhaps, if anybody who had thoughts made up his mind to the issue of the 
 affair, it was the prisoner himself. 
 
 He could have very little doubt, if any, as to the termination of the judicial 
 inquir , and whether from the first he had intended to take the life of Judge* 
 Holme or not, remained as a point for his own conscience to dilate upon, and in 
 no way affected the serious charge brought against him, or its still more'serious 
 resuts. 
 
 The indictment being concluded, the prisoner was asked to plead. 
 
 All eves were turned upon him, and every ear was upon the stretch to catch the 
 first sound cf his voice. 
 
 He looked at May Boyes, and hesitated a moment ere he said in a clear, rather • 
 than a firm voice, — 
 
 " Not guilty." 
 
 The farce was then gone through of asking him how he would be tried, and 
 the appropriate answer was returned, so that the proceedings may be said to be 
 fajrly commenced. 
 
 The crown prosecuted, and the attorney-general rose to state the case to the . 
 jury. \ 
 
80 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 A breathless silence pervaded the court, the jury looked particularly anxious, as 
 well as most of those spectators who held distinguished places, on account of 
 their rank, or otherwise. ^ 
 
 From this general appearance of interest we may except the judge, who 
 leaned back on his seat with half closed eyes, as if he considered that a mere pro 
 forma part of the proceedings was takirrg place, and that all his duty consisted in 
 keeping quiet, and allowing them to proceed. 
 
 In truth, the duty of opening such a case to a jury was but a nominal one, 
 unless the advocate thought it necessary, which was not frequently the case 
 when there was no political animus to dilate on the facts. 
 
 We shall perceive, however, that his majesty's attorney-general upon this occa- 
 sion did consider that something more was necessary than a brief summary of 
 evidence, and his reason for so considering will appear in the course of his 
 address. 
 
 He rose, and after a moment's pause, commenced as follows : — 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, it will be an ungracious, as well as an invidious task, 
 for any one appearing before you in the capacity in which I now stand, to do, 
 under ordinary circumstances, much more than as briefly as consistent with per- 
 spicuity, place before you the facts presumed to be supported by evidence which 
 will be submitted to your examination concerning the guilt of the prisoner at the 
 bar. 
 
 " But, gentlemen of the jury, there are circumstances connected with this 
 case which take it out of the ordinary routine of criminal jurisprudence; strong 
 and marked circumstances, gentlemen of the jury, which induce me, notwith- 
 standing, Heaven knows I come here without an animus against the unhappy i 
 man before you, to become a little discursive with regard to the peculiar character* 
 of his offence, and to press upon your attention the great moral and social 
 circumstances which are likely to arise fiom your decision, after duly and 
 judiciously weighing the evidence brought against the prisoner. 
 
 " Far, very far be it from me, gentlemen of the jury, to attempt to aggravate 
 any one fragment of guilt which may be placed to the charge of the unhappy 
 individual arraigned before you. No, gentlemen of the jury ; unfortunately for 
 him, and unfortunately for society, his guilt, according to the instructions I have 
 received, will be but too apparent, and his punishment, according to the law of 
 the land, is not at all ambiguous. 
 
 " And when, gentlemen of the jury, we find that an individual is in such a 
 position as to be convicted of an offence as must bring with it the extreme penalty 
 of the law, we may, without doing him a personal injury, for the sake of that 
 society whose social bonds he has broken, and for reverence to that Heaven 
 whose holiest ordinances he has outraged, say somewhat more concerning the 
 character of his offence, than may be considered absolutely necessary in describ- 
 ing the measure of his guilt. Gentlemen, the mere fact that it is one of the judges 
 of the land, one of those placed in authority to administer the laws, who is pre- 
 sumed to have met his death at the hands of the prisoner at the bar, although it 
 cannot and should not add to the punishment of the prisoner, yet imparts a 
 character to the particular act deserving of the deepest and most serious con- 
 templation of all thinking men. 
 
 " It is likewise notorious that the prisoner is one, if not at the head of a class 
 of offenders, who seem, in the popular eye, to be almost invested with the attri- 
 butes of heroes. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, I say emphatically it is time that, in a civilized country 
 like this, a country making rapid strides in the arts, the sciences, and in every- 
 thing that shall make it great among the nations of the earth — I say it is time, 
 gentlemen, that in a country such as this, the mantle of invulnerability, and the 
 halo of romance should be stripped from such characters as the prisoner at the 
 bar, and that they should be held up to the public contemplation in their real 
 colours, as robbers, disturbers of the public peace, and the greatest enemies of 
 good policy and industry. 
 
NEWGATE. 81 
 
 " I do not make these observations with special reference to. the prisoner at the 
 bar, but I do make them as regards the class of men of which I consider him a 
 melancholy example ; a class which a few years will see completely extinct in 
 this country, and concerning whom our successors shall think, and speak, and 
 write as things of tradition, while they wonder that in any community such law- 
 less personages could be suffered to exist. 
 
 "These men, gentlemen of the jury, are those who, with ill-regulated minds, 
 and restless spirits, want the energy and honesty to be industrious, and, at the 
 same time, have a rapacious longing for the luxuries of existence. 
 
 "These are the men, gentlemen of the jury, who look to results solely, and 
 who, casting aside all the suggestions/rf a better conscience, are satisfied, through 
 any dirty or miry ways, to attain the goal of their ambition ; despicable alike in 
 mind as in manners, like moral pestilences, or rank weeds in the garden of 
 society, they flourish, and occupy the space which should be. devoted to goodlier 
 purposes. 
 
 No; 11 ' 
 
02 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " You will, I am quite certain, gentlemen of the jury, give me credit for speak- 
 ing in good faith, when I again assure you, that I, of all this close assembly of 
 persons, should be the very last to wish to do an injustice to the prisoner at the 
 bar, or to punish him more than he ought to be punished, as a mere individual 
 committing some social offence, because he is one of a very offensive, class which 
 commits heinous offences. 
 
 " No, gentlemen ; all I wish is, that the majesty of the laws should be clearly 
 and definitely vindicated ; and that the honest, the laborious, and the right- 
 thinking and right living classes should be protected. 
 
 "Is it not monstrous, that, in a highly civilized country like this, every spot 
 of which is well known and properly estimated, it should ever happen that any 
 individual should not be able to pursue his lawful and meritorious calling in 
 peace ? 
 
 " But, gentlemen of the jury, not to delay you longer with anything of an in- 
 troductory character, allow me at once '#ow to proceed to a description of the ac- 
 tual case, and a statement, as concise as I can make it, of the transactions w T hich 
 have this day placed the prisoner at the bar of justice. 
 
 " He is, by the indictment, which has been read to you by the clerk of the ar- 
 raigns, accused of the crime of murder, and the circumstances attendant upon 
 that crime are of such a nature as to make it one of the most cold-blooded, 
 premeditated deeds, wdiich, of that complexion, has ever been committed. 
 
 " Iji the course of his judicial career, Judge Holme had rendered himself pecu- 
 liarly obnoxious to evil-doer's. I say peculiarly obnoxious, for he did his duty ;^ 
 and, of course, you will readily understand, gentlemen of the jury, how a judge* 
 who shows a strong and marked disposition to administer the laws firmly, bej| 
 comes in bad odour with persons of the prisoner's class. If a judge were to be a 
 favourite with such persons, we might reasonably suspect that he administered 
 the laws laxly ; but his being, as Judge Holme, peculiarly disliked, was, per- 
 haps, one of the greatest compliments that could be bestowed upon that learned 
 individual. 
 
 " He, in consequence, then, of the very efficiency with which he discharged 
 the duties which the crown had, in its wisdom, entrusted to him, became a fre- 
 quent subject of conversation among that class of persons, whose vicious courses 
 he was making such great exertions to suppress. t 
 
 " Foremost, then, gentlemen, among these persons, was Captain Hawk, as he 
 chooses to call himself, the prisoner at the bar. He, gentlemen of the jury, car- 
 ried his indignation against this upright and indefatigable judge so far, and like- 
 wise his own audacity to such lengths, that he made a boast of his intention of 
 robbing the judge, as he came home from the Oxford assizes. 
 
 "This I shall be able to prove to you in evidence as we proceed ; and one 
 would, upon a hasty view of this case, have supposed that the very fact of the 
 prisoner at the bar having made that boast, would be the means of preventing 
 him from carrying it into' effect. 
 
 " Any one would have imagined, either that the officers of justice would, upon 
 such grounds, have taken measures to apprehend- the prisoner, or that Judge 
 Holme would have been sufficiently placed upon his guard to render the attempt 
 futile. 
 
 <f Gentlemen, neither of these very r/aturai results followed. Why the officers, 
 who must have known that this boast of Captain Hawk's had been made, did not 
 at once apprehend him thereupon, I know not. There was abundant justification 
 for so doing. A man who declares he intends to commit a felony, is at once, by 
 that very declaration, guilty of an indictable offence. 
 
 "But, if I cannot understand why the prisoner was allowed to be at large 
 after his boast, I readily feel how it was that my lamented friend, Judge Holme, 
 took no precaution to save himself from the consequences of such a threat. 
 
 " All who knew anything of the character of the late judge, know that he was 
 a man of the greatest courage, and of the strongest determination. The threat 
 which had been uttered against him would be just the sort of thing to prevent 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 83 
 
 him, rather than to induce him to surround himself with any extraordinary safe- 
 guards. 
 
 " With a contempt of the danger that awaited him, as he had a great con- 
 tempt for all danger, this gentleman travelled with only one servant from Oxford, 
 after the assizes. 
 
 That servant, likewise, fell a victim to, it is believed, the prisoner at the 
 bar ; and there was another man servant of the judge's, who followed his master 
 from Oxford, but who was not present at the catastrophe, although he has evi- 
 dence of an important character to give on this trial. 
 
 " Gentlemen, there is no doubt whatever about the locality in which this 
 deed was committed. It was done on Hounslow Heath, and at that part of the 
 heath lying the farthest from London, and, consequently, the nearest to the Ox- 
 ford-road ; nor can there be much doubt as to the time of the commission of the 
 deed. It was done some time between the hours of ten and eleven on the even- 
 ing named in the indictment. 
 
 " The judge left Oxford in time to arrive at about ten o'clock in the neighbour- 
 hood of Hounslow; and we may fairly assume, therefore, that before eleven the deed 
 was done. Of the actual circumstances attendant upon the horrible catastrophe, 
 we can, of course, say nothing, since the only person who can know what these 
 circumstances were, is the prisoner at the bar, and he is not likely to be com- 
 municative upon such a subject. 
 
 * Plow he and his victim met, and how they parted, is a matter of which we 
 | ^ must be in ignorance, except so far as we know that the judge was left dead, 
 J land that his murderer left the spot living. I shall be able, however, gentlemen 
 ^*of the jury, to bring before you evidence which shall so connect the prisoner at 
 the bar with the crime which is laid to his charge, that you will feel convinced 
 that he, and none but he, could have committed it. 
 
 " I have no doubt, whatever, but that you will be told, with much solemnity, 
 what a very circumstantial case this is, and begged to consider how possible it 
 may be, from merely circumstantial evidence, to take the life of a fellow- creature 
 wrongfully. But, gentlemen, you must consider, that the most careful secresy 
 generally surrounds the greatest crimes. You must consider, most especially, 
 that, in cases of murder, there are seldom, indeed, more persons present than 
 the murderer and his victim — in this case there were ; but it came to the same 
 thing, for the only other person who was present fell likewise a victim to the 
 prisoner at the bar. 
 
 " If, then, we were to pause when evidence, apparently of an extremely con- 
 clusive, although circumstantial nature, was brought before us, before we could 
 declare a man guilty, I do think that we should be holding out a strong induce- 
 ment to the crime of murder, which destroys, in very many cases, the only evi- 
 dence of some minor offence. 
 
 " I shall place before you, gentlemen of the jary, in due order, the facts upon 
 which I base my conclusion of the guilt of the prisoner. 
 
 " In the first place, I prove him to be Captain Hawk, the famous, or, if I were 
 to say, the infamous highwayman, perhaps 1 should be nearer to the mark. 
 Then I shall prove to you that he made more than once a boast that he would 
 rob Judge Holme as he came home from the Oxford assizes, and that such a 
 boast, coming from such a quarter, was much built upon by his comrades and 
 general associates. • - 
 
 "Then, gentlemen, I shall prove to you, that the prisoner was some time 
 waiting in the immediate vicinity of Hounslow Heath, no doubt, in order to 
 await the conclusion of the assizes — always a matter of some uncertainty — so 
 that he should not be out of the way when the time came for the commission of 
 the crime to which he had pledged himself. 
 
 "He actually, with an amount of assurance such as may well cause you some 
 surprise, managed to become a guest at the house of a gentleman of great re- 
 spectability, On the borders of the heath. Under the assumed name of Gerald 
 Clifton, he continued to oartake of the hospitality of Sir John Boyes, who will, 
 
84 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 this day, from the witness-box, identify the prisoner at the bar as the young 
 man in whom he took a friendly interest, when he believed him to be Gerald 
 Clifton. 
 
 " Now, although gentlemen, Sir John Boyes is no conjurer " 
 
 " Hilloa !* cried Sir John ; "what do you mean by that ? Am I to sit here 
 and be insulted ? I can tell you, sir, that the Eoyeses came in with the Con- 
 queror. Ha!" 
 
 There was a general laugh, and the judge looked angry. 
 
 " Silence ! silence I" cried the usher of the court, and in a few moments order 
 was restored ; but Sir John still was on his feet, and by his gesticulations seemed 
 about to say something more, and would have done so, had not Ratchley pulled him 
 down into his seat again by the lappel of his coat, saying, in a voice of remon- 
 strance,— 
 
 " Father, father, let them say what they like ; they only wish to draw you out, I 
 am sure." 
 
 " Draw me out V 
 
 u Yes ; to hear what you will say." 
 
 H Oh— ah ! I understand ; it is not every day they get here, in a manner of speak- 
 ing, the representative of an ancient family. Ah ! no wonder when they do they 
 k wish to draw him out, so that — a — a — yes." 
 
 " Exactly, father." 
 
 "Really, gentlemen of the jury," continued the attorney-general, "I had no 
 idea of offending Sir John Boyes, who came in with the Conqueror, although, I 
 suppose, in the crowd, since he came in, he has lost that celebrated individual." 
 
 This sally produced a laugh, in which even the judge joined ; but Sir John 
 Boyes did not at all seem to enjoy the joke, and no doubt, but for Ratchley, he 
 would have risen again. 
 
 "However, gentlemen," continued the attorney-general, *' if Sir John Boyes feel 
 himself at all offended, I have no objection in the world to soothe his wounded 
 feelings by admitting that he is a conjuror." 
 
 The jury smiled, and the judge coughed in his handkerchief to save himself from 
 laughing. 
 
 " Then," added the counsel, " I shall be able to prove to you the identity of 
 Gerald Clifton with Captain Hawk, the celebrated highwayman. I shall be able to 
 show you that he was seen, in his assumed character of Gerald Clifton, at Boyes' 
 Hall, up to a certain hour ; and that then, disappearing from the Hall, he was seen 
 upon the heath as Captain Hawk, the highwayman. By evidence it will be seen 
 that he was on the Oxford-road, evidently waiting for some one, and who could that 
 one have been but Judge Holme ? 
 
 " After that, it will be found that he was apprehended close to the spot where the 
 murder was committed, and that he scarcely made an attempt to deny the deed 
 which he now declares himself not guilty of when arraigned before you. 
 
 " I admit that all the evidence is circumstantial; but if we show that a deed is 
 committed, and we know that that, deed must have resulted from some human 
 agency, and we then show that no one but a certain individual was in circumstances 
 to commit it, it is as good as if we saw him do it with our own eyes, and so had 
 ocular demonstration of his guilt. 
 
 " This is the case as regards the prisoner at the bar. If he did not murder 
 Judge Holme, who did? I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, most emphatically, 
 who did ? 
 
 " I have but very little more now to say, gentlemen. The defence is in very 
 good and very eloquent hands ; but you will think for yourselves, and compare facts 
 with facts ; and, as regards the minor indictments which are this day preferred 
 against the prisoner, since they are all contingent upon his greater offence, they 
 could only become of consequence if, by any legal quibble, this notorious malefactor 
 should escape the hands of justice. 
 
 "It, however, would appear to me so wonderfully improbable anything should, 
 in the course of this investigation, come out, which should throw any reasonable 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 doubt on your minds of the guilt of the prisoner, I should be one of the very first 
 persons to implore you to give him the full benefit of such doubt ; for no one more 
 than myself world shrink from the conviction of any man, except upon the very 
 clearest presumption of his guilt." 
 
 The attorney-general sat down. He had concluded all he wished to say, in 
 opening the case to the jury. 
 
 It was quite evident that he considered he had so strong a case against Captain 
 Hawk, that his escape was a matter of impossibility ; and that now a very short 
 time indeed would suffice to make that individual a matter of history, by his being 
 hanged, and so put out of the world. In fact, this was the general expectation, and 
 a hope of extricating him, whom truth compels us to call a bold, bad man, from 
 his present awkward circumstances, reigned but in a very few breasts indeed. 
 
 The whole trial was only regarded as food for curiosity by the legal persons pre- 
 sent. The conviction of the prisoner they looked upon as a thing of course. 
 
 But, for all this, there was, in the address of the attorney-general, too much of the 
 spirit of partizanship against a fallen man. He spoke by far too confident of the 
 guilt of the prisoner, who, as he had not yet been convicted, was certainly, accord- 
 ing to the policy of the English law, entitled to be considered innocent. 
 
 The animus, however, of a counsel against a prisoner was not likely to do him 
 much harm, for it would either be so far covered up as not to show itself sufficiently, 
 and so would not affect the jury, or it would be so apparent that even they would 
 be able, with their small amount of apprehension on such matters, to see that it was 
 g prejudice, and give it little weight accordingly. 
 
 The judge, likewise, who then considered himself as counsel for the prisoner, 
 m would have prevented any such injustice being done him, even had there existed all 
 the will to do so. 
 
 In calling a witness, and in submitting him to an examination, it was impossible 
 but that he should say something which might be considered a remark, so from one 
 thing the criminal lawyer had got to another, until at last the counsel for the 
 accused, as they do at present, were allowed to say what they liked, and to revel in 
 the realms of fiction to the full extent of their own fancy so to do. 
 
 Mr. Pump, to whom had been entrusted the preparation for the defence of the 
 prisoner, was just about the last man to throw away a chance of any sort or descrip- 
 tion whatever, so he had instructed counsel to make an objection to the indictment, 
 which then might be done either when that document was read, or after the case 
 had been opened, which process might be considered as an extended reading of the 
 indictment. 
 
 This gentleman now rose, and said, while the eyes of the whole court were fixed 
 intently upon him, — 
 
 " My lord, I have a technical objection to make to the indictment, which, in the 
 event of the conviction of the prisoner — a circumstance, by-the-bye, almost impos- 
 sible, innocent as he is — I have respectfully to request your lordship to notice." 
 
 " What is it V said the judge." 
 
 " A misdescription of the party said to have been murdered by the prisoner at 
 the bar." 
 
 " In what way V 
 
 " The name, my lord." 
 
 '* Very well, I will make a note of it. But I think I understand to what you 
 allude, and I fear the court, if such be the case, cannot go with you." 
 " With all submission to your lordship, I — . — " 
 f Not now — not now, if you please." 
 
 The counsel sat down. He had done all that the point required — that is, he had 
 raised it agreeably to his instructions, and he was satisfied, although a prisoner's 
 counsel will always parley with the judge, if the latter will let him, or, indeed, 
 with any one else, because he considers that it will be a hard case indeed, if, during 
 such a parley, he cannot put in something favourable to his client, whether it be, as 
 the novelists say, " founded on fact," or not. 
 
 The first witness who- was called answered to the name of Mathew Clarke, and 
 
8G 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 and there was some little trouble experienced before he could be got at, as he was 
 wedged in among the crowd in a manner which looked rather as if he had been 
 trying to make his escape from the court, than remain in it. 
 
 He was as thorough a specimen of a ruffian as ever could be exhibited, and some 
 little appearance of his being attired in what doubtless he considered his holiday 
 costume, made him look ten times worse. 
 
 ** Mathew Clarke," shouted the proper officer, repeatedly, before this ft How made 
 his appearance; and when he did so, and stepped into the witness-box, a low hiss 
 came from the crowd in the court, as if he had been recognised by a number of 
 the body. 
 
 " If," said the judge, " officers, you can lay your hands upon any one whom you 
 can swear adopted such a means as I have just heard of intimidating a witness, I 
 will instantly commit him, ani have him indicted for the offence, as surely as I am 
 a living man." 
 
 These words, uttered with a sincerity that no one could for a moment dcubt, for 
 they carried it in their tone, produced an instant silence, and the witness who had 
 shrunk a little, and looked cowed, glanced around him with more confidence, but he 
 carefully avoided meeting the eyes of Captain Hawk. 
 
 The attorney -general rose, and said, — 
 
 " What is your name P 
 
 " Mathew Clarke." 
 
 " Do you know personally the prisoner at the bar ? w 
 « Yes." 
 
 " You will please to look at him." 
 
 • Oh ! I know him, without looking at him again. I have looked at him." 
 
 " Witness," said the judge, " how dare you stand there, and swear you know 
 the prisoner at the bar without looking at him ? How do you know what prisoner 
 may be at the bar this moment?" 
 
 Thus admonished, the witness slowly turned and looked at Hawk, and then he 
 shrank from before the withering gaze of contempt that rested upon his face. 
 
 " Do you know him?" said the attorney-general. 
 
 " Yes — yes." 
 
 " State what you know of him." 
 
 " He is commonly called Captain Hawk. I don't know his real name. He is 
 the well-known highwayman." 
 
 " Did you ever know of his going by the name of Clifton?" 
 
 " Not of myself; but Bill Hammond told me he was called by the gentlefolks, 
 Gerald Clifton." 
 
 " Where were you on the night of the alleged murder V 
 
 " In London." 
 
 " You have no doubt whatever of the identity of the prisoner at the bar, I 
 presume?" 
 
 " Doubt ! No. I know him a good dealt too well for that." 
 " Very good ; you may go down, unless my learned friend has anything to say 
 to you." 
 
 " Only a word," said Hawk's counsel, and rising, he fixed his eyes upon the 
 face of the witness for full a minute's space before he spoke. Then, in a loud voice 
 he said, — 
 
 " What has the prisoner at the bar done to you? Speak, sir — upon your oath, 
 I say, what has the prisoner at the bar done to you?" 
 
 The fellow quailed before the counsel, and, as if he could not help himself, he 
 said, — • 
 
 " He struck me with his riding-whip. He — he * 
 
 • " You may go down, I have done with you. The prisoner for some good cause 
 horsewhipped you, and you come here, then, to swear anything you can, to be 
 revenged upon him.' Go down, sir, directly; 1 will not humiliate myself, and insult 
 the jury, by asking such a man another question." 
 
 A slight smile — so slight that it was scarcely observable — passed aeross the 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 87 
 
 features of the attorney-general, while the judge looked as calm and solid as if 
 nobody had raised his voice above a whisper. 
 
 But this little episode was intended for the jury, and was not, of course, expected 
 to have any effect upon any of the professional persons present, beyond one of 
 curious calculation as to the tact, or otherwise, with which it was done. 
 
 " Call William Hammond," said the attorney-general. 
 
 William Hammond was called, but, like the spirits of Glendower, be came not 
 when he was called for, and after a time it was quite clear that, this witness for the 
 prosecution did not intend to put in an appearance at all'. 
 
 All this told for the defence, and Hawk's counsel took care to mutter something 
 about people's consciences coming over them at the last moment, sufficiently loud 
 for some of the jury to hear, by which he meant to imply that the aforesaid 
 William Hammond was to have come and done something formidable in the per- 
 jury line, but had repented of the same. 
 
 " My lord," said the attorney-general, " I am afraid the witnesses for the prose- 
 cution are intimidated by the lawless associates of the prisoner." 
 
 " Shew that," said the judge, " and I will shew those persons that the arm of the 
 law is quite long enough to reach them." 
 
 " I am not just now, my lord, in a position to bring parties before you, but I 
 shall be, without doubt. I now call John Foster." 
 
 John Foster was close at hand, and easily found. He looked like some decent 
 sort of mechanic. 
 
 " What are you^ John Foster?" said the attorney-general. 
 
 " I am a saddler, residing at Oxford. Have been a resident there for twelve 
 years, and have many customers among the collegians — among the rest, Mr. Ratchley 
 Boyes. Know that gentleman well by sight, as well as a friend of his, of the name 
 of Clifton. Has heard the last named person called Mr. Gerald Clifton. The 
 prisoner now at the bar of this court is the individual called Gerald Clifton — will 
 swear to that distinctly — have seen him more than a hundred times." 
 
 The attorney-general was done with this witness, but the prisoner's counsel 
 seemed quite resolved that he would let no one escape, so he rose, and said, — 
 
 <r Well, Mr. Foster, you have sworn very confidently to the prisoner at the bar 
 being the same person whom you knew at Oxford, as a Mr. Gerald Clifton." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, you will, I have no doubt, feel regret — because you are a respectable 
 man, and I am sure would scorn, on any consideration, to perjure yourself — to find 
 that you were actually mistaken." 
 
 « Well, I should." * „ ■ 
 
 " Very good. You may go down." 
 
 Everybody looked terribly puzzled to know what the counsel wanted to prove 'by. 
 this. Perhaps, in proportion to its obscurity, they considered that it was profound i 
 but certainly Mr. Foster, who seemed a simple-minded man enough, left the 
 witness-box, looking very much bewildered, and rather uneasy. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury," said the attorney-general, " the next witness whom I 
 shall call before you, is named John Sargent, and was the confidential domestic of 
 "the late lamented Judge Holme. 1 ' 
 
 This witness was attired in deep mourning, and when he -*was placed in the 
 witness-box, everybody felt that now there would come something like a distinct 
 narrative of how the murder was done. 
 
 ■ " Your name is John Sargent 1" ' N 
 
 « It is." 
 
 " You were the confidential servant of the late Judge Holme V 
 " I was." 
 
 " Please, then, to state to the jury, as fully and distinctly as you can, the circum- 
 stances attendant upon the death of your master." 
 
 There was a pause of some moments' duration, and then this man commenced, 
 with considerable clearness, his narrative. 
 
 " The judje, my master," he said, " spoke to me at Oxford about some family 
 
88 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 affairs, before he left there ; and then he spoke about the highwayman who was 
 reported to have said he would rob him before he got to his house in London." 
 
 "Were these family affairs strictly of a private nature V said the attorney- 
 general. 
 
 " Why, in a manner they were, rather." 
 
 " I merely ask the witness this question, gentlemen of the jury, because we 
 have found, by such experience as enforces upon the most sceptical mind the 
 truth of the phenomenon that many persons, previous to death, feel a kind of 
 conviction or a presentiment that the end of their mortal career is at hand, and 
 make such arrangements connected with their worldly affairs as such a state may 
 warrant." 
 
 "I don't know now that there is any necessity," said the judge's servant, 
 " for keeping what my master said a secret, but it has nothing to do with the 
 case." 
 
 " Then there can be no use in stating it," said the judge. 
 " Well, then, go on with the regular narrative." 
 
 " I answered the judge, when he spoke of the highwayman, and advised him 
 to take some precautions against the expected attack, but he would not do so." 
 * f Were you with him on his journey to town V 
 
 '* I was not. The servant who accompanied him was named Gowers, and was 
 killed on the heath. I was on horseback, and having been left by my master at 
 Oxford, to execute some commissions there for him, I did not expect to reach 
 London until some time after his arrival." 
 
 " Was that the case 2" 
 
 " No ; it appears that, in consequence of the darkness of some portions of the 
 night, and my losing my way upon the heath, I passed him ; but I turned again 
 upon believing, in consequence of inquiries I made of persons coming down the 
 road, convincing me that the judge's carriage had not passed, and I again struck 
 upon the heath.'" 
 
 <* When was that ?" 
 
 " As nearly as I can guess " 
 
 " We cannot have guessing. Can you or can you not swear to us what was 
 the hour when you, for the second time that night, were upon Hounslow 
 Heath?" 
 
 " It struck eleven soon after I was there." 
 " You are quite clear of that :" 
 
 " Oh, quite. I cannot be mistaken on such a point." 
 " Go on, then." 
 
 " I struck across the heath in what I considered would be the direction of the 
 Oxford. road, and as I did so my heart misgave me that all was not right, and I 
 longed to meet my master. After I had gone some distance, 1 fancied I heard 
 some sounds indicative of strife, and I spurred forwards." 
 
 ** Were those sounds voices ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and I thought 1 heard wheels and horses' feet. I redoubled my speed, 
 and then suddenly a horseman crossed my path." 
 " Was he coming fast ?" . 
 " No ; at a gentle sort of trot, merely." 
 '* Describe him." 
 
 " He wore a scarlet coat, and a hat looped up with some jewel, as it looked to 
 me. His cravat struck me as being rich looking, and the horse he rode was a 
 dark bay. He reined in a moment when he saw me, and then he clapped spurs 
 to his steed, I suppose, for the animal gave a great bound, as if suddenly urged 
 painfully, and in another moment he passed me." 
 
 '* Did you see his face?" 
 
 " Plainly." 
 
 " Look at the prisoner at the bar." 
 
 The witness turned and looked steadfastly at Hawk, and the eyes Of every one 
 in the court took the same direction. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 80 
 
 " Was that the person you met, in the way you have now described, upon 
 Hounslow V \ 
 " To the best of my belief, yes." 
 '* Will you swear to his identity?'* 
 
 * I will. There surely cannot be two people so much alike." 
 "What followed V 1 
 
 Sie p. 77. 
 
 " Not knowing, of course, what had happened, I rode on, and found my mas- 
 ter murdered on the heath. Gowers, the roan who had gone with him, was dying 
 too, and all he said was, * f»top him ! stop him ! he is yet in sight.' " 
 
 " You gave an alarm V 
 
 " I rather think I did ; but the fact was, I became so ill from nervousness and 
 horror, that I could not guide my horse, and I was thrown, and struck my head 
 so forcibly, that it was broad daylight when 1 recovered, and then I crawled to 
 
 No. 12. 
 
90 NEWGATE 
 
 the nearest habitation, and found that the dead body of my master had baen 
 taken to Boyes Hall." » 
 
 " And that, then, is all you know of these circumstances ?" 
 
 « That is all." 
 
 As the witness spoke these words, the jury looked at each other, as if they 
 would have said, "And enough, too!" 
 
 " My learned brother," remarked the attorney- general, "for the defence, may 
 have some questions to ask you." 
 
 Hawk's counsel rose and said, solemnly, — 
 
 *' You are quite clear that it was eleven o'clock you heard strike after you came 
 upon the heath ?" 
 
 " I counted every stroke." 
 
 " And from all you saw, when you came up to the spot where your master lay, 
 it was clear to you, I presume, that the murder had been freshly committed ?" 
 
 "There is no doubt upon my mind, whatever, that the man I met was coming 
 from the commission of the deed." 
 
 " That will do. 1 have no more questions to ask of you." 
 
 Everybsdy looked a little amazed at this rather brief cross-examination of a 
 principal witness, and the mdre especially, too, as that cross-examination seemed 
 only t3 have for its object the bringing out, in yet stronger language, what the 
 witness had already deposed to, and the whole of wlaich seemed to be so very 
 much against the prisoner. 
 
 The next witness called was a man who, at ten o/clock, had been passed on the 
 Oxford-road by Judge Holmes's carriage, which he knew, and which then was 
 more than three quarters of an hour's drive, at the rate fee was going, from 
 Hounslow ; so that there was abundant evidence to prove that the de^q 1 °f 
 blood must have been committed some time betweAa ten and eleven, but much 
 nearer to the latter hour than the former. 
 
 Hawk's counsel again questioned this witness as to the exactness of the time, 
 and that was all he seemed desirous of doing. 
 
 Then followed some evidence which fead been detailed at the inquest, and the 
 statement of the officer who had captured Captain Hawk in the immediate 
 scene of the murder. After this, Sir John Boyes was called. 
 
 The moment his name was announced, he gave a groan, for now he made 
 sure that he was about to be terribly pestered on account of tbe extraordinary 
 proceedings connected with the most mysterious abstraction, and then the most 
 mysterious return, of the family watcfe, which had given ihim so much uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 He was sworn, and the attorney-general, in a conciliatory voice, said to him, — 
 *< Sir John Boyes, I am quite sure that you have not done me the injustice 
 in your mind of supposing for one moment that, in the few remarks which fell 
 from me during my address to the jury, I intended in anyway to attack you, or 
 to cast a slur upon the illustrious name yon bear?" 
 <( Ahem !" said Sir John, "I am satisfied." 
 
 « Will vou then, Sir John, oblige me by looking at the prisoner at the bar?" 
 «*| have hardly," said Sir John, "been doing anything else for two hours." 
 " Will you look again, Sir John f 
 " Very good." 
 
 « Is he the person who partook of the hospitality of Boyes Hall under the 
 name of Gerald Clifton V* 
 "Yes." 
 
 * You can swear unhesitatingly to that V 
 " Of course I can." 
 
 "What were his habits while residing at the Hall?" 
 
 " His habits ! Oh, he always drank three bottles of the best wine." 
 
 "But what did he do of an evening?" 
 
 " That I cannot tell, for he generally went out after dinner, and we never saw 
 anything more of him till breakfast time." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 91 
 
 " Did not this singular proceeding excite your astonishment and suspicion V 
 ic Wei!, it did ; but then, you see, in a manner of speaking, I go to sleep my- 
 self after dinner, and in the evening I converse with the ancient authors in my 
 , library; so, taking one thing with another, I — I— a — exactly." 
 
 " Nothing can be clearer, Sir John ; I have nothing more to trouble ybu 
 about." 
 
 Sir John drew a long breath of relief, and was congratulating himself that the 
 watch business would not come to light, when the counsel for Captain Hawk 
 rose, and then his heart died within him. 
 
 " I have to request, Sir John Boyes, that you will not leave the court," he 
 , said ; " I believe that you have had a subpoena as a witness for the defence ?" 
 
 g I have." 
 
 j " This is strange and irregular," said the attorney-general. " Why cannot my 
 learned friend, now that the witness is in the box, examine him V 
 
 " Because it is not time," said Hawk's counsel. w It may be unusual for the 
 i defence to summon one of the witnesses for the prosecution, but it may be done, 
 and it confers upon me the right of calling upon Sir John when I please." 
 " Certainly, certainly, " said the judge. 
 
 Sir John then was relieved for a time, and returned to his seat. 
 The next witness was a countryman, who gave his name Jervis, and he deposed 
 as follows : — 
 
 " I was walking on the Oxford-road, about three miles on the other side of Houns- 
 low and towards London, when I was overtaken by a horseman who came up at a 
 trot, and said to me, — 
 
 " ' Hilloa, my friend, have you seen a coach pass?' 1 No,' said I. < Thank you/ 
 he said, and he trotted on. After a time I met him again, and he appeared to me 
 to be waiting for the coach he mentioned." 
 
 " Can you describe the man V* 
 
 " Yes ; he wore a scarlet coat — a handsome lace cravat. He looked tall in the 
 saddle, and rode a dark bay horse." 
 
 " Can you swear that the prisoner at the bar is the man P* 
 " I should not like to swear it, but he's wonderfully like him." 
 16 What time was this t? 
 
 'f At half-past nine. I looked at my watch. It's always right. It' 
 watch." 
 
 *' The idea," muttered Sir John, " of common people having family Watches. 
 What will the world come to V 
 
 " That will do," said the attorney-general. 
 
 Hawk's counsel declined asking any questions of this witness. 
 
 A groom of Sir John Boyes was now called, who said that at about half-past 
 eight o'clock on the evening in question, Gerald Clifton rode from the Hal!, and he 
 was confident came not back again. 
 
 Of this witness no questions was asked, and now there was a slight pause, aftei 
 which the attorney-general said,— 
 
 " Gentleman of the jury, that is the case for the prosecution." 
 
 Captain Hawk's counsel rose on the moment, and never had mortal man a more 
 confident look, as he said, in a loud clear voice that was heard distinctly in eveiy 
 corner of the crowded court, — 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, it is my cheering and delightful task to prove to you 
 the innocence of the prisoner at the bar of this heavy and grievous offence against 
 the laws of God and of man, that which he stands most unjustly charged with 
 before you." - 
 
 The very counsel at the bar looked at each other, as much as to say, " Well, that's 
 eool, at all events," for not one of those learned gentlemen entertained the least doubt 
 about the guilt of the prisoner, and they looked upon his conviction as a thing of 
 . course, after the powerful amount of evidence, circumstantial though it was, which 
 . was brought forward to connect him with the terrible and murderous deed. 
 
 The attorney-general shook his head, and looked as if he would have said ' 
 
 i . . - . . 
 
92 NEWGATE. 
 
 " My learned brother, you are going a little too far." 
 
 But nothing daunted by the general surprise with which his declaration had been 
 received, the counsel continued,— 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, 
 
 " The case now before you is, to my mind, one of the most remarkable which has 
 ever been brought to the cognizance of this court, it is a case resting solely upon 
 circumstantial evidence, but that circumstantial evidence appears to be of so strong 
 a character, as to leave no room whatever for a doubt of any reasonable description 
 concerning the guilt of the prisoner. 
 
 " He and the person passing by the name of Gerald Clifton to the family of Sir 
 John Boyes, are sworn to be one and the same person ; and, moreover, he is sworn 
 to be the celebrated highwayman, known popularly as Captain Hawk. 
 
 46 Gentlemen, we admit all that. It is Gerald Clifton, alias Captain Hawk, who 
 stands at that bar ; but he is guiltless of the crime for which he stands here accused, 
 and such being the case, whatever else he may have done, or whatever may be 
 his crimes, or his notions of morality, he is as much entitled to an acquittal at your 
 hands as if he were one of the most useful, as well as one of the most virtuous and 
 distinguished ornaments of society. 
 
 " Gentlemen, so far from shrinking in any way from the case, and from the array 
 of evidence which the learned gentleman who has conducted the prosecution con- 
 sidered it his duty to lay before you, I glory in that case and those facts, inasmuch 
 as from them shall I be able to prove the innocence of the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 " As the case of my learned friend stands, it is this, — 
 
 " Captain Hawk, the highwayman by repute, and the prisoner at the bar, for I 
 admit him to be that personage, introduced himself as Gerald Clifton to the family 
 of Sir John Boyes, with what object is not stated, nor does it matter as regards this 
 truly singular case. At eight o'clock on the evening in question — that evening on 
 which Judge Holmes was returning from the Oxford assizes, he, Clifton, left 
 Boyes Hall. At half-past he is met on the Oxford -road by a witness, who will not 
 actually swear to the identity of the prisoner at the bar with the person whom he so 
 met. • At ten o'clock the judge's carriage is seen proceeding towards Hounslow, and 
 somewhere between ten and eleven the deed must have been committed. 
 
 " Thus we have Captain Hawk's time pretty well accounted for from eight o'clock 
 in the evening until eleven, when he passed the witness, John Sargent. This, with 
 all deference to my learned friend, I understand to be a fair and comprehensive 
 statement of his case. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, it is a very perfect case— a very capital case — a very 
 clear case — with one exception, and that is, that the prisoner at the bar is not the 
 man who was met on the Oxford-road — not the man who attacked the judge, and 
 not the man who passed John Sargent on the night of the murder as the clock struck 
 eleven. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, I say this most advisedly. There never was, and I do 
 think I shall not be going too far, if I say there never will be, a more perfect alibi 
 proved in a court of justice than I shall this day prove for the unjustly accused 
 prisoner at the bar." 
 
 Everybody looked amazed, and not among the least so, was Captain Hawk, who 
 gazed upon the face of his counsel with a fixed expression of wonder and incredulity 
 that was observed by many in court ; and which tended, among such, to induce an 
 ) pinion that the counsel would surely break down in so daring a defence. 
 - «< Gentlemen/' he continued, " I will now give you a true^version of what occurred 
 on that eventful evening, as regards the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 " His motive in introducing himself to the family of Sir John Boyes, by the name 
 of Gerald Clifton, was a good one. He lamented the course of life which he was 
 leading, and he thought if he could awaken an interest in him sufficiently strong in 
 that family to warrant him in doing so with safety, he would one day tell them who 
 and what he was, and bespeak Sir John's good offices to release him from a course 
 of existence not in accordance with his real wishes. 
 
 <« But now to the charge, — 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 93 
 
 " He was pressed for money — very much pressed for money, not for his own pur- 
 poses, but for the necessities of another, whom he felt bound to by ties he would 
 not and could not break. On the evening in question he resolved — and luckily for 
 him that he did so— that he would ride to London, and endeavour, among some 
 persons who knew him in the metropolis, to raise the sum he wanted. 
 
 " So urgent was his necessity that he felt desperate, and there can be but little 
 doubt of the fact, that if a good opportunity had presented itself on that evening 
 he would not have scrupled, by some robbery, to take what he waated. 
 
 " After leaving Boyes Hall, he went to the Talbot Inn, where he was known as 
 Gerald Clifton. He remained there for some time, and he did ask the landlady 
 to lend him some money, which she would have done had she had it in the 
 house. 
 
 " He was however disappointed ; he got none, and he returned to Boyes Hall. 
 He tied his horse to a gate, and made his way on to a terrace, which was along 
 one side of the mansion, and which is accessible from the library window. It 
 was now fast, and he saw Sir John Boyes sitting in his library reading. He 
 lingered for a time, asking himself if he should attempt to borrow the sum of 
 money he wanted of Sir John or not. 
 
 " He determined upon not doing so ; but, with a recklessness of character which 
 belongs to him, and an almost boyish spirit of mischief, he then, attired as he was 
 in his highwayman costume— for mark you, gentlemen of the jury, he had con- 
 sumed some time in going to a hut upon the heath, and changing the ordinary 
 dress of Gerald Clifton for the more startling and dashing attire of the knight of 
 the road — opened one of the windows, and stepped into Sir John's library. 
 
 " His intention was merely to startle the old gentleman, but upon seeing how 
 paralysed he was by the sudden and most unexpected visit, he laid hands on Sir 
 John's watch, which lay before him, merely in a frolic, and took it away. 
 
 " It was then half-past ten, the very time when one of the witnesses deposes to 
 having seen Captain Hawk on the Oxford-road, some three miles or so from 
 Hounslow. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, he then left Boyes Hall, mounted his horse, and rode 
 to London. At one minute to eleven I have a witness who deposed to seeing him 
 some miles on the London-road, and at eleven you have the evidence of John 
 Sargent, that he saw a man upon the heath, who, no doubt, was the murderer of 
 Judge Holme. 
 
 "And now, gentlemen of the jury, I can prove to you that the prisoner now 
 at the bar was at Tyburn-gate at ten minutes past eleven ; at a public-house in 
 Oxford-street, at a little over the quarter-past that hour, when he drank some wine, 
 and was seen by half-a-dozen persons, after which he rode off in the direction of 
 Hoi born. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, I need follow his movements no further. The man 
 who took the watch of Sir John Boyes from him in the library at Boyes Hall at 
 half-past ten, or earlier a little, as indeed it was, could not be at the same time, 
 or nearly so, three miles on the Oxford- road, trotting to and fro, and asking people 
 if they had seen a carriage pass. The man who, a little before eleven, was 
 miles away, could not, at a quarter before that hour, stop Judge Holme, and then 
 at eleven pass John Sargent on the heath, and be then at Tyburn-gate at ten 
 minutes past eleven. 
 
 " Moreover, I have a witness, a public officer, of the name of Long, who can 
 depose at ten o'clock to seeing a person on the heath in all respects resembling 
 the prisoner, and whom he believed to be Captain Hawk, at half-past nine, and 
 to dodging him about till ten, at which hour he warned a young female, whom 
 he met on horseback, of the proximity of the highwayman. 
 
 "Thus you will see, gentlemen of the jury, what a mass of contradictions is 
 brought before you on this subject, and how it will become evident to you that 
 although Judge Holme has been stopped on Hounslow Heath, and most foully 
 murdered, that dreadful deed has not been done by the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 " You will bear in mind, gentlemen of the jury, that no question is raised with 
 
94 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 r egard to the identity of the prisoner at the bar with the Gerald Clifton, who was 
 the guest of Sir John Boyes. The groom of Sir John, one of the witnesses for 
 the prosecution, has proved to you that Gerald Clifton left Boyes Hall at eight, 
 and now, gentlemen of the jury, it is my duty to trace his proceedings on that 
 evening till eleven." 
 
 The first witness now called was Peter Butts, the landlord of the Talbot, and 
 he said, — 
 
 "Mr. Gerald Clifton was at my house on the night of the murder till quite 
 nine. He trotted off across the heath." 
 
 The attorney- general, who had listened with evident wonder to the line of 
 defence taken up, rose, and said to this witness,—- 
 
 " In what direction did he trot off?" 
 
 " Towards the Oxford-road." 
 
 " Do you recognise in the person at the bar Gerald Clifton ?" 
 V Oh, to be sure." 
 
 <l What do you mean by quite nine ?" 
 
 " About five minutes or so past. He seemed queer in his mind, and drank 
 hard." 
 
 Long, the officer, who had had so bad a reception from Sir John Boyes, was 
 then called, and he deposed to seeing Captain Hawk upon the heath at half-past 
 nine, and dogged him about till ten, when he warned a young girl, whom he met 
 on horseback, of the vicinity of that noted highwayman. 
 
 Then Sir John Boyes was re-called. 
 
 The moment Sir John heard his name again pronounced, he gave a groan, for 
 eow he suspected that the watch affair was at last coming out ; he had only 
 been saved up for the express purpose of dumbfoundering him at last, when he 
 least' expected it. 
 
 He sat still for a few moments, but the crier of the court again pronounced his 
 name, and as all eyes were turned upon him, he had no resource but to rise, which 
 he did, and addressing the judge, he said, — 
 
 " Really, my lord, a— a— in a manner of speaking, you know, I have said all I 
 want to say." 
 
 " But we will trouble you, Sir John Boyes," said the counsel for Captain 
 Hawk, " to add something to the testimony, which, in the sacred cause of truth 
 and justice, we know that you will be the last man in the whole world to shrink 
 from/' 
 
 This was attacking poor Sir John on his weak 'point. Alas ! that such a 
 great man should have a weak point ; but so it was, and, candidly speaking, we 
 really cannot help it. He walked to the witness-box, muttering as he did so that, 
 at all events, there were some lawyers who seemed to know what was due to rank 
 and illustrious descent. 
 
 The ceremony of swearing Sir John, as it had been done on the occasion of his 
 examination for the prisoner, was not again necessary, and the judge told him to 
 take notice of the facts. 
 
 " Now, Sir John Boyes," commenced the counsel of Captain Hawk, *' from a 
 gentlemen of your rank and station, and high character, any remark is of import- 
 ance, and your testimony in favour of the prisoner at the bar will consequently 
 be of the very greatest vital importance." 
 
 " A-hem I" coughed Sir John. 
 
 " Now, sir, how did you pass your time on the evening in which this 
 alleged murder was committed, with which the prisoner at the bar stands 
 charged ?'' 
 
 " Why, a-hem I After coffee with my Lady Boyes, I retired to converse with 
 the ancient authors." 
 "Where?" 
 
 " In my library. I assure the court that I consider." 
 
 "Certainly, certainly. But be so good, Sir John, before you bestow those 
 remarks upon things in general, which I know will be listened to by every- 
 
" ■ — * 11 '" ■ — "" — est 
 
 NEWGATE. 95 
 
 body in this court with the greatest satisfaction, to tell us what occurred while 
 you were there reading the works of the ancient authors t* 
 
 f What occurred ?— a — a hem !" 
 
 "Yes; what occurred ?" 
 
 " Why— a — a — my family watch ; I suppose you want to know about my 
 familv watch ?" 
 " Yes, Sir John." 
 
 " Then the fact is, that, while I was reading one of the ancient authors, a most 
 singular circumstance occurred. The window of the library was opened, and a 
 man came in. He walked up to me, and he took away my family watch. That's 
 a fact." 
 
 " And what did you do V* 
 
 " Oh, what did I do ? What would you have done ?" 
 
 " Well, Sir John, if you really wish to know what I should have done, I should 
 have said to myself — what is a family watch compared to the life of a^ fellow 
 creature? I will not rise up and smash this fellow, as I might, but I will let him 
 take the watch, at the same time that I will give him such'a look, as shall haunt 
 him while he lives, and which may awaken the pangs of conscience sufficiently to 
 induce him to return the watch/' 
 
 <£ Yes, yes," cried Sir John ; " that's just what I did ; you are a remarkably clever 
 man, sir ; and I can only say that I shall be very happy, at any time, to see you at 
 Boyes Kali." 
 
 " Many thanks, Sir John. I feel the honour/'' 
 
 Sir John looked round him with quite a triumphant expression of countenance. 
 Here he was, by the ingenuity of the counsel, relieved from his great difficulty, 
 namely, how to explain why he had allowed himself to be robbed- in his own house 
 by one man — he, the illustrious descendant of all the Boyeses — those Boyeses, who 
 had fought at Agincourt, at Cressey, and at Poictiers. It was a wonderful relief to 
 find an argument placed in his mouth which converted what looked like pusilanimity 
 into magnanimity. Sir John was wonderfully pleased. 
 
 "Now, sir,*' added the counsel, " you will be so good as to tell the jury at what 
 hour precisely this occurrence happened." 
 
 " At half-past ten o'clock." 
 
 " Are you certain ?" 
 
 " Yes. The unhappy individual, to whom I really showed, I consider, more con- 
 sideration than he deserved, called my attention to the time." 
 " Then there can be no doubt ; and you swear to the fact V? 
 " Oh, yes — certainly." 
 
 " That will do, Sir John ; I regret to have troubled you at such length, but the 
 jury will perceive, from this most important testimony, that the accused person 
 could not have been upon the Oxford road and in Sir John Boyes's library at one 
 and the same time." 
 
 ' The attorney- general now rose, before Sir John quitted the box, and he said to 
 him, — 
 
 " Sir John Boyes, did you know that the prisoner at the bar was the person who 
 took your watch V 
 
 « Why, no ; I could not swear to that." 
 
 " Then it might have been some one else, while the prisoner at the bar, of course,, 
 for all you know, might have been elsewhere ?" 
 
 " Why, yes ; it was like him, but I eannot swear it was the man.'* 
 " Very well ; I have no further questions to ask of you." 
 
 The next witness that was called for the defence was a man named John Lee, and 
 he was the waggoner that had been stopped by May Boyes on her route to London, 
 while she was personating Captain Hawk, with the intention of saving him from the, 
 consequences of whatever crimes he might, commit on that eventful night, although 
 she little suspected that the one he would commit would at all approach in enormity 
 that of murder. " 
 
 This man stated as follows :— " 
 
96 NEWGATE. 
 
 "It wanted about ten minutes to eleven, when first I heard the sound of horses 
 feet, and in a few minutes more the waggon was stopped by Captain Hawk, the 
 great highwayman. He asked me if there was anybody worth robbing m the wag- 
 gon, and I told as there wasn't, and he asked me what o'clock it were, and I told 
 turn what o'clock it were." 
 
 " Which way did he ride V 
 
 " Towards London." 
 
 " You are certain it had not struck eleven?" 
 
 " Quite. Oh, bless you, yes — quite." . 
 « You may now tell the jury if the prisoner at the bar is the person who stopped 
 you on the highway." 
 
 " Well, he hadn't that coat on." 
 
 " No ; but do you think he is the man V* 
 
 "Well, I do." 
 
 " Very well ; you may go down now." - 
 
 " Wait a moment," said the attorney-general. « John Lee, will you swear that 
 the prisoner at the bar was the man who stopped you ? Remember, you are on your 
 solemn oath, and that the life of a fellow-creature is in the balance. I repeat, will 
 you, as a man of conscience, swear that the prisoner at the bar is the^same person 
 who stopped your waggon in the manner you have related to the jury?" 
 
 The waggoner listened to this appeal with some appearance of terror, and then he 
 looked hard at the prisoner for some time, after which he shook his head and said, 
 
 " No, no, I couldn't swear." 
 
 " You cannot conscientiously swear that he is the man?" 
 *' I cannot.'' 
 "That will do." 
 
 Down sat the attorney -general. The course he was now pursuing was, to the 
 legal persons present, quite sufficiently apparenj. It was impossible he could suc- 
 cessfully contend against the weight of evidence which was brought forward to prove 
 that, on the night in question, there must have been two persons with all the costume, 
 and all the outward appearance of Captain Hawk, one of whom had no doubt com- 
 mitted the murder on the heath, while the other had been gallopping about on the 
 London road, with various objects apparently. . 
 
 Therefore his whole object now was to prove, that the prisoner at the bar was the 
 one of those two who had committed the murder, and hence he got an advantage, 
 when any witness for the defence could not, or woutd not, swear to the prisoner at 
 the bar as being the party concerning whom he could depose something, because, 
 by the defence, the prisoner was admitted to be Captain Hawk, and it was he whom 
 the indictment named as the murderer. 
 
 But the strongest evidence was yet to come, and the next witness called was 
 named Anthony Bell. 
 
 He was a good-humoured, rough-looking fellow, and, in answer to the questions 
 of the counsel, he stated as follows : — . 
 
 «' I know Captain Hawk, the celebrated highwayman,, well by sight. The pri- 
 soner at the bar is Captain Hawk. I could swear to him, among a thousand peop le « 
 I keep Tyburn-gate. I recollect well the night when it \ ras said that Captain Hawk 
 had murdered Judge Holme. I was at the gate on th at night. 1 htive not been 
 absent from the gate half-a-dozen nights for as many yea^S." 
 
 " What occurred on that night V* 
 
 " Two gentlemen stopped to speak to me." 
 
 " What time was that V* 
 
 " About eleven." 
 
 " Not later?" 
 
 " Not above a minute or two." 
 "Well, goon." 
 
 " Two gentlemen were talking to me when somebody f >ft Vorc'ebaclc came sharp 
 down the road. I called out to my boy to shut the gate, fo 1 1 ^hov&h't it was a trick, 
 and then I saw it was Captain Hawk, and I let him throu gW' 
 
07 
 
 *'■ Now, are you quite sure about the identity V' 
 " About wlio ? Do you mean the gate?" 
 
 " No, no ; I mean, are you quite sure that the man whom you let through the 
 gate was Captain Hawk V 
 
 " Do you think I'm a fool ? Of course I is." 
 
 " No, my friend, I think you far from a fool ; I only wished that the jury should 
 hear you say so, as emphatically as possible, that, on your oath, the man on horse- 
 back, who was permitted to pass through the gate at Tyburn-toll, free, was Captain 
 Hawk V 
 
 " Oh, very well. It was." 
 
 " And the prisoner at the bar V 
 
 lf Ah, to be sure ; and he knows it. Ask him V 
 
 '! We ( cannot do that, but your evidence is sufficient. How long do you suppose it 
 would take a fleet horse to reach Tyburn-gate from the spot where the dead body of 
 Judge Holme was found V 
 
 No. 13. 
 
98 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " I have been to the spot on Hounslow Heath, and I mean to say that, if a good 
 horse did it in something like forty minutes, he'd b- an out-and-outer." 
 
 " Did the horse ridden hy Captain Hawk look distressed ?" 
 
 " No ; and, from what 1 saw of the animal, it could not have come the distance 
 under half as much time again." 
 
 " Which way did he go V 
 
 " To London direct ; and I saw no mere of him that night." 
 " But he might have gone back again, and, by taking a round, avoid Tyburn- 
 gate V 
 
 " Oh, yes ; to be sure." 
 
 " You perceive, gentlemen of the jury, that nothing can be made of the fact, that 
 Captain Hawk was taken in the morning in the neighbourhood of Hounslow, because 
 you hear he could have gone back again by another route ; but, as he left too soon to 
 commit the murder, and went back too late, I wonder how on earth he can be con- 
 nected with the deed in any way." 
 
 " My learned friend," said the attorney-general, " just does as he likes. At one 
 moment he questions a witness, and at another he endeavours to sway the jury ; but 
 I can see before me, in the jury-box, countenances, the intelligence depicted in which 
 forbids the hope that any conclusion but one highly favourable to the ends of justice 
 will be arrived at, notwithstanding the eloquence of my learned friend." 
 
 "It is/' said Hawk's counsel, ''upon that very intelligence, and which, like -my 
 learned friend, I have noticed, that I rely. I have done with you, Anthony Bell." 
 
 "Ve.ygood." 
 
 "Stop," said the attorney-general. "Anthony Bell, pray do not be in such a 
 hurry." 
 
 " I ain't in a hurry.. Like you, sir, I'm paid for my time." 
 te Come, sir, we want none of your low wit here. Are you the owner of Tyburn- 
 gate?" 
 
 " The owner V 
 
 ** Yes. Do the proceeds of the gate belong to you V 
 " To be sure not ; my master has the coppers." 
 
 " And he relies upon your honesty to pay over to him the amount of the tolls re- 
 ceivable at the gate % n 
 " Oh, dear, no." 
 " No?" 
 
 « No — not a bit of it. He says to me, 'Anthony Bell,' says he, ' I believes,' 
 says he, 4 as you goes halves with me — confound you ! but the fellow I had afore 
 you was worser, so give us hold of what you've got.* You see by that 'ere, that he 
 don't trust my honesty at all." 
 
 " Are you in the habit of letting persons through the gate for nothing ?" 
 
 " I should think not." 
 
 " Then, perhaps, you confine such a delicate compliment to gentlemen of the 
 road, and think it particularly due to your acquaintance, Captain Hawk V 
 " He ain't no acquaintance o' mine." 
 " Then how do you know him so well ?" 
 
 " 'Cos he often passes the gate, and people have pointed him out to me." 
 " Oh, people who were acquaintances of his, and likewise of yours." 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well, I thought we should come at that. He is a friend of friends of yours, I 
 suppose V 
 
 <« Well—yes." 
 
 u And so you would do him a good turn if you could. Now, who are your dear 
 friends who know Captain Hawk so well that they were able to point him out to you 
 as the celebrated highwayman V 
 
 " Bow-street officers, and one of 'em Mr. Long ; and as for why I let him through 
 the gate for nothing, it was because, only a little time before, he threw me a guinea, 
 and said, ' That'll do for my tolls till it's used up ;' and it ain't half used up yet." 
 
 The attorney-general looked vexed. He had made positively nothing of his cross- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 99 
 
 examination of this man, and so he had the prudence to give it up, and to sit down 
 with what appearance of contentment he might. 
 , " Call George Lucombe," said Hawk's counsel ; and a man, with an amazingly 
 fat face, and a sleek, greasy-looking head, made his appearance. 
 
 He deposed as follows : — 
 ."I am the landlord of the Goat and Boots public-house in Oxford-street. On 
 the evening of the murder, Captain Hawk rode up to the door of my house, and 
 ordered some wine. It brought it out to him myself in a flagon. He drank it, and 
 threw the drainings at me. He always does. It was then a little after eleven only. 
 Can't say for five minutes, but I am certain it was not the quarter past. I should 
 take the Goat and Boots to be nigh nine miles from the spot on which Judge Holme 
 was murdered. I have been there. The prisoner at the bar is Captain Hawk. I 
 swear he is ; and, likewise, that he is the same person who stopped at my house 
 and had the flagon of wine on the night in question." 
 
 The attorney-general cross-examined this witness. 
 
 " Is not your's a thieves' house ?" 
 
 " No ; we would i.ot have a lawyer within the doors/' 
 
 There was a laugh, which the judge suppressed, and then the attorney^general 
 continued,— 
 
 P You know what an alibi is ?" 
 « Yes." 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " Showing as you wasn't where somebody else says as you was." 
 
 Exactly. Captain Hawk is very popular, is he not?" 
 " Yes ; he's uncommon populous." 
 
 "Well, then, of course, you and others of his friends would do forhimiwfe&t you 
 could, especially in so serious a matter as the present V ^NhGhI 
 " In course we would." 
 " Even to getting up an alibi ? " 
 
 " Tliere wasn't no occasion, 'cos, you see, it's true, We may be no great go&Sr^ 
 some of us, but we ain't so bad as to come into a court of justice, and to make out 
 black is white and white is black for a few guineas, like you lawyers do ; but it's 
 always the way, if a man or a woman is a bad 'un, they never is easy till they have 
 tried to make out everybody else a little bit worser, if they can." 
 
 "My learned friend's witnesses for the defence," said the attorney-general, "have 
 been well taken care of. They are adepts. I have no more questions to ask of 
 you." - 
 
 "That is the case for the defence," said Captain Hawk's counsel ; "and, if the 
 learned counsel for the prosecution now addresses the jury, I shall claim the com> 
 tesy, if not the right, of a reply, which is usually accorded to the prisoner's 
 counsel." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE VERDICT, AND ITS RESULTS. 
 
 There was now a most anxious pause of some moments' duration. The attor- 
 ney-general seemed to be considering whether he should leave the case to the jury 
 just where it was, or attempt yet to make something of it. 
 
 The threat of a reply by the counsel for the defence was not to be, in so compli- 
 cated a case, entirely disregarded, and yet there were some things which he wished 
 to say that .he would like to have unsaid. 
 
 But, probably, the most interesting spectacle in the court was the countenance of 
 the prisoner. 
 
 As witness after witness came up to depose to circumstances in his favour, of 
 which he was profoundly ignorant, he changed completely from the calm, haughty 
 demeanour which he had at first assumed, to one expressive of intense interest and 
 unbounded astonishment. 
 
100 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 The address of his own counsel for the defence had been listened to by him with 
 the sort of interest which a man might be supposed to feel in a well-told romance ; 
 and how he intended to give the least semblance of truth to his statements certainly 
 got the better of Hawk entirely to conceive. 
 
 But, when witness after witness came forward with such a well-concocted chain 
 of evidence in his favour, he began to think that he must have dreamt the murder, 
 and that what they stated must be true. 
 
 It was Sir John Boyes's evidence, however, which completed his mystification. 
 The story of the family wateh with which Sir John connected him, came upon 
 him with the greatest surprise. He was lost in amazement, and more than once 
 he uneasily shifted his position, and whispered to himself, — 
 
 " Is all this real, or is the murder on the heath the vision V 
 
 May Boyes kept her eyes fixed upon his face, and she saw the mental struggle. 
 She dreaded some ebullition of feeling, and it was a relief to her when the last 
 witness for the ingenious defence had been examined, and had said his say, so 
 that there were, at all events, no more surprises for Captain Hawk. 
 
 The attorney-general suddenly decided in his own mind that he would address 
 the jury, and he rose, amid the most profound stillness in the court. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, I rise to address you again upon one of the most 
 extraordinary cases that ever, in the whole course of my professional experience, I 
 met with, 
 
 H. The defence has partaken of a character which more than ever calls upon you 
 to exercise the most calm and deliberate judgment, when you come to consider ©f 
 the important facts connected with the equally important charge against the pri- 
 soner at the bar. 
 
 " Heaven forbid, gentlemen of the jury, that I, or any other advocate practising 
 here, should, with a spirit of partisanship, endeavour to procure a conviction. Far 
 better is it that ten guilty men should escape the punishment awarded by the laws 
 of their country to the crimes which they may have committed, than that one inno- 
 cent man should suffer wrongfully." 
 
 " You will, therefore, I am sure, gentlemen of the jury, in the observations 
 which I feel it now to be my duty to address to you, do me the justice to believe 
 that I am actuated solely by a strong desire that the truth should become apparent, 
 and that, the right should triumph, and public justice and public morality be 
 vindicated. 
 
 " Gentlemen, it appears to me, and I think it will be evident to you, that the 
 case for the defence leads to one of two conclusions. Either the witnesses who 
 have this day appeared before you to prove an alibi for the prisoner at the bar, are 
 most awfully and deeply perjured ; or that, on the night named in the indictment as 
 that on which the lamented Judge Holme met his death, there were two persons 
 abroad, alike in dress, alike in figure, alike mounted, and alike in habits and 
 ursuits, either of whom may be sworn to as Captain Hawk, the well-known 
 ighvvayman. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen of the jury, it is'not a pleasant thing to accuse a number of 
 witnesses of such gross and deliberate perjury as would lay to their charge, if the 
 ibrmer of these suppositions were the one adopted. I shall leave it to you, gen- 
 tlemen, from what you have heard and seen of those witnesses, to form your own 
 conclusion, merely drawing the attention to one remarkable fact in the chain of 
 evidence, which is this : — 
 
 " The only two witnesses whose evidence we can, and must, 1 think, all agree to 
 receive, as above all suspicion, are Sir John Boyes, and the waggoner, John Lee. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen, you cannot have failed to notice that these are the only two 
 witnesses who will not positively swear to the identity of the prisoner at the bar 
 with the person whom they describe as having the appearance popularly believed to 
 be presented by Captain Hawk, the noted highwayman. 
 
 " This is an important, fact, gentlemen of the jury, and I doubt not but you 
 will allow it to have its full weight. But while it is an important fact in the way 
 in which I have put it to you, it likewise goes to prove that, on the evening in 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 101 
 
 question, there were two persons, alike in costume and general appearance, abroad, 
 one of whom murdered Judge Holme, while the other took a canter to London, 
 passing on his route the waggoner, John Lee, the toll-bar man, Anthony Bell, and 
 stopping at the Goat and Boots, a notorious thieves' house in Oxford-road, where 
 we lose sight of him. 
 
 " And why, gentlemen of the jury, do we lose sight of him there ? Simply 
 because the object of his ride was concluded —namely, to get up, for such an occa- 
 sion as this, an alibi for the prisoner. 
 
 « Gentlemen of the jury, I give up the point about there not being two persons 
 of similar costume and appearance abroad on that night — I believe there were. I 
 do honestly believe that, if such additional testimony had been, in the judgment 
 of my learned friend, necessary for the defence, he could have got many more most 
 respectable and undeniable witnesses to prove that such a person rode to London 
 witnin the hours named, although I do not believe that one of those disinterested 
 persons would have sworn in this courts that the prisoner now at the bar was that 
 person. 
 
 " We find Richard the Third, gentlemen of the jury, exclaiming at the battle 
 of Bosworth,— 
 
 " « There be 6ix Richmonds in the field to-day.' 
 
 And so, gentlemen, I think we may safely say that there were two highwaymen 
 on the road that night. 
 
 " And now, gentlemen of the jury, ask yourselves, if you please, if it would 
 not have been one of the easiest things in the world for the prisoner at the bar to 
 have dressed some confederate in the costume he himself usually wore, and de- 
 spatched him to London, while he himself remained behind to do the deed of 
 blood with which he stands charged. 
 
 " This would have been a very simple device ; and when we consider that it is 
 sworn that the person at the bar — ay, and none other than he — made the threat and 
 the boast about his intention of attacking Judge Holme, I think the circumstance 
 affords us a strong argument for believing, without doing him an injustice, that he 
 is the man. 
 
 " It was night, and a dark night, too, when the fictitious Captain Hawk, be 
 he whom he may, rode to London, so that his disguise was favoured ; ar d then, 
 again, why did he not come back again ? Why did he not return through Tyburn- 
 gate to Hounslow, for by so doing, he would have bettered the evidence in hTs 
 favour, I contend, in so far as he would have made a second appearance, which 
 would have added probability to the first. 
 
 " But, no, gentlemen. There was — admitting for one'moment that Anthony Bell 
 spoke the truth, and really was taken in, amazingly cunning fellow as he is, by the 
 mock Captain Hawk — the probability that by a second appearance he might be dis- 
 . covered ; besides, the real and the sham captain might both have been taken, which 
 would have been an awkward enough circumstance, as one or other of them would 
 have had his civility severely taxed about taking precedence at Tyburn. 
 
 " But, gentlemen of the jury, such was, you may safely come to the conclusion, 
 not the case, and he who rode to London, remained in London. 
 
 " And, besides, did this sham Captain Hawk betray no anxiety to establish jke 
 object of his mission ? Did he ride heedlessly ? Not so. He asks Sir jMn 
 Boyes the time of night, and he makes him particularly remark it — and wherefore ? 
 Because he may be evidence. 
 
 " He then asks the waggoner, John Lee, the hour, and for the same reason. This 
 clever personage betrayed himself as he rode on, gentlemen, and the plot, ingenious 
 though it was, is, I think, by the evidence which you have this day heard, as clear 
 as the sun at noon-da^. 
 
 " Gentlemen, I leave the case in your hands. God forbid an injustice should 
 be done to any one, but, in the name of the law, I call upon you to vindicate the 
 majesty of justice, and to punish the evil-doer." 
 
 The attorney-general sat down. He had evidently made a strong and, for the 
 prisoner, unfavourable impression upon the mind of every one in court, by what he 
 
102 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 had said; but upon no heart did his words fall with more appalling force than they 
 did upon that of May Boyes. 
 
 She, and she only, knew, while others might suspect, that he had hit upon the 
 truth, and, with her whole soul depending upon the issue, she now waited the result 
 of the fearful trial. 
 
 Captain Hawk's counsel was entitled to a reply, and he at once, upon the 
 attorney-general resuming his seat, rose to avail himself of it. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury," he said, " the learned attorney-general has found it 
 totally impossible, with any show of probability, to contend against the witnesses 
 for the defence. He is forced to admit what must be apparent to any one here 
 present, and what we stated, and fully admitted from the first, that, on the night in 
 question, there were two individuals alike in costume and general appearance, 
 abroad. That happens to be precisely the part taken up for the defence, and my 
 learned friend has now felicitously quoted from Shakspere, the angry expression of 
 disappointment from Richard the Third, when he says : — 
 
 " ' There be six Richmonds in the field to day.' 
 But my learned friend forgot to add, that when he applied that quotation to two 
 highwaymen, he should, with King Richard, have remarked, that he had 'not 
 the right one and then I could have admired the quotation more, because, 
 unquestiorably, there were two highwaymen ; but my learned friend has * not 
 the right one/ * 
 
 *' Gentlemen of the jury, I am quite certain, that, although it is unquestionably 
 my duty to draw your attention to certain conclusions, which the evidence you 
 have this day heard forces upon our attention, yet those conclusions are such as 
 must have presented themselves to your minds before now. 
 
 " The fact of there being, on the most sad and eventful night when the much- 
 lamented Judge Holme came by his decease, two persons on and about the heath at 
 Hounslow, is a matter which we all admit, and, likewise, that one of these per- 
 sons went to London, while the other remained at Hounslow to commit a mur- 
 der, is anotker fact on which we do not at all join issue. But when my learned 
 friend goes so far as to say that the prisoner at the bar is he who remained 
 on the heath, and not he who went to London, I must confess that he seems to 
 me to draw a most unwarrantable and cruel conclusion from the evidence which 
 has this day been brought before you. 
 
 " And, gentlemen of the jury, upon what does my learned friend found that as- 
 sumption? Why, first, upon the fact, that some of the witnesses who do not 
 know the person of Captain Hawk intimately, cannot, in the hurry and the 
 confusion of a moment, conscientiously say that he is the prisoner at the bar, 
 and the same man, who, under extraordinary circumstances, they came in contact 
 with ; while others who do know him well, by sight, have, of course, no such 
 hesitation, but are enabled at once to swear to a fact so important to the in- 
 terests of the prisoner. 
 
 " Really, gentlemen of the jury, this is too bad. Is it upon what people don't 
 know, and upon what they cannot swear to, that we are called upon to take 
 the life of a fellow-creature, or upon what they do know, and what they can 
 svptr to ?" 
 
 "But, gentlemen, I rest with conlidence upon your judgment. The veritable 
 narrative that I gave you at the commencement of this inquiry, when the statement 
 for the defence began, remains untouched. . 
 
 " The prisoner at the bar is Captain Hawk, the celebrated highwayman, if you 
 w iH — perhaps the term notorious would be better. But we have no right to find 
 a man guilty of that of which he is wrongfully accused, because he may be 
 guilty of other things, bad enough, perhaps, in themselves, but of which, at that 
 time, he is not accused at all. We have no right to find Captain Hawk guilty of 
 the murder of Judge Holme, because he has committed some highway robberies. 
 
 fi Then, gentlemen, as I told you before, the person at the bar is Captain 
 Hawk, and he personated the gentleman known so favourably to the Boyes' 
 family as Gerald Clifton. He did make the boast that he would rob Judge 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 103 
 
 Holme as he came home from the Oxford assizes ; and the very fact that he did 
 so, was, and ought to be, a sufficient proof that he never intended to attempt such 
 an act. 
 
 " It was a foolish thing to make that boast, for I look upon it that it is a circum- 
 stance which more than any other has pointed the finger of suspicion against 
 him, and made men tell themselves that he, in all human probability, was the 
 murderer, although he is so perfectly innocent. 
 
 " But yet, gentlemen, while I admit the bad effects of that most indiscreet 
 boast, and that it should never have been made, 1 think that, upon a little exami- 
 nation of this subject, you will agree with me that it is not without its import- 
 ance as a part of the defence of the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 "That boast was sufficiently notorious among those lawless persons with 
 whom the prisoner associated himself, and among them it was likewise sufficiently 
 notorious that Captain Hawk only intended it as a jest, and really was endea- 
 vouring to withdraw himself from the disreputable course of life he had for 
 some time unhappily pursued. 
 
 " This, I say, was well enough known ; and the mode of dress of Captain 
 Hawk was likewise well remembered. What so easy, then, that some law- 
 less person should say to himself, ' Under the prestige of Captain Hawk's 
 name, and attired like unto him, so that the guilt shall fall upon his head, I will 
 assay this adventure, and see what is to be got by robbing Judge Holme V ' 
 
 "This, gentlemen of the jury, to my apprehension, has been the easel 'The 
 real murderer has yet escaped the hands of justice. No doubt, terrified, after he 
 had, in consequence of the resistance offered to him, committed the heinous 
 offence of murder, at the act he fled ; while Captain Hawk, quickly returning to 
 Hounslow after his ride to London, and forgetting all about Judge Holme, and, 
 indeed, not knowing that he was then returning from the assizes, is seized and 
 accused of the desperate and most indefensible deed. 
 
 (t I do not mean to say, gentlemen of the jury, but that the officers who took 
 Captain Hawk, as well as those who determined upon his prosecution, were 
 justified, until the singular circumstances are explained, which made him seem 
 guilty, in a manner compatible with his innocence. But now they are so ex- 
 plained, and I confidently expect at your hands an acquittal. " 
 
 The counsel for the defence sat down ; and it was evident that his addiess for 
 the prisoner had really produced a great effect in his favour with the jury. 
 
 All that now remained was, the summing up of the judge ; and, although, in 
 ordinary cases, counsel can pretty well guess which way that summing up will 
 go, yet, such was the great complexity of this trial, that the most experienced of 
 them were puzzled and confounded. 
 
 The judge turned over his notes for some moments ; and then, amid the most 
 breathless stillness in the crowded court, he said, — 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, 1 regret that you have heard more oratory both for 
 the prosecution and for the defence in this case, than ought to creep into criminal 
 jurisprudence, where facts, and facts alone, ought to have any weight. You must 
 dismiss from your minds all the verbiage in which this case has been dressed. 
 You have nothing to do with whether there be highwaymen or not, or whether 
 thtir existence be a great social evil or not. All you have to consider is, that a 
 certain man is placed before you accused of murder, and to determine, according 
 to your consciences, to the best of your ability, whether or not the evidence of 
 an accusatory character brought against him, is sufficient to establish his guilt. 
 
 "The prisoner stands charged with the murder of Judge Holme : on the par- 
 ticular night named in the indictment, he, or some one like him in dress and 
 appearance, is met on the Oxford-road, at a time when he, or some other person 
 of similar dress and outward bearing, is lobbing Sir John Boyes of a watch. 
 Again, such a person is seen at eleven o'clock, by the witness Sargent, upon 
 Hounslow-heath ; while such a person is likewise seen by the witness, Jchiv Lee, 
 at the same hour, some miles off. 
 
 " These facts, gentlemen of the jury', are quite sufficient to establish in the 
 
104 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 mind of any reasonable man the supposition, that, on the night in question, there 
 were two persons, similarly attired, and so similar in general appearance, as to 
 involve the question regarding their separate acts in a vast amount of mysti- 
 fication. 
 
 "A charge more circumstantially supported, and more circumstantially 
 » rebutted, never came before me ; and, instead of, as is usual in cases of this 
 nature, the evidence being all on one side, and denied simply upon the other, all 
 the evidence, in all its main points, is admitted on both sides ; but a directly 
 contrary inference drawn from it. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen of the jury, the learned counsel for the prosecution may be 
 right in his supposition that the prisoner at the bar, being the man who had made 
 a boast he would rob Judge Holme as he came from the Oxford assizes, deter- 
 mined to fulfil that boast ; and, to do so at the least possible risk, he got up all this 
 mystification by attiring some confederate in costume similar to his own, and 
 sending him on the road to London, while he, Hawk, himself committed the 
 crime of which he stands charged. 
 
 r< But you will recollect that this is a supposition, and that it is unsupported 
 by a breath of evidence. 
 
 "On the contrary, then, for the defence, it is urged that Captain Hawk, as he 
 is termed, rode to London on account of pecuniary difficulties, and never so much 
 as wasted a thought upon Judge Holme. And, in support of this, we have him 
 sworn to by those who ought to know him best, and who we cannot take upon 
 ourselves to say are foresworn. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, the secrets of all men's hearts are known to Heaven 
 only, and human judgment, even at the best, is a weak and fallible thing. 
 Whether the prisoner at the bar be guilty or not guilty of the dreadful crime with 
 which he stands charged, is known to himself and to his Creator. But, if he be 
 innocent, it would be an awful thing for us to condemn him. 
 
 " My learned brother has remarked that it is better ten guilty men should 
 escape the penalties of their crimes, than that one innocent man should suffer 
 wrongously, and that is a sentiment which I am disposed to echo. 
 
 " I do not, looking at this case in all its bearings, then, gentlemen, think it 
 would be safe to convict the prisoner at the bar of the murder of Judge Holme. 
 It would not be safe, as regards the administration of justice and public 
 policy. There is strong doubt, and, according to the humane bearing of the laws 
 of this realm, we are bound, I think, to give the accused man the benefit of such 
 strong doubt. 
 
 " But, if, gentlemen of the jury, you conscientiously think that the evidence 
 you have heard be sufficient to satisfy you of the guilt of the prisoner, you will 
 fearlessly, and without the reproach of any honest man, return a verdict accord- 
 ing. If, however, on the contrary, you have any doubts, and any feelings regard- 
 ing the complexity of the case, which would prevent you from bringing in a 
 verdict of guilty, you will find it to be your duty to acquit the prisoner now at 
 the bar/' 
 
 This summing up of the judge settled the question, and everyone who heard it 
 looked upon the prisoner as virtually acquitted. 
 
 There could not have been a summing up more strongly in favour of the prisoner, 
 and the attorney-general looked by no means surprised at it. Perhaps he had 
 already, from what had been done for the defence, given up the case in his own 
 mind as a hopeless one regarding the prosecution. 
 
 May Boyes now shook so excessively that her agitation was painfully manifest 
 to all near her, and her sister Philippa, as she held her hand clasped in one of her 
 own, implored her to be calm. 
 
 " I will— I will," she said. " He is saved, and why then should I not becalm?" 
 
 The strange manner in which he had been rescued from death — that death 
 which, in his own mind, he must have looked upon as almost certain -could not 
 but have a great and remarkable effect upon Captain Hawk. 
 
 All the insolent assumption of demeanour which he had put on had gone, and 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 105 
 
 was completely absorbed in the intense interest he felt in the proceedings, which 
 took him far more by surprise than they could possibly take any one else. He 
 looked in the face of the judge as he spoke with the air of a man who is credu- 
 lous about how his sense of hearing is serving him ; and, when he found that 
 there was so strong a disposition of a favourable nature towards him, he trembled 
 more probably than he would have done had he been condemned to death ; for, in 
 that case, pride would have supported him, while now such a feeling was com- 
 pletely swallowed up in the rush of new emotions which come over him. 
 
 How such a defence, so complete, so well knit together, and so powerful, had 
 been got up for him, baffled all his conjectures. 
 
 He could have understood about the evidence of the man at the turnpike, 
 because he knew that, before he took to that line of life, he had levied contri- 
 butions upon the public in a very different way ; and he could have understood 
 how the landlord of the Goat and Boots might not have been over particular con- 
 
 N©, 14, 
 
106 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 cerning an oath or two ; but the evidence of Sir John Boyes it was that puzzled 
 him, and gave to the whole affair, as concerned his mind, a dream-like and unreal 
 aspect. 
 
 Once or twice it did come across him that May Boyes might make some exer- 
 tions to save him ; but, when he came to remember how impossible it would have 
 been for her or for any one else to have suborned Sir John, he was compelled to 
 give up the supposition in despair. 
 
 It was not until the judge had finished his summing up that it occurred to 
 Captain Hawk that he had been hpunted on the heath, and terrified on that 
 night, by some mysterious horseman ; and, when that thought did cross his 
 mind, a cold perspiration broke out upon his brow, and he said to himself, — 
 
 " There is something more than human in all this !" 
 
 The jury did not request to leave the box. The fattest man had, of course, 
 been chosen to be the foreman ; and, as the majority of them were, as juries usually 
 are, about as pig-headed, and stupid animals as any one could find, it was a 
 great relief to be told by the judge what to do. 
 
 One proposed a verdict of " Guilty, but we don't think he did it but that 
 ingenious idea was negatived, and, after about ten minutes, they turned round in 
 their box, and faced the court. 
 
 The clerk of the arraigns then rose, and said, — 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?'' 
 
 " We is," said the foreman. 
 
 " Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty ?" 
 
 There was a silence of about a minute's duration. It was an anxious one, 
 notwithstanding every one felt what the verdict would be, and then the foreman 
 said, — 
 
 i( Not guilty !" 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE JUDGE'S INCIDENTAL REMARK, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. THE CONFESSION. 
 
 This verdict, although so well expected by all who heard it, that it could not 
 be said to be in any way a surprise, yet seemed to cause much feeling and com- 
 motion in the court. 
 
 There was an evident inclination to applaud on the parts of some of the 
 persons present ; while vexation sat on the countenance of the attorney-general, 
 which he scarcely attempted to conceal. Probably he felt, like many othefcs in 
 court, that the prisoner must have owed his escape to some juggling, which, just 
 then, it was beyond the bounds of human ingenuity to find out sufficiently to 
 enable the prosecution to triumph over it. 
 
 And the worst of the affair was, that the prisoner now, having been once tried 
 for the murder of Judge Holme, could not be again indicted for that offence, if 
 the most conclusive evidence of his guilt that it was possible to conceive, were 
 to be discovered, it being contrary altogether to the practice of English law to try 
 a man twice, under any circumstances whatever, for the same offence. 
 • The counsel for Hawk immediately rose, and addressing the attorney-general, 
 he said, — 
 
 <f I presume that, after the verdict just delivered by the jury, the prosecution 
 will not feel disposed to proceed with the other indictments against the prisoner, 
 resting as they do upon similar evidence." 
 
 The attorney-general-nodded, and threw himself back in his seat. 
 ""Then, my lord," said Hawk's counsel, " I have to pray for the immediate 
 discharge from custody of the prisoner at the bar, who now stands before us as 
 an innocent man, accused of nothing whatever." 
 
 "Such an application," said the judge, " is very proper, and not such as the 
 court will resist. Prisoner at the bar, you have had here a most patient trial — a 
 trial from which you have emerged unscathed — Heaven, and your own consciene, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 107 
 
 can alone decide whether deservedly so or not ; but human judgment, bearing in 
 mind its fallibility, has not considered itself justified in convicting you of the 
 heavy crime laid to your charge, upon the evidence which has been this day adduced 
 against you. 
 
 " I sincerely hope that this day's proceedings will operate upon you as a serious 
 warning. I do, from the very bottom of my heart, indulge a hope that, these pro- 
 ceedings will induce you to alter your mode of life, and endeavour to turn such 
 talents as you may possess into some channel where honest industry will enable you 
 to earn a creditable livelihood. 
 
 " Athough you have this day, by a jury who have taken a most single-minded, 
 merciful, and upright view of the case brought before them, been acquitted of the 
 heinous crime of murder, yet quite enough is known and admitted to convince us 
 all that ycu lead a must lawless life. 
 
 " You are one of those persons, so emphatically spoken of by the learned counsel 
 who has conducted this prosecution, who, disdaining the ordinary industrial arts, 
 and those legitimate channels by which people may do something for society in 
 exchange for their support, resort to a wicked and pernieious course of life, which 
 they endeavour to surround with a false lustre, because they carry it on boldly. 
 
 " By the admission of y our counsel, you are a highwayman ; and he strove only to 
 obtain some doubtful credit for you because you were that, and not a murderer. 
 Well, you may not be a murderer — God forbid that I should say you are ; but you 
 must, if you have any power of reflection at all, feel that your course of life is ex- 
 tremely likely to make you one. 
 
 " You should ponder over this, and ponder well. Your present, escape should be a 
 source to you of the deepest reflection ; and if, upon a careful consideration of the 
 great danger you have this day escaped, you should, as I sincerely hope you may, 
 come to a conclusion that you ought to turn aside from that desperate course of life 
 which you have been pursuing, and in which you have carved so very unenviable a 
 reputation, whatever you may have thought of it, you will be able to look back to 
 this day as a subject for congratulation rather than of annoyance or regret." 
 
 Captain Hawk looked as impatient as he well could during the time the judge 
 was speaking. Whatever might have been his amount of surprise while the trial 
 was proceeding, at the, to him, most unexpected and remarkable evidence which 
 was adduced in his favour, he had now got over it, and seemed determined to carry 
 things off with a high hand, as if conscious of that innocence which he and only 
 one other in that crowded court knew was fallacious. 
 
 He and May Boyes were the only two human being who there knew by whom the 
 murder was committed ; and oh, with what a world of anxious hopefulness she 
 heard those words which fell from the lips of the judge. 
 
 That was what she aimed at, that was all she desired — all she hoped — that he 
 whom she had loved once, should have leisure to repent him of the evil which he 
 had done. 
 
 Not that she, for one moment, even now meant that she would be his, or that 
 she would stoop to hold converse with him as she had held. His hands were, to 
 her imagination, stained with the life-blood of a fellow creature. It was not aff'ec- 
 tion, but a holy kind of pity, which she now felt for the desperate man whom she 
 had loved. 
 
 She watched his countenance intently as the judge spoke. She hoped to fee 
 some indication of feeling there - some expression which would show that he felt the 
 truth and the force of the words which had been ."pplied to him ; but, with a sigh, 
 she told herself he had not. 
 
 No ; triumph, rather than compunction, sat upon that haughty brow. Those eyes, 
 which she had often looked upon with admiration, were expressive of all the elation 
 which this man might be supposed to feel at his escape from, a most signal danger ; 
 and ail the ieelings which had agitated him, and kept him in a state of dubious 
 suspense during the earlier part of the proceedings, were now completely merged 
 in the one triumphant thought, that he had escaped the doom which had been pre- 
 pared for him, and which such great talent had been used to force him to suffer. 
 
108 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 And had she achieved so much — had she triumphed over so many obstacles, and 
 with a purity of devotion such as woman can only feel in that early period of her 
 existence, when love lends a charm to every sensation — but to find that this idol- of 
 her heart triumphed only in his escape from a felon's death, and thought not of the 
 opportunity which was presented to him to be great in virtue instead of in vice. 
 
 The judge's appeal to him had evidently failed ; the old man shook his head as 
 he finished, for he saw that his words fell upon an obdurate heart. 
 
 " There is but one hope now," thought May to herself ; " he will be free, and 
 then there is but one hope, which is that, in an interview that I may have with 
 him, the memory of his affection may cling sufficiently around him to induce him 
 to heed my words. He cannot forget the happy moments that we have passed to- 
 gether. Glorious thought ! I may yet save him — yes, I may yet save him ; the 
 greatest effort remains to be made, and it shall be without stint." 
 
 Most anxious and most earnest did Captain Hawk now appear to be to leave the 
 felon's dock ; the judge had not given the order for His release, although he had 
 implied it, and Hawk's counsel again rose, and said, — 
 
 " My lord, I presume the prisoner at the bar is free ; and I am inclined to think 
 that, had he been found guilty, most providentially the flaw in the indictmejat, which 
 I noticed to your lordship in the opening of the case, would have been sufficient to 
 hare saved him from the consequence of an adverse verdict." 
 
 " It would have been a point for consideration," said the judge ; " but I doubt 
 very much if it would have carried so much weight as you anticipate ; the mere 
 fact, you see, of a man, in consequence of the acquisition of a considerable pro- 
 perty, changing his name to some other, I opine would no more have affected the 
 prisoner in this case, than a proof, tendered after conviction, that his name was not 
 Hawk." 
 
 "Nay, my lord; but it is very essential, I submit, that in an indictment for 
 murder, that the description of the party said to be murdered should be correct 
 verbatim et literatim ; and the more especially in this case, the deceased judge 
 assumed a name which was not a family one, so that there was nothing to lead to a 
 knowledge of his identity." 
 
 " Well, well," said the judge, " the verdict of not guilty, of course, takes the 
 point out of the hands of tha court." 
 
 " Very true, my lord ; it may, however, be interesting to state, that Judge Holme, 
 in consequence of misunderstandings with some portion of his family, resided in 
 Switzerland for some years, where, in the quietude and retirement of a humble 
 abode, he perfected himself in that profound knowledge of criminal jurisprudence 
 which he undoubtedly possessed." 
 
 " And, I believe," said the judge, " that during that period the property was left 
 him which induced the change in his name." 
 
 " Precisely, my lord," added the counsel ; "he changed his name from Hesketh 
 to Holme, and it was said, by those who knew him best, that he rather rejoiced at 
 the change than otherwise, because it might tend to prevent him coming into colli- 
 sion with his son, Wallis Hesketh, whom years before he had parted with in anger, 
 and who has not been heard of since." 
 
 It was not a groan, it was not a shriek, nor was it a sound which could be ex- 
 pressed by the word scream, or by any other in the English language indicative of a 
 sudden exclamation, arising from the most terrific concentration of feelings ; but it 
 was a fierce, a dreadful, ear-piercing sound, that came from the prisoner's lips ; it 
 was a cry which at once turned all eyes upon him, which brought fright to every 
 heart ; which astonished judge, jury, counsel, and spectators ; it was a sound 
 scarcely human, or, if human, it might have been translated to be the last despair- 
 ing ejaculation of some one in the agony of a dreadful death, who feels that there 
 is no hope for him on this side of eternity. 
 
 The attitude which Captain Hawk, too, had assumed, was one which, had he 
 uttered not a word, not a sound, would have excited universal attention. His 
 hands were clasped and outstretched before him, his face was ghastly pale, and he 
 shook like one possessed. 
 
NEWGATE. 109 
 
 *' Speak— speak !" he gasped ; " speak again. Did — did you say Hesketh ? for, 
 if you did — he was my father, and I am his murderer!" 
 
 Even as he spoke, all power of self-support seemed to fail him ; he reeled back 
 apace or two, and then fell headlong in the dock, while blood gushed from his 
 mouth, giving him the appearance of having broken some blood vessel, which would 
 soon terminate his earthly career. 
 
 All was then in an instant commotion ; the sort of mental paralysis that seemed 
 to have seized upon every one in court when first he uttered that frightful cry had 
 passed away. Some shrieked, some endeavoured to escape, battling their way 
 through the dense crowd ; others fell, and were trodden upon by their excited com- 
 panions ; and, amid all, May Boyes stood up with her hands clasped and a look of 
 despair upon her countenance, as she cried aloud, — 
 
 " Lost ! lost ! lost ! — all is lost ! Heaven have mercy on me now !" 
 
 The judge rose from his seat, and in vain implored for order. The counsel rushed 
 forward among the crowd, and some of them were the first to raise the highwayman 
 from where he had fallen. 
 
 He seemed perfectly insensible, and, from the rigidity of his muscles and the fixed 
 and awful expression of his face, they thought that he was dead. A surgeon, who 
 was present, bled him, and then he opened his eyes, and breathed a faint sigh, as the 
 life-blood trickled from his arm. 
 
 " Father, father,'' he said, " this is a frightful dream. I left you in anger, but I 
 come to you again to stir within you, with the affection of a son, whatever re- 
 miniscence of early affection that may yet linger in your bosom." 
 
 "He is not dead!" said May Boyes. "God of Heaven, why is he not dead? 
 What now is life to him ? — what now prolonged existence to the wretch who feels 
 himself a parricide V 
 
 She let her head drop upon her hands, and shook as with a strong convulsion of 
 grief. It was in vain that her sister, her mother, and her brother, strove to cheer her, 
 and bid her look up ; she only muttered "Lost ! lost ! — all lost l" and they could 
 do nothing with her, but let the tide of grief have its way, even if, upon its stormy 
 billows, it should wreck the noblest, gentlest heart Heaven ever placed in a human 
 breast. 
 
 A dozen hands held up the highwayman, and there, ghastly and grim, he stood 
 again in that dock confronting the judge. 
 
 But, oh, what a change was there ! Where, now, was the gallant bearing ? — 
 where, now, the haughty brow — the eagle eye ? — where was the slightly curled lip, 
 speaking of scorn, and the ineffable smile, as if of conscious superiority, that was 
 wont to sit upon his face ? — all lost ! all lost ! And there stood, at that bar of justice, 
 instead of one possessing these attributes and qualities, a trembling, shrinking, 
 ghastly -looking wretch, bearing more the appearance of one risen from the grave, 
 into whose veins, for a brief space, life-blood had been ejected, than a living, breath- 
 ing man, and one of a great crowd of humanity around him. 
 
 The old judge moved his lips, but he could not speak for many minutes. His 
 head shook and his hands trembled ere he could say, in broken accents, — 
 
 " Prisoner at the bar, is this frightful fact uncontradicted ? Is your name Hes- 
 keth?" 
 
 Captain Hawk's fingers played tremulously upon the front of the dock. Twice, 
 thrice, he tried to speak, but could not. 
 
 " The mind is gone," said the attorney -general. " Heaven keep me from witnessing 
 such a scene again." - 
 
 " Hesketh, Hesketh !" said Hawk ; " Wallis Hesketh— father ! Is this blood 
 upon my hands ? — your blood — my blood ! God ! God ! God !" 
 
 The counsel for the defence rose, and, in a low voice towards the judge, he 
 said, — 
 
 " I have my duty still to do— the prisoner is free V* 
 " He is," said the old judge. 
 
 " No, no," cried Hawk, stretching forward his hands ; " no, no ; kill, slay, de- 
 stroy me. I did the deed. Guilty — guilty— guilty ! A hundred lives could not 
 
110 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 appease Heaven's vengeance. I am guilty. He was my father; I slew him upon 
 the heath ; but, oh ! I knew him not. 1 swore to stop Judge Holme ; I kept my 
 oath. There was resistance ; he fired upon me ; btifciknew him not. On the im- 
 pulse of a moment, I fired again. I saw his white hair dappled in gore ; but then I 
 knew him not. I hovered round the spot ; a frightful influence kept me moving in 
 that hideous circle i-ound the dead ; the odour of the fresh-spilt blood eame upon 
 my senses, as the sweet morning air blew across the heath, and then they took me. 
 All that has happened here to-day is but a hideous delusion. 1 am guilty. 1 knew 
 him not ; but T am guilty ; and now I think that I am mad !" 
 
 " My lord," said the counsel, " I understand that the prisoner at the bar is free ?" 
 
 " No, no, no," cried Hawk ; "give me death !" 
 
 " Free to leave this court as any person within it ?" added the counsel. 
 " Quite free," said the judge. 
 
 " I am guilty," shrieked Hawk. kt If you have a dungeon deeper than another, 
 place me in it. Life for life — blood for blood ! and oh, God ! that that should be 
 the blood of a father !" 
 
 l< My lord,'' said the counsel, " 1 submit that the time of the court is being 
 wasted. Being retained in the next case, 1 hope your lordship will order any person 
 to be removed who makes a disturbance." 
 
 " Set the prisoner free," said the judge. 
 
 The attorney-general rose. 
 
 " With your lordship's permission," he said, " I shall press the other indictments ; 
 and, owing to the extraordinary and conflicting nature of the evidence, as well as 
 the most unlooked-for statement made by the prisoner himself, 1 have to beg that 
 those indictments be traversed to next sessions." 
 
 The judge was silent for a moment, and then he said, with a deep sigh, — 
 " Be it so — be it so. Officer, remove the prisoner. The court is adjourned." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE CELL. 
 
 The judge was so overcome — for he was an aged man — with the frightful pro- 
 ceedings which had taken place within the court, that he had to be assisted from the 
 bench, and it was said that, when he reached his private room, he fainted. 
 
 Captain Hawk, too, was half carried from the dock. All he seemed now to com- 
 prehend was, that he was not to be set free ; and so that, of course, he should suffer 
 for the dreadful deed that he had done, 
 
 The crowd that was then in court, were as anxious to leave it, to carry far and 
 wide the news of the most awful and singular termination of the trial, as they had 
 been early in the morm'ng to get a place within it s piecincts. The struggle to get 
 out was immense, and the wondering witnesses, who had so ruccessfully proved an 
 alibi for the highwayman, were most of them carried out with the throng. 
 
 As for the turnpike-man and the landlord of the Goat and Boots, they both 
 seemed perfectly bewildered ; the sudden admission by the prisoner that he had 
 really done the deed, appeared to them perfectly inexplicable, and they retired at 
 once to a neighbouring public -house, where they both got profoundly drunk, with- 
 out,being able to come to a mote satisfactory conclusion. 
 
 The attorney-general, and most of the counsel, probably including the one who 
 had been retained for the defence, mostly adopted the hypothesis which had been 
 started for the prosecution, namely, that the party who had commenced proceedings 
 by robbing Sir John Boyes of his watch, and then proceeded to London, was a con- 
 federate of Captain Hawk, and that £0 far the affair was planned of eventually 
 proving an alibi. 
 
 And now that we have incidentally mentioned Sir John Boyes, let us for a moment 
 imagine the slate of intense wonder into which lie was thrown by the new and 
 extraordinary light which had fallen upon the proceedings. 
 
 He had listened to the judge's exhortation to the prisoner at the bar with milch 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 the same stolid, stupid-looking- gravity with which he was accustomed to attend to 
 the drowsy sermons at the parish church; but, when the sudden interruption ensued, 
 and that horrible cry sounded in his ears, poor Sir John for the whole space of five 
 minutes, knew not whether he was upon his head or his heels. 
 
 He first of all started up, and then down he sat upon the floor, instead of his 
 seat, so that his head only came upon a levd with the wainscot which enclosed 
 the box to which he and his family had obtained admission. 
 
 Then he laid hold of the ankle of Lady Boyes, fancying that it was some part 
 of the wood-work of the court, which it was highly necessary for him to hold 
 tight of, for fear he should get any lower ; and there he listened to all, turning 
 his great, grey, sleepy-looking eyes first upon one, and then upon another, of the 
 speakers. 
 
 "Gracious Providence!" said Lady Boyes, "something dreadful's got hold 
 of my ankle but Sir John paid no attention, and it was not until the crowd 
 had nearly left the court, and an officer came to show the Boyes' family out, that 
 he released her. 
 
 fi My friend," said Sir John, to the officer, " I don't wish to give you any 
 unnecessary trouble, but, if you can tell me, in a manner of speaking, what it's 
 all about, which will be equivalent, you understand, to letting me know, I shall 
 be much obliged." 
 
 "Didn't you hear ?" said the man, who had been employed upon the principle 
 of set a thief to catch a thief ; " the rummy cove has peached on himself, and 
 says as he's scuttled the governor." 
 
 "Indeed," said Sir John ; " the governor of where ?" 
 
 " Why, just the governor, to be sure." 
 
 " Oil, the governor of Newgate, I suppose." 
 
 "Well, I'm blowed ! here's artifice — pretends that he doesn't understand the 
 English language — oh, you ass 1" 
 Away walked the officer. 
 
 "Well," said Sir John, "it is one of the most extraordinary things in the 
 world" — and he tapped his arm several times as he said it — "that, within these 
 last few weeks, I have been more repeatedly called a donkey and an ass, than I 
 think the whole Boyes' family ever were before. There's something wrong in the 
 state of society, which is just as bad as if there was something erroneous;' and 
 my private opinion of all this is— ah, and that's my private opinion. God bless 
 my soul, stop thief ! The family watch — the family watch is gone at last !'*' 
 
 Sir John patted himself all over as he spoke, as if he were nothing but one 
 mass of pockets, into any one of which the family watch might surreptitiously 
 have crept. 
 
 " My lady, my lady," he added, " do you hear the family watch ? It seems to 
 me that nobody has the slightest sympathy for the dignity of the Boyeses." 
 
 "I'm quite sure, $ir John," said Lady Boyes, " that you brought it into the 
 court, because you know you showed it to me, and I remarked that it was an 
 hour and twenty minutes wrong, as it always is." 
 
 " My lady, my lady, it is as impossible for the family watch of all the Boyeses 
 to be wrong, as it is in a manner of speaking for me to be wrong. It's gone, 
 however, and that's the very thing why somebody's stolen it, because it's always 
 right. Bless my heart and life, what dishonesty there is inthe world. Ratchley, 
 my dear, as the representative of the great Boyes, you ought to have watched." 
 
 " Father, my attention," said Ratchley, " was too painfully otherwise engrossed. 
 Wjiat do you intend to do ?" 
 
 " Do ? Why offer a reward, to be sure." 
 
 " Nay, I do not mean about the watch, but as respects this unhappy man, who 
 unexpectedly finds he has committed so awful a crime V* 
 
 "Do! what shall I do ? Why, let me see — ah! to be sure, I'll do nothing"; 
 that'll be most dignified ; and I rather think I'll go home." 
 
 " But not until to-morrow. It would be far better to go home in daylight than 
 so late as it is now. Consider the danger of the road." 
 
112 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Danger ! 
 
 " Not to you, but to others, who, seeing you proceeding home, would fancy 
 there was a sort of protection thrown over them by travelling the same route." 
 Sir John drew himself up, and touched his head with his forefinger. 
 "There's something in that, Ratchley," he said. 
 "You really think sol" said Ratchley, with a quiet sarcasm. 
 % " Yes, there is ; I won't go home to-night ; you've convinced me. When a Boyes 
 feoavinces a Boyes it's all right, and the world jogs on as usual — I won't go home 
 to-night." 
 
 " May," whispered Ratchley lo his sister, " I have won this point for you as you 
 desired me ; though what use you intend to make of it, Heaven only knows. Why, 
 oh, why, dear May, will you not confide all to me ? Is it my affection or my 
 
 " Neither, Ratchley, neither," said May ; " but do not ask me yet ; you shall 
 know all, perchance, to-morrow — trust me, Ratchley, you shall. And now I've 
 another request to make of you." 
 
 " Name it, dear May, name it. God knows there is no request of your's from 
 which I would shrink." 
 
 She placed both her small hands in one of his, and looked imploringly in his 
 face, as she said, — 
 
 *' Ratchley, you will, by some means or another, and at once, too, procure me a 
 written order to see— him." 
 " The prisoner in Newgate V 
 " Yes, yes, yes." 
 
 " I doubt my power, May, to obtain this ; and most frightful appears to me the 
 imprudence of the step." 
 
 " Do not reason with me— do not reason with me." 
 u Nay, but sister " 
 
 " Ratchley ! Ratchley ! look in my face — my heart is nearly broken ; will you 
 complete such a catastrophe by denying that which I ask of you ?" 
 
 Ratchley Boyes pressed the small hands he held in his, and, in a voice of deep 
 emotion, he replied, — 
 
 " No, dear May, I will not refuse you — I cannot, I dare not— although I know 
 n ;t how it is to be obtained— the order you speak of." 
 
 May passed her hand across her brow, and then she said, in a lower tone,— S 
 
 "Listen! Misfortune, and such mental agony as I have gone through, has 
 taught me artifice. You must go to the judge who presided at the trial, you must 
 tell him that, in the prisoner at the bar, you fancy you recognise one who robbed 
 and tried to murder you on Hounslow Heath; then, with only an amount of 
 interest which shall seem sufficient for the occasion, and no more, you will ask him 
 for an order to admit the bearer, mind." 
 
 " I will try, May, to do so ; but I must confess that, even now I have made 
 you a promise I shall not attempt to retract, 1 do view with sentiments of 
 great dislike your visit to this desperate man." 
 
 " Enough— enough, brother ! 1 know all— I feel all that you would say; 
 there is nothing that you can urge that I have not thought over too painfully. 
 Say no more; but let me feel that 1 have yet to live for something, by making 
 what endeavour you can to provide me with the means of ingress to that dread- 
 ful building, which has ever filled so horrible a place in my imagination." 
 
 " To Newgate ; but you will not go to-night ?" 
 
 " Yes, to Newgate — and lo-night. Ratchley, Ratchley, again I implore you 
 not to reason w T ith me ; it seems like paltering with my soul's welfare to hesitate 
 upon this enterprise." 
 
 *' It shall be done, May, if it can be done." 
 
 " What are you talking about ?" said Sir John. " I suppose it's about the 
 family watch. Perhaps you think it's singular that I should be robbed of it; 
 but never mind, great minds are not to be understood every day. Who are 
 you ?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 113 
 
 See p. 122. 
 
 This was addressed by a man who came up before Sir John, and saluted him 
 with a broad grin. 
 
 " Who am I !" said the fellow ; " why, don't you know me? Why, I called 
 upon you, and represented myself to be Long, the officer, and told you what 
 an ass you were. Ha ! ha ! Sir John, I got the better of you there ; and 
 secured just the reception for the real Long that I wished. But I take no 
 credit for it — oh, dear, no ; because, you see, out of all hand, you are the most 
 desperate donkey that ever 1 came near. D — e ! it's a disgrace to do you. Good 
 day/' 
 
 " There's a villain 1" said Sir John. " He mistakes me for somebody else. 
 I've a great mind to go home, after all. There'll be a revolution in this country 
 soon, and all the ancient institutions will be rooted completely up." 
 
 After this gratuitous insult, Sir John and his family proceeded to their lodgings 
 in quiet. 
 
 No. 15. 
 
114 NEWGATE. 
 
 The reader who has followed us thus far in tracing what may be called the for- 
 tunes of Captain Hawk, the highwayman, will be at no loss now to unravel the 
 mystery of our tale. 
 
 By referring to some chapters back, we shall find that there was an interview 
 recorded as happening between a stern father and a reproachful son. They met, but 
 to exchange a few words of an unsatisfactory nature, and then they parted, as each 
 probably thought, for ever. 
 
 That father was he who afterwards became Judge Holme — the son was Wallis 
 Hesketh, better known as Captain Hawk, the notorious highwayman, who had, in 
 the disguise which introduced him to the family of Sir John Boyes, won the gentle 
 heart of May. 
 
 The change of name on the part of both father and son, had hindered each from 
 knowing the other even by repute — a stern pride, and a kind of family obstinacy 
 peculiar to them both, stopped all inquiry on either side. 
 
 They had not met for years, until on that fearful night when they met on 
 Hounslow-heath, in the character of the assailer and the assailed, the highwayman 
 and the traveller, the murderer and his victim. 
 
 Alas ! looking at these affairs with a philosophic eye, which of them are we most 
 to pity — the father who fell by the hand of his son, or the unconscious parricide, 
 who now, with all the horror of his crime upon his conscience, lay in Newgate, a 
 melancholy wreck of what he once had been? 
 
 Most truly, the terrific crime of whieh Captain Hawk was really guilty admitted 
 of no extenuation. It was " murder most foul, as at the best it is. But this most 
 foul, strange, and unnatural and all we can say of him, and for him, is, that he 
 knew not who his victim was. 
 
 It may be that, in the eyes of a beneficent and a just Providence, the crime of 
 such a murder could not be made greater by the fact of the unknown relationship 
 of the individuals ; but still the parricide himself was not in a condition to reason 
 logically upon his vast offence. No ; he could only feel all the stings of a'remorse, 
 which soon must hurry him to that grave which his thoughts had never until that 
 day turned upon. 
 
 We will fancy now Sir John Boyes established at his lodging, and May having 
 retired to her chamber on the sufficiently valid plea of fatigue. Ratchley Boyes 
 has been absent more than an hour — he returns pale and agitated, and his eye 
 glances round the small family circle. 
 
 " Where is May V 1 he said. — " Why," said Sir John, " as I understood, she has 
 gone to repose for an hour or so, after her fatigues." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed," said Ratchley ; " no wonder.* 
 
 He took an opportunity, some few moments after, of leaving the room, and then 
 he inquired of one of the servants of the house which was May Boyes's bed- 
 chamber. It was indicated to him, and with rapid steps he reached the door, at 
 which he tapped gently. It was opened by May herself, instantly. 
 
 " It is you, Ratchley," she said ; " come in — and, and — tell me at once have 
 you succeeded V — " I have, and without, difficulty." 
 
 * The order, the order— give me the order." — "It is here, May; but, oh! reflect 
 again. You have thrown me into such a state of feverish anxiety by this projected 
 visit of yours to Newgate, that I know not what to do or say." 
 
 " Hush, hush," said May ; " enough." 
 
 She hastily threw over her shoulders a cloak and hood, and was in a few brief 
 moments ready for the streets. Ratchley gazed upon her until she reached the 
 door of the apartment. 
 
 * You are determined V he said. — " Quite, quite." 
 
 " And will you not allow me to go with you?" — " Do not ask it. Heaven must 
 be the only witness of our interview. Ratchley, God bless you— farewell, brother- 
 farewell." 
 
 *' Why do you say farewell V* — " Nay, I know not, for we shall soon meet 
 again. It is very foolish to say farewell. Adieu, adieu ; it is a gentler and a better 
 word." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 115 
 
 She passed out of the room, and he heard her light footstep tripping down the 
 stairs. He clasped his hands, and, in a tone of great anguish, he said, — 
 
 " My poor May, my poor May, I will follow thee. If you will adventure upon 
 this mad interview, I cannot find it in my heart to thwart you ; but at the door of 
 Newgate I will wait your coming forth again." 
 
 May Boyes had very nearly described all she felt by those despairing words she 
 uttered in court, when she said,— 
 
 " All is lost— all is lost." 
 
 And, indeed, now there was no hope, if we may except that faint one with which 
 she sought the dreary prison-house of him that she has loved so well. 
 
 She wished now but to see him once again, to implore him to think that 
 the mercy of Heaven was infinite, to beg of him not yet to despair of that serenity 
 in a life to come, which in this he had robbed himself of. She wished to tell him 
 all that she had done, and all that she had striven to do, to save him ; and she 
 thought then, that if she could awaken one tear of genuine repentance; and see it 
 but for an instant glittering in those once haughty, flashing eyes, she would have 
 performed her mission, and have liked to die. 
 
 It was with such thoughts and feelings as these, little heeding the lateness of 
 the hour, or any remark of chance passengers upon her hurried mien, that she 
 sought the gate of Newgate. 
 
 Her object lifted her far above all such considerations. In her mind's eye she 
 looked through those dreadful walls into the very cell where he, who first had won 
 her eyes, and then her heart, she knew was lying. She paused not a moment, but, 
 as ten o'clock was pealing forth from the bell of St. Sepulchre's church, she, with 
 the judge's order firmly clutched in her grasp, tapped at the wicket gate of New- 
 gate. It was instantly opened, and a rough visage appeared at the small aperture. 
 
 f* Well, what now ?" said a man ; " you know now, as well as I do, that it's no 
 use knocking here." — May held up the paper.—- "Ha! bother," said the man; 
 " what's it all about?" — " Read it," said May, " and see." 
 
 There was something in the voice that awed him j he picked up a lantern from 
 the stone floor, and held it to the paper. 
 
 u Admit the bearer to an interview alone with Captain Hawk. Hum ! Charles 
 Anderton, the judge, by all that's good ! What a start ! There's no saying no 
 to it, though. Well, mum, come in." 
 
 The door was opened, and May Boyes stood within the precincts of Newgate. 
 
 " I begs your pardon, mum, for being 'tickler. We has rum 'uns here to deal 
 with, and rum 'uns comes to see um ; and in course we don't expect a lady at such 
 a time of night, nor more does Captain -Hawk seem to expect any company. He's 
 as comfortable as ever mortal man was, mum, and I calls his a perfectly blessed state, 
 and I wishes I could say as much for myself." — " Comfortable !" ejaculated May. 
 
 " Yes, mum ; he says he ain't hungry, and he ain't dry, and he doesn't 
 want nothing of nobody ; and if that ain't something like a remarkable genteel 
 independence, mum, blow my whiskers. I only wishes I could say so much — to be 
 sure, I can't say as I'm hungry, and I don't tickler want nothing of nobody ; but 
 atween you, I, and the post, mum, I'm thundering dry — that's the only difference 
 atween us. Eh ! mum ? did you speak, mum ?" — " No." 
 
 " Oh ! I begs your pardon ; I thought you said, here's a crown to drink. What a 
 blessed illusion, to be sure — an illusion of the senses, mum." — " Alas ! he does not 
 expect, me," sighed May. 
 
 " Eh ! eh ! d d if she ain't thinking of something else. It's no use — come 
 
 along, mum — this way, mum — mind you don't fall into the well. I sees I sha'n't 
 get nothing out of her . Pious, I should think. Comes to talk to him about his soul, 
 no doubt, or else she wouldn't have had the order." 
 
 With a surly mien, and carrying with him an enormous bunch of keys, the man 
 strode on, followed closely by May, who was not at all alarmed at his mock warn- 
 ing concerning the fictitious. well, for she really did not hear it — her thoughts were 
 with the prisoner in his lonely cell. What to her was the whole world and all its 
 hopes, its fears, its anticipations, and its regrets? 
 
116 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 The tide in her existence which might have led her on to happiness had but 
 wrecked all her dearest and best hopes upon the rocks of despair. She was one of 
 those who love but once, and that once with a fervour and devotion akin to that 
 spiritual affection which it may be supposed ministering angels feel for each other in 
 that realm beyond the sky, where there are no jealousies and no doubts. She was as 
 some adventurous merchant, who embarked all his fortune in one frail vessel, and, 
 being overtaken by the storms of fate, had, as a consequence of that too free venture, 
 lost all. She had played her only stake in the great game of existence, and she 
 stood defeated and despoiled of the means of again making such a venture. 
 
 It was not likely that such a being as May Boyes should pass entirely through 
 existence, with no one to whom she could render up that rich store of affection which 
 she had garnered in her heart ; but, oh ! far, far better had those holy and delightful 
 feelings slumbered for ever, lending only the faint halo of their full glory to her 
 thoughts and actions, than that she should have loved so well one who was so un- 
 worthy of that love. 
 
 We doubted if the murderer or his victim were most to be pitied ; but what is 
 
 Sity for them, compared to that anguish of regret which all must feel for the heart- 
 esolation of poor May Boyes % 
 She was one of those beings whose very faults make them, perhaps, the more ad- 
 mirable ; her errors were but exaggerated virtues — noble pieces of generosity, un- 
 curbed by prudence. 
 
 How she had clung, even in the face of a conviction of his worthlessness, to him 
 whom she had loved ; and yet it was not with the feeling of an earthly passion that 
 she clung to him — it was not that she loved the man, and was disposed to gloze over 
 his vices, that she did so ; no, from the first moment that she became aware of who 
 and what he was, she felt as if Heaven itself had sunk a chasm between them, which 
 she would not, and which he dared not, cross. 
 
 But out of that affection and that abundance of love, which would, had all pros- 
 pered and gone happily, have made her such a gentle helpmate to Gerald Clifton as 
 the world never saw, arose another and perhaps as noble, if not a nobler, feeling. She 
 resolved to do all that in her lay to save him, not for the purpose merely of saving 
 him from the mortal consequences of his crimes, but to save him from himself, and 
 to save him for Heaven. She thought it possible that she might wean him from the 
 evil of his way, and lead him, by the gentle influence of some affection which 
 surely he* must feel for her, to those pleasant paths of virtue which are strewn with 
 Heaven's sweetest flowers. 
 
 And when she started on her enterprise — when, attired in that costume which 
 made her look the daring highwayman so well that she deceived even practised 
 eyes, it will be borne in mind that she knew not, and that she never for a moment 
 surmised, the extent to which Captain Hawk's criminality that night would go. 
 
 There was no frightful murder present to her imagination ; she saw not, and 
 suspected not, that those exertions she was making were for any one about to com- 
 mit so terrific an offence against both God and man. 
 
 All she had heard and all ehe had read of highwaymen consisted of daring rob- 
 beries, characterised by boldness on the one side, and pusillanimity on the other. 
 The deed of blood took her by surprise, and then it was that, perhaps, with the so- 
 phistry taught her by her affection, she said to herself, — 
 
 " The greater the crime the greater the need of a long period of repentance. 
 What will his death avail 1 — nothing, nothing ; while his future life may suffice, in 
 some measure, to make his peace with an offended Providence." 
 
 And thus it was that she had persevered in her attempt to rescue him from the 
 consequences of his criminality — a perseverance which we have seen would have 
 fully attained its object, but for the unexpected denouement of the trial. 
 
 Thought, in its rapidity of meiatal expression, pays little heed to time. During 
 the brief space in which May Boyes was following the turnkey, her imagination ran 
 riot, and she was lost almost in a maze of anticipation as to the result of the coming 
 interview. 
 
 A number of intricate winding passages were threaded, here and there dimly 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 117 
 
 lit by a lamp suspended from the ceiling ; a cold and chilly moisture exuded from 
 the walls, and the silence of the place seemed ominous and dismal. 
 
 Suddenly the turnkey paused, and, addressing her, he said,— 
 
 " We had heard of Captain Hawk before he came here, and we're bound to take 
 good care of him. He's in the coffin cell." 
 
 « The coffin cell !" said May.— " Yes ; it's a name we give to one of the strong 
 boxes, partly in consequence of the roof being shaped like a coffin lid, and partly in 
 consequence of nothing. Here you are, and there he is." 
 
 " No light V said May. — u Not a bit of it. We should soon be singed out of 
 old Newgate, if we gave lights in the cells." 
 
 He opened a door. May crossed the threshold, and she heard the ponderous 
 lock shot into its place. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE SHADOW OP DEATH. 
 
 The coffin cell was dark ; there was a narrow grating through the roof, which 
 looked upon the sky, for it was placed aslant, and carried the eye of any weary pri- 
 soner far above the surrounding building. But now that sky was dark as a funeral 
 shroud ; and, before her eyes became accustomed to it, the cell, to May Boyes, was 
 a dense mass of gloom, the extent of which was left wholly to the imagination. 
 
 But does the prisoner move not % — are his senses so dull and deadened that he 
 knows nothing of the fact of this disturbance of his solitude ? or has he already bidden, 
 with deep serenity, the world and all its affairs adieu ? He moves not — he stirs not 
 —and, indeed, scarcely seems to breathe. 
 
 Is there nothing at his heart which tells him of the presence of her he loved ? — 
 does she bring with her no atmosphere of beauty, and intelligence, and devotion, into 
 the recesses of that gloomy place ? It would seem not ; and, if he had really heard 
 his cell- door move upon its hinges, he, probably, thought it but an official visit from 
 some of the prison authorities. 
 
 May stood for several minutes unable to utter one word of salutation, and, per- 
 haps, more unnerved by the fact that she was unchallenged by the inhabitant of that 
 dreadful place, than as if he had at once spoken, and demanded who it was that in- 
 truded upon his loneliness. 
 
 But she had much to say, and time was waning fast. She heard the departing 
 tread of the gaoler, as it grew fainter and fainter in the intricate passages that led 
 from the cell. How soon he might return again she knew not, but the thought 
 that his presence might rob her of the opportunity of saying something of that which 
 was sitting brooding at her breast, warned her to be quick, and, advancing yet 
 another step into the cell, she said, in something of her old accents, when love and 
 joy and many anticipations of delight were the fair dreams of her imagination, — 
 
 « Gerald Clifton f 
 
 Those words seemed a spell of wondrous power. With a cry of surprise, the 
 prisoner sprung to his feet from where, in the darkness, he had been reclining. 
 She could just see dimly his figure within a couple of arms' lengths of her, and 
 the cell echoed to his words, as he cried, — 
 
 " Fiends ! fiends ! mock me not with such a sound as that ; but that I am 
 here alone, a prisoner, and nearly mad, I should tell myself that I had heard 
 the voice of May Boyes." 
 
 " Gerald Clifton," said May, " you have heard the voice of May Boyes. You 
 may be deserted by all the world beside ; but I have come to you even here, not 
 from woman's weakness, which induces her still to cherish the idol of her 
 hearc, though proved unworthy, but from higher and nobler motives, have I 
 sought you." 
 
 " It is — it is," he gasped, " it is the living likeness of the best, the truest. " 
 
 He could say no more ; but in that dim light, to which her eyes were now be- 
 ginning to get accustomed, she saw him sink at her feet. He clasped one of her 
 
118 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 hands in his ; she felt that they "were icy cold. He covered it with kisses, and she 
 felt that there were tears— perchance, for the first time for many a year— gushing 
 from those eyes, the sparkle of whose happy intelligence had ever made them 
 look so beautiful. 
 
 "My own— my beautiful!" he ejaculated. "Oh, May — May— -I do not de- 
 serve this, and as little expected it. And you can love me still ; even now, the 
 felon, the murderer, you can love. Oh ! could I have but guessed at such a 
 world of devotion !" 
 
 " I expected, as well as feared, this," said May. " I do not love you, Gerald 
 Clifton, for by that familiar name I still wish to call you. I do not love 
 you — disabuse yourself from that delusion." 
 
 " Delusion, May— not love me, and yet here, at such an hour, too, and in the 
 condemned cell of the self-accused murderer. No — no, May ; you have not come 
 here to tell me that you do not love me." 
 
 " Gerald Clifton, this is not a time for ceremonies or reserves. I — I did love 
 you, but I loved you for what you seemed, as now I love you not for what you 
 are. Still do I think that the consummate actor, who can play a part so well 
 that it shall look like nature's self, must possess something of the nature of that 
 part in his own person ; and so, because to me you played the part of nobleness 
 of greatness, and of virtue, I will cling to the thought that the elements of those 
 feelings may be yet within you ; that yours is a perverted nature, Gerald Clifton, 
 not a bad one." 
 
 He trembled, and dropped the hand that till now he had held in his grasp, as 
 he said faintly, — 
 ** Go on — go on." 
 
 "Joining this faith to a feeling which has grown out of a reminiscence of my 
 fond affection, I have come here, Gerald Clifton, with the hope of being the 
 mediator between your conscience and your God. Do you understand me 
 now ?" 
 
 ?'Yes," he said, "yes;" and he rose with a staggering movement to his feet. 
 "I understand now; and the partial vanity of the moment, in believing that 
 it Was woman's love that brought you here, is properly rebuked. You forget 
 who and what I am. Dare you trust yourself here with the parricide — the 
 man whose hands are dyed in the blood of him who gave him life ?" 
 
 " You see, Gerald Clifton, that I dare do so." — " Your errand, May, is a vain 
 one. 1 am suak too low to be raised by thee. I want no preaching. I have 
 enough here in my own breast already, to tell me that there is a hell on 
 earth, if there is not one hereafter. 1 will not believe in, nor will I think of, a 
 future." 
 
 " You do both, Gerald Clifton," said May ; <e even now, your guilty soul trem- 
 bles at the dim perspective of the world to come." 
 
 6 * No ; well aware am I that the minor crimes laid to my charge will bring me 
 to death — to a felon's death, amid a gaping crowd, who will make high holiday 
 to see the show. The memory of the doom which I have escaped will enable 
 those who are my judges, with easy consciences, to condemn me; but they will 
 fail — their victim, as they think me now within their grasp, will yet escape 
 them." — " Yes," said May ; " their victim may escape them." 
 
 " And he will." — " But how ? There is a road, Gerald Clifton, the road which 
 leads to the footstool of the Omnipotent, and that is the road which you cannot 
 take ; there is an ear which will turn not away from your supplication, and that 
 alone is the ear which you must address." 
 
 " May Boyes— May Boyes, you cannot add one pang to those which I already 
 suffer, nor can you diminish one by thus talking to me upon a subject which, from 
 other lips, I would not have heard so long. I am one who have lived, fearing 
 nothing, and believing nothing. You might have moved me by speaking to me of 
 your love ; and I should have wept to think that so much beauty and so much 
 gentleness should have been cast away upon such a wretch as I ; but now you 
 have commenced a theme which awakens no sympathies in my heart." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 119 
 
 "Oh, Gerald Clifton — Gerald Clifton! can you utter such words as these to 
 me ? Can you forget the past, and yet have no hope for the future ? Is there 
 no lingering expectation in your heart that we may meet again? ' 
 
 " Meet again !" — " Yes ; but not here— not beneath earthly skies." 
 
 " No, no, May — that is madness ; we can never meet again. If all that men 
 say of religion, and of that life which is to come, be true, you and 1 can never 
 meet. The abodes of the blessed, in which joy eternal would be yours, can be no 
 home for me ; while you are listening to strains from heavenly lutes, the shrieks 
 of doomed wretches like myself will be my melody ; and, if all be false — if all that 
 is said upon these subjects be but the vain dreams of enthusiasts, then there is 
 oblivion, and we can never meet again." 
 
 " I can well see," said May, " from whence your unbelief arises ; it is because 
 you despair of mercy — it is because you have no hope ; but my visit here is to 
 give you that hope, Gerald Clifton ; to pour it into your ears, and fill you with a 
 better faith than that you have declared." 
 
 ** You forget my crime, May." — " No, no, I do not ; but—but, Gerald, you 
 did not know it was your father." 
 
 " No— I call God to witness V — " What ! you call upon that God to 
 
 witness your denial, whom you have yourself denied? Oh — shake off this 
 bravado of opinion, and, standing upon the smallest space of hope that imagina- 
 tion can give you, look up to Heaven, and tell yourself how infinite is its mercy." 
 
 " May Boyes, I will not say that any one could move me to think as you 
 would wish me but yourself. Sometimes I doubt that I have done the deed, 
 which, at others, my own conscience attributes to me with an accusing voice 
 that appals my intellect. There are circumstances and mysteries connected with 
 the whole transaction, which I cannot unravel, and which make me feel like a 
 man in a dream." 
 
 " These circumstances, Gerald Clifton^ I can explain to you. There is nothing 
 in your dreadful position but cold reality ; but you tremble, and your voice sinks 
 — you are ill." 
 
 " Hush ! — hush ! do not say so. It is better that I should be ill. Death- 
 death may be near at hand. I should like to die with the sound of your voice, 
 May, in my ears. It is said tha't the dying sometimes hear pleasant music. 
 What strains of melody would equal those to me?" 
 
 He staggered to a wooden seat that was in the cell, upon which he sank with a 
 deep sigh, and then he added, faintly, — 
 
 * Is it fancy, or does the cell grow lighter ?"— " It does grow lighter, 1 ' said 
 May ; " the moon is nearly at its full, and, as it rises in the sky, its reflected 
 beams will penetrate even to siich a place as this. I can see your face now, 
 Gerald. How pale and sad yo u look ; you will listen to me ; you will think again ; 
 better thoughts will usurp the place of those that you have uttered. Gerald, 
 Gerald — I think — I know you love me." 
 
 " I did, as Heaven is my judge !" — " There again, as Heaven is your judge. 
 Why, Gerald, when you are in earnest, you at once appeal to that Heaven which 
 your pride denies." 
 
 " Will you sit beside "me, May, and go on speaking to me ? This is— quick, 
 quick ! 1 did not think it would be so soon." — «* What, Gerald, what V 
 " Ay, ay, what !" — " You spoke of something V* 
 
 " No, no, it was nothing ; go on. Let me hear you speak." — " Your own voice 
 grows fainter ; shall I get you help?" 
 
 " Not for worlds," he cried, as he sprang to his feet and grasped her wrist ; " not 
 for worlds you shall riot ; yffti dare not, you— you will not." 
 
 At that moment, the moon must have emerged from behind some dense and 
 shadowy clouds, for, as if by magic, there streamed in at the grating of the dun- 
 geon's roof a beam of silvery light, which fell upon the wall of the opposite side to 
 that on which they sat. 
 
 A half shriek burst from May Boyes's lips, as, by the reflected light of this beau- 
 tiful moonbeam, sfee looked upon Gerald Clifton's face. It was of a death-like 
 
120 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 paleness ; the very lips were white, and cold drops of perspiration stood upon the 
 ample brow. 
 
 " God ! what is this !" she exclaimed ; " can mental agony, in a few short hours, 
 have worked this wondrous change V 
 
 His lips parted, but it was a moment or two before he could speak, and then he 
 said, — 
 
 " What change ? Hush, hush ! I am quite well ; I shall be better. Oh, do not 
 stir — make no alarm ; 'tis better, ay, a million times better, as it is. Did they 
 think that I would live to make a show at Tyburn ?" 
 
 " What is the meaning of these dreadful words V cried May. " Speak to me— 
 confide in me, Gerald Clifton." — "Hush, hush!" he cried; and he clutched her 
 convulsively by the wrist. " What is that — what is that ?" 
 
 " Where, where ? M — " On the wall — on the wall, in the moonlight. Do not you 
 see it creeping round the cell V. 
 
 " It is but a shadow." — " Yes, yes, it is but a shadow ; but it is the shadow of 
 the dead. It is the spirit of the murdered, come to look upon me as I breathe my 
 latest sigh. Do not mock me — do not look upon me thus. Wait but another hour — 
 ay, or less, and I shall be even as thou art. There, there ! look at it, May Boyes ! 
 Do you not see it ? — it is creeping to the door. It is the shadow of my father ! 
 It will not leave here alone ; one shadow has entered the coffin cell, but two will 
 depart." 
 
 May Boyes trembled as she looked in the direction indicated by Gerald Cliften. 
 The moonbeams threw the shadow of some object upon the wall ; it might be a 
 chimney stack, part of a church spire, or the exaggerated outline of some architec- 
 tural ornament; but most certainly, with a little aid from the imagination, it assumed 
 a human form, looking like some figure enveloped in massive drapery, and gliding 
 slowly along the wall, as the moon took its path along the starry heavens. They 
 were both silent several minutes, gazing upon the seeming apparition. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Gerald, in a low tone ; " 1 come. We shall pass out together. 
 I did not know you. Do not look so stern upon me. Horror ! horror ! Is this 
 blood that is floating in the air ? The poison ! the poison ! — it will do its duty. 
 Shadow of the dead, I will come with thee ; in the wide realms of space, I will 
 listen to your accusing voice. I knew you not, but you shall drag me to per- 
 dition !" 
 
 " Poison, poison I" cried May. " Oh, Gerald* Gerald, you have not " 
 
 " Hush ! I was prepared. I would not — I could not be the rabble's spectacle." 
 
 Her head sank upon her hands, and she sobbed bitterly ; then, springing to her 
 feet, she flew to the cell door, and beat at it frantically with her clinched hands, 
 calling loudly for help. 
 
 It was in vain ; no one heard her. The utmost stretch of time allowed for an in- 
 terview with a prisoner had not expired, and so there she remained locked up with 
 the dying in the coffin cell. 
 
 But what could not a love, such as May Boyes hrtd felt, accomplish, when she 
 indeed found that it was hopeless to attract attention', and so procure aid for him 
 whom she now felt convinced had taken some deadly drug ? She returned again to 
 his side, and, taking his hand in her's, she strove to wean hirn from his dreadful 
 thoughts. He heard her, though his eyes were fixed upon the shadow on the wall. 
 
 " Gerald Clifton, you will pray — you will utter the na'me of God, not as an ex- 
 clamation, but as a man deeply repentant of that which he has done, and hopeful of 
 mercy from the Great Judge of all." 
 
 "Look at the shadow — look at the shadow!" — "GeraAd, Gerald, turn your 
 thoughts on other subjects. You said you loved me ; by ithat love, I adjure you 
 to repentance ! You had a mother once — can you remember her? if so, in her 
 name, and by her memory too, I call upon you for repentunce ! Let me hear, 
 Gerald, oh ! let me hear one heart-felt appeal to Heaven, and I shall dream you 
 may be happy." 
 
 " The shadow seems to beckon me !" — "I will tell you all. 'Twas I, Gerald, 
 who followed you upon the heath, when perchance you thought fsome form of evil 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 121 
 
 beckoned you onwards and haunted your footsteps : 'twas I, Gerald Clifton— 'twas 
 I ! I saw you leave the house of my father, on your dreadful errand ; and I saw 
 you change from what you had seemed to be, to what I had been told, but believed 
 not, that you were." 
 
 " See, see ! it nears the door. It looks sterner now I am dying V — " No. no ;■ 
 not yet— not yet, Gerald." 
 
 u Shadow of death, you will have ample vengeance V — " Look not on it ! Look 
 not on it ! It is a delusion ! Listen ! listen ! 'Twas 1, disguised in clothing 
 that you had left at the Hall, who rode to London, deceiving, by a mockery of 
 your presence, those who, while they have not foresworn themselves to-day, yet 
 have not sworn the truth." 
 
 " Look ! look ! look ! can you doubt it now ? The face, May Boyes — the 
 face ! God, I ought to know that face I" — " Will no one come— will no one 
 come ?" said May, and wrung her hands frantically. 
 
 No. 16. 
 
122 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 "No one, no one/' said Gerald; "no one but the dead! Look at it now! 
 See with what a glassy stare it now regards me ! My time is nearly come ! 
 Stay, shade, stay ! Let me linger for a brief space by her whom I have loved !" — 
 " Yes," said May, for she caught at the gentler accents in which he spoke, and 
 felt at last that there indeed was the only point on which she could move him. 
 <f Yes, yes; you have loved me, and you do love me, Geiald Clifton. Do you 
 remember our walk upon the terrace of the old Hall, where the sweet garden lay 
 stretched far beneath us? Do you remember how the soft evening air then 
 fanned our cheeks, and you talked to me of love V* 
 
 " Yes," he said ; '* before my hands were of this crimson colour." — " By the 
 remembrance of that love ; then, Gerald, it is that I adjure you to say something, 
 to do a something yet which will give the ministering angels around the throne 
 of God a cause to plead for you ! They shall say that even at the last it was 
 from the memory of the best and gentlest feeling of your life that you sued for 
 mercy. Gerald, Gerald, will not the hope that we may meet again where there 
 is no sorrow induce you say, ' God, have mercy upon me !' " 
 
 " If — if/' he gasped, " it were not for the shadow on the wall " — " Heed it 
 
 not, heed it not. I will walk up to it, and place my hand upon the seeming face !" 
 
 ''Yes; you are innocent ! Your hand is spotless, and gentle as a babe's. Look 
 at mine ! dyed with the life-blood of a father ! Since that fatal night, as I have 
 held them up 'twixt me and the light, they have ever worn a crimson hue ; while, 
 "twixt me and the glorious sunshine, a blood-red mist has seemed to float ! 
 Look at the shadow ! Look at the shadow !" 
 
 The moon had sped on her gentle course, and the seeming likeness of the 
 murdered man was within a pace or two of the cell door. May Boyes flung 
 herself at Gerald Clifton's feet — she clasped his knees. 
 
 " Gerald, Gerald," she cried, "you will utter these words that I have put into 
 your mouth V' 
 
 "And so — and so/' he said faintly, " it was you, my beautiful May, who saved 
 me from my doom! Was ever such devotion! Leave me, leave me. The 
 shadow creeps towards the door, and we must part for ever." 
 
 •'I cannot leave you, nor would 1 if I could. Gerald, you have not prayed 
 yetj not yet acknowledged, as I hoped you would acknowledge your deep sin-; 
 fulness. " Gerald, Gerald Clifton ! he sinks ! he's dving ! Help! help! help! 
 Oh! horror! horror! Madness will come now! Gerald Clifton, speak again !" 
 
 In hissing whispers, he said, — 
 
 " The shadow ! the shadow ! the shadow of death !" 
 
 The strange shade reached the cell doer, and at the moment a heavy tread 
 sounded from without. There was the rattlp of a key in the lock— the gaoler had 
 come. Gerald Clifton's head had sunk upon his breast, a spasm seemed to 
 seize him ; all her former love returned, and May sprang to her feet, and flung 
 her arms round him. 
 
 "Gerald! Gerald! dear Gerald !" she cried, "I do love you still !" — "My 
 May, my May," he said, faintly ; " God have mercy upon me !" 
 
 He slipped from her hold, and fell heavily upon the floor of the cell. 
 
 "Time's up," said the man. — " Yes," said May ; ( ' time's over." 
 
 She walked from the cell without another word, and it seemed as if she and 
 the shadow of death had left it together. She followed the man through the 
 intricate passages like some automaton. He spoke to her, but she heard him 
 not ; he opened the wicket-gate, and she passed out into the open air. Some 
 one sprang forward to meet her — it was her brother, Ratchley. She held him 
 for a moment convulsively by the breast, and she tried to speak. The effort was 
 a vain one ; she swung round, and would have fallen, but for his supporting arm* 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE SEQUEL. 
 
 We say now that virtually our tale is over ; he, whose fortunes we have 
 followed through -the stormiest period of his life, has ceased to breathe — the brief 
 drama of his existence is at an end, and the dread curtain of eternity has dropped 
 between him and the world. But we still have a little more to say of those in 
 whom we are interested, although we, for our own parts, consider that with the 
 death of the prisoner in the coffin cell we have little more to do, except to utter a 
 few words concerning the beautiful May Boyes, who had passed through so 
 dreadful an ordeal, and who might never expect again such another episode in 
 her existence. 
 
 We left her in the arms of Ratchley Boyes, and it was a thousand mercies 
 indeed that he had thought of running to meet her as she passed out of the 
 prison. 
 
 Had he not done so she must have fallen, for succour and assistance, into the 
 hands of perfect strangers, who, however much they might sympathise with her 
 on account of her beauty, and her evident distress of mind, could not be expected 
 to feel for her as did Ratchley, or to be able to take such immediate care of her. 
 
 When she fainted in his arms, it was a result that he expected, although a sad 
 one, for he could well imagine that a scene of much distress must have taken 
 place between her and the prisoner although his wildest dreams of imagination 
 could not have pictured it to be what it really was. 
 
 Little did he suspect that May Boyes had left in the condemned cell at New- 
 gate a dead instead of a living man. Perhaps when she uttered those few inarticu- 
 late sounds which she did to him at the moment when she fainted in his arms she 
 meant to tell him what had occurred, but lacked the power to do so. 
 
 The consequence of this was, that hours must elapse before any but herself 
 could become aware of the dreadful catastrophe. Not that it mattered now, for no 
 regrets, official or domestic, could again recall to life that man who, with all his 
 errors on his head, had at last consummated his career of crime by self-murder, 
 thus carrying out to its full extent the same description of pride which had been 
 his strongest feeling throughout the whole of his career. 
 
 Too haughty to bend his energies to any of the arts of life, he preferred crimi- 
 nality and a sort of predatory warfare upon society, to any other mode of exist- 
 ence ; and at length, carrying out that same principle of dogged, obstinate resist- 
 ance to what was, he had chosen "rather to take his own life, than justify the laws 
 of his offended country in the eyes of its people. 
 
 Ratchley Boyes immediately procured a vehicle, for the purpose of conveying 
 his sister home. He did not attempt to seek medical aid for her, because he knew 
 that those who would proffer it could not minister to a mind deceased, or pluck 
 out a rooted sorrow from the soul. 
 
 Home, rest, and gentle words, were the remedies which he proposed to himself, 
 to bring her, if not back to happiness, at least to serenity. He procured a haekney- 
 coaeh, and having, notwithstanding his recent wound, had, as Sir John would have 
 remarked, a great deal of the strength of the Boyes about him, he lifted May 
 into the vehicle, and at once directed the driver to proceed to the lodgings of 
 Sir John. 
 
 Perhaps Ratchley scarcely regretted that this period of insensibility had so 
 closely followed upon her interview with the criminal in Newgate. It seemed as 
 if nature by such a means was attempting to restore the tone of her mind, which 
 must have been so cruelly shaken by recent events. The distance was not great, 
 for Sir John, when he came to town upon the business that required him at the 
 Old Bailey, naturally enough sought for some temporary abode in its immediate 
 vicinity. 
 
 His object was to get her to her own apartment without apprising Sir John, or 
 even Lady Boyes, of what had occurred, and in this, to his satisfaction, he sue- 
 
124 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 ceeded, for Lady Boyes had retired to rest, fancying that May had done so like- 
 wise, and Philippa was waiting the arrival of her sister, having a sort of perception 
 of the errand she was gone upon. 
 
 Sir John had solaced himself with a goblet of spiced wine, and after a great 
 many sage remarks, he had fallen asleep in his chair, and was snoring just like the 
 representative of all the Boyes. 
 
 "Philippa," said Ratchley, as he surrendered May to her care, "it is mental afflic- 
 tion that has produced this state in her, not bodily affliction. Do not be alarmed, 
 for she will soon recover, and then your best plan will be for you to lead her to tell 
 you all that has happened ; such a confidence will tend more to relieve her mind 
 than anything else, and should she weep abundantly, do not strive to check her 
 tears, she will be the better for their flowing." 
 
 Philippa promised to obey his directions, and he left the sisters together. 
 
 It was not until the following morning that the news began to spread over the 
 city of the death in his cell of Captain Hawk, the renowned highwayman. In 
 those days people were not so sharp in detecting death by poison as they are at 
 present, and as he had succeeded in taking some subtle drug, which presented no 
 outward appearances of its malign influence, a hasty inquest upon his remains 
 returned a verdict of felo-de-se, and he was buried at a junction of several roads, 
 somewhere about the spot upon which those, magnificent mansions now stand, which 
 lend a grace to the neighbourhood of Hyde-park. 
 
 Although it was midnight when the ceremony of his interment took place, the 
 officials connected with the prison had whispered it to so many persons, and they 
 again to others, that there was a considerable concourse. 
 
 The man at Tyburn turnpike, who had professed so violent an admiration for 
 Captain Hawk, left that ancient and now extinct gate in charge of a boy, while he 
 went to see the last of what he considered one of the greatest geniuses of the age. 
 Of course the boy left likewise, the moment his master's back was turned, so that 
 for one evening everybody went through Tyburn gate free. 
 
 Ratchley, when he heard of the death of Hawk, or rather, as we ought call him 
 now, Hesketh, mentioned it to May, but she only slightly inclined her head in 
 reply to him, which was quite a convincing proof to him that on the evening before 
 she had known of the fatal act. 
 
 He scarcely thought it possible, but yet there was a disagreeable suspicion in his 
 mind, that she might possibly have supplied Hawk with the poison. To have such 
 a suspicion of one whom he loved, was sufficient to make him unhappy until it 
 was dispelled, so with all the honest frankness of his nature, a frankness which he 
 knew she liked much better than any other mode of conduct, he put the question 
 to her. Her simple answer in the negative was sufficient, he was abundantly satisfied 
 that he was wrong. 
 
 We cannot say that May Boyes was ever restored to what might be called 
 serenity. It was likely that such a being as she would speedily recover from the 
 shock she had experienced, and although she made no violent exhibition of her 
 mental agony, yet that became a further argument to those who knew her best, in 
 favour of the supposition that her melancholy would be of a lasting character. 
 
 She retired with her father and family again to Boyes Hall. There, needed no 
 injunction to Ratchley to keep secret what he knew of the affair — his affection for 
 May was quite sufficient to induce him to do so, so that Sir John knew as little as 
 possible of the real circumstances connected with the matter, which had really pro- 
 duced so much confusion in his family. 
 
 He offered a reward for the family watch, and got it back again, but with great 
 cleverness, fancying it was the thief who brought it, he dodged him to London 
 to take him into custody ; but somehow or another, he lost sight of him for a 
 moment in the streets, and then pounced upon somebody else by mistake, who 
 brought an action for false imprisonment against him, which he was forced to 
 compromise for fear the old story of the watch should be again brought before 
 a public court of justice. 
 
 After that he kept the family chronometer safely locked up in a drawer, look- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 125 
 
 ing upon it as rather a dangerous character, and only winding it up now and 
 then, when the humour took him to think over past events connected with it. 
 
 The family of the Heskeths, with the deaths of both father and son, as we 
 have recorded, then became extinct, at least, as far as that branch of it was con- 
 cerned, and their names and their deeds gradually faded from the memory of man. 
 
 Sir John was, of course, in due time, gathered to the tomb of all the Boyes, 
 and Lady Boyes, a few years afterward, was laid quietly by his side. 
 
 Philippa married, and resided in London. Ratchley took unto himself a 
 gentle bride, and May resided with them in the old Hall, until, at an advanced 
 age, she was found one morning, in an attitude of prayer, dead in her own 
 apartment, 
 
 END OF ''THE SHADOW OF DEATH." 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE SEARCH IN THE BEGGAR'S WALLET, AND THE ONE MYSTERY CLEARED. 
 
 I have not interrupted my readers in arriving at the conclusion of so interest- 
 ing a tale as that of the " Coffin Cell ; or, the Shadow of Death." I have not 
 told them how, of course, I was forced to abandon the reading of those interest- 
 ing documents, and then, how I flew back to them when I could, to resume their 
 perusal. 
 
 I have said nothing of what I felt, and how deeply I sympathised with some 
 of the people connected with the narrative, and with what impatience I longed 
 for the sequel of those events, in which, at all events, one of the best and honour- 
 able of human beings bore so conspicuous a character. 
 
 All this 1 have let pass, because I would not destroy even by an interjectional 
 remark the, I fully expect, deep interest which my readers have had in the for- 
 tunes of May Boyes. 
 
 While J. was perusing this narrative from the beggar's wallet, I felt myself as 
 nothing, and I suspected strongly that my readers would consider it intrusive if 
 I made any remark personal to myself concerning the effect it was having 
 upon me. 
 
 But now that the tale is concluded, now that I have looked up from the last 
 scrap of paper upon which the catastrophe is recorded, and now that I am aware 
 that I can know no more of the beautiful and the gifted being, who, after all, en- 
 dured so much, to achieve so little, I feel that I may, without impropriety, again 
 call my readers' attention to the circumstances under which I became possessed 
 of those papers, and dilate a little upon those narratives which are to come. 
 
 It was nigh midnight, indeed, when I finished the story of the " Coffin Cell; 
 or, the Shadow of Death." 
 
 I had commenced reading when the rest of the inhabitants of the house in 
 which I dwelt had retired to repose. All was as still as the very grave, and some - 
 how or another, as I read on, I felt a fearful dread creep over me, that, ulti- 
 mately, the mass of papers that lay before me, would record some frightful catas- 
 trophe as having happened to the beautiful and the gifted May Boyes. 
 
 It was an exquisite relief to me to find that, after all, she suffered no more 
 than 1 have related. 1 certainly should have felt it keenly, had anything oc- 
 curred to her to produce physical suffering, and, although I am far from under- 
 rating that which the beautiful girl endured, yet am I grateful to find that 
 the truthful record from the old man's wallet has spared me a pang I almost an- 
 ticipated it would have given me. 
 
 I looked up, and found that the candles by which I had been reading were 
 burnt low, and presented to my eyes monstrous circles which a female in my house 
 denominates Turks' heads, although I could never see myself that the resem- 
 blance was very close. 
 
 The neighbouring clocks struck twelve at that moment, and they were an- 
 
126 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 swered by a little timepiece upon my mantel-shelf, which, with a sweet, silvery 
 sound, echoed the deeper tones of his larger brethren. 
 
 A feeling of great loneliness crept over me, and as I covered my hand 5 * with my 
 eyes, and looked far into that dreary vacuity, which we can fancy darkness to 
 piesent to us, 1 could, in my mind's eye, see the beautiful May Boyes mounted 
 on her gentle palfrey, and coming over the wild and desolate heath, to solve what 
 to her had become a dreadful enigma, namely, whether Gerald Clifton was de- 
 serving of her love or not. 
 
 I could fancy I saw her upon the terrace, looking over those Italian-looking 
 grounds, steeped as they were in the soft light of that sunny day, which had made 
 such successful war, for a brief period, with the stern winter. I could see her 
 very walk — her figure — attitude — her very face, and the long silken lashes 
 that reposed upon her cheek, as, in a dream-like trance of exquisite enjoyment, she 
 thought upon her love. 
 
 Then, too, I could see her looking in the face of that man who was to be her 
 fate, who was to meet with her in the happiest, sunniest portion of her exist- 
 ence, to turn the happiness to despair — the sunshine to gloom. 
 
 I could see her, with clasped hands, looking in that face which was air the 
 world to her. 
 
 And then, again, pursuing my dreamy trance, I could behold her by the bed- 
 side of her brother Ratchley, listening, with throbbing pulses and a fevered 
 cheek, to those surmises, which, in his mind, had grown into drear realities of 
 what the Gerald Clifton of her love really was. 
 
 Then she leaves him. See how she glides along the ancient corridor of that 
 ancient house ! She enters a chamber the living spirit of beauty and feminine 
 grace ! She emerges from it the knight of the road ; but there is the beauty, 
 still there is the soft down of early girlhood upon the dainty cheek ! There 
 is the exquisite lip outvieing the cherry in its lustrous redness f It is night, and 
 she paces to the ancient terrace. 
 
 And now I see Sir John, the great Sir John, who came in with the Conqueror, 
 and lost him in the crowd. The wise and the witty Sir John, the Sir John who 
 would repudiate any male descendant of his family who was not six feet two in 
 his stocking soles. I could see him palpably as if he stood before me for his 
 portrait. There was he with his look of self-satisfied sublime stupidity, and the 
 hand uplifted adorned with gems, scintillating rays from which were certainly 
 part and parcel of his greatness. 
 
 Yes, there he sits, conversing with the ancient authors. Poor ancient authors, 
 we pity you ! The conversation of Sir John must be a treat indeed. Tully, what 
 think you of him P Shake not thy hoary locks, Cicero, at your conversationable 
 companion. Euripedes, Sallust, Pliny, sit you down, and converse with the. 
 great Sir John Boyes, who came in with the Conqueror. 
 
 How sublime he looks! how his great, grey, sleepy eyes wander over the 
 ceiling, and then with what a look of complaisance he regards the family watch 
 that lies before him ! 
 
 "Ha!" he remarks, "I'm rather inclined to be of opinion that comparing 
 one thing with another, and drawing a conclusion from both, that, in a manner 
 of speaking, I — ah— yes/' 
 
 Tick, tick, says the watch, which is quite as sensible, and to the purpose, and 
 so Sir John and the family heir loom get on together, until a shadow darkens the 
 window. 
 
 He is robbed, and the scene shifts. I see the heath, and that young and 
 beautiful girl, like the wild huntsman of the German legend, dogging the foot- 
 steps of the man who is at once her destiny and her destruction. 
 
 How she pursues him, and how, with a felon's terror, he flies before her, 
 fancying that some living form dogged him upon the heath, and yet half believing 
 it was some phantom of the brain, woven Irom that conscience which doth make 
 cowards of us all ! 
 
 Alas ! for thee, beautiful May ! why will you attempt to subvert that which is ? 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 127 
 
 Why will you dream of even the possibility of turning such an one as Gerald 
 Clifton from that career which he has chosen, and with which he has identified 
 himself? it cannot be. Your task is a most vain one. You may strive until 
 you break your own heart in the endeavour, before you soften such an one as he 
 possesses. 
 
 How fearfully too does that last scene of all in the coffin cell rise up before the 
 mind's eye ! What must have been the feelings of that guilty man as he looked 
 upon that dim shadow which his own conscience had converted into something 
 too terrific for human nature to look on long and live ! 
 
 But if he suffered, what must she have suffered — she who knew no guile, she 
 who was most innocent of all that could be converted into guilt? Oh ! what a 
 period of terror that must have been to her ! 
 
 And yet we may say that she did succeed in her high and holy object, for 
 even at the last moment the guilty man called on his God to forgive him ! We 
 will hope that the call was not in vain, but that backed as it was at the throne 
 of all mercy by the gentle prayers of the sinless— the pure May Boyes, it availed 
 thai man of crime much. We will hope this as much with a wish that so much 
 love, gentleness, and purity of devotion as had characterised May's whole pro- 
 ceedings should not be entirely cast away and lost. 
 
 And now, having sat for a long time thinking of May Boyes and her untoward 
 fate, I bethought me that there was a part of the personal histoiy of Captain 
 Hawk which the papers that I had read had not made at all explicit. 
 
 It will be recollected by my readers that the early pages of the lengthened 
 document which recorded the story, as it might be truly called, of May Boyes' 
 affections, made mention of a hut upon the heath, to which it was the custom of 
 Captain Hawk, when it became convenient for him, to change the attire of 
 Gerald Clifton for that of the more dashing ornamentally costumed knight of the 
 road. 
 
 In this hut we were led to believe that there was a female in confinement, whose 
 wits from some cause or causes, no doubt bearing an intimate relation to the 
 proceedings of the redoubtable Captain Hawk, had become deranged. Then, 
 again, when this matter occurred to my memory, it speedily brought before my 
 mind's eye another incident. 
 
 The reader will recollect that a very mysterious circumstance took place at the 
 old Talbct Inn upon the heath, a circumstance which induced Hawk to fire a 
 pistol shot up the ancient staircase of that, alas ! now defunct establishment, in 
 reply to which there only came fluttering down the staircase, a garment. 
 
 " These are matters," I said to myself, "which I do hope the wallet of my 
 friend, who is now no more, will sufficiently explain to me." 
 
 Late now as the hour was, or rather, if I would be strictly correct, I should say 
 early, for the clock in my chamber had struck one some time since, I felt no 
 sensation of present weariness, but commenced at once a search again of the 
 wallet. 
 
 There were several printed papers now which presented themselves to my 
 observation, and upon taking up one I found it contained a true and particular 
 account of the trial of the celebrated Captain Hawk, the highwayman, who was 
 tried at the Old Bailey for the murder of Judge Holme. 
 
 Then again there was another which rather startled me, for the top of it was 
 adorned with a wood cut, which looked as if it must have been done when the 
 arts were very young indeed, or perhaps it was not a wood cut at all, but some 
 kind of stereotyped plate printed with the types, representing a gallows, by the 
 beam of which a man was suspended. Under this graphic representation were 
 the words, — 
 
 "A full, true, and particular account of the execution of Captain Hawk, for 
 murder; with his confession — his last words, and a copy of verses on the 
 occasion." 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ?" I said. " He was surely dead when May 
 Boyes left him in the cell, and yet here is a full, true, and particular account of 
 
128 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 his execution." I was alarmed and puzzled, for I felt quite satisfied with the 
 sort of end that the highwayman had come to. 
 
 This mystery, however, did not last long, for, on lifting up this printed docu- 
 ment, I found that there was a scrap of paper pinned to it, which contained the 
 following explanation : — 
 
 "This account of the execution of Captain Hawk was printed and prepared for 
 sale on the day he was tried, by an extremely adventurous and business-like man, 
 who wanted to be beforehand with his neighbours. Of course he was disap- 
 pointed, but this is one of the stray copies which came into my hands after some 
 research, for a number of them were sold in the country before the news reached 
 of Hawk being found dead in his cell." 
 
 " Indeed V' I said, to myself ; " can such things be V 
 
 Upon inquiry, however, of a friend, who knows something of the secrets of 
 newspapers, even of the present day, I ascertained that such things not only 
 could be, but are to no inconsiderable extent. 
 
 " Why, my dear fellow/' he said, " you are surely aware of all that. Books 
 are criticised which the critic never saw. Plays are praised or condemned which, 
 in one or two cases, have not been acted, so you must not be surprised at a last 
 dying speech and confession being printed before a man is hanged, and probably 
 the printer would, if he were alive, excuse himself by saying that Captain Hawk 
 ought to have been banged, and that his not being so was no fault of his." 
 
 " Very good," said I. "* We are always learning something, and it's very fit 
 that we should." 
 
 But this is a digression. I continued my search for some document which should 
 give me information concerning the mad woman who was kept by Hawk in the hut 
 upon Hounslow-heath ; but, before I found anything of the sort, I came across a 
 folded paper, on the outside of which was merely written the word " Plan." 
 
 The paper I opened, and seeing upon it something like the ground-plan of a 
 portion of a building, I was about to fold it up again, taking but little interest in it, 
 when I observed at one corner a note, written very small, which was as follows : — 
 
 " This is a plan of the approach to the coffin cell in Newgate, from the small door 
 of the offal cellar in the market." 
 
 I was at once interested, and consulted the plan carefully, with the full hope that, 
 through its instrumentality, 1 might be enabled to get into that portion of Newgate 
 which is hidden from the public eye now completely, and which the official person- 
 ages connected with that prison tell you, very civilly, they know nothing about what- 
 ever. 
 
 I was certain that the Newgate that was underground was infinitely more inte- 
 resting than the Newgate to which the light of day was fully admitted, and I hailed 
 this roughly drawn plan as a great boon to me, as well as its being really a great 
 stimulant to my curiosity. 
 
 " I will, most assuredly," I said, «* visit the coffin cell ; it will be something to 
 look upon those walls which met the last despairing glance of Captain Hawk. It 
 will be something to stand for a few minutes in that narrow chamber, which, in my 
 memory, has been consecrated by that glorious act of woman's devotion, which in - 
 duced the beautiful May Boyes to visit the prisoner at such a time to implore him 
 yet to seek the mercy of his Creator." 
 
 No classic ground could be more redolent of beautiful association to me than 
 spots which had been rendered interesting by being those on which were enacted 
 scenes which, to the honour of human nature be it said, it is capable of. 
 
 " Yes," I repeated, as I closed the wallet ; u yes, I will search no farther just at 
 
 S resent, but I will first bend my whole attention to finding a way through that small 
 oorway in the offal cellar to the vaults, the cells, and the "dungeons of Newgate. 
 Who knows what strange discoveries I may there make to repay me for my trouble? 
 — who knows but that I may succeed in bringing to light some of the mysteries of 
 that dreary abode, of which really so very little is known by the busy crowds that 
 daily pass its massive portals," 
 It was something even to have the chance of doing thus much ; it was a chance 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 129 
 
 See p. 181- 
 
 which I would not willingly have foregone for any consideration of an ordi n r y 
 character. 08 
 It was too late now to think of going to Newgate on my expedition until another 
 day had passed over my head. Besides, I could not go entirely without sle e p ? an( j 
 as the cold grey light of morning must now very soon be faintly irradiating the 
 eastern sky, I thought that I had better, as a good preparation for what might be a 
 sleepless night to come, enjoy some repose now while I was in possession of the 
 opportunity. 
 
 Before, however, I retired to rest, I could not help reading a ballad, which was 
 lying so uppermost among the papers in the wallet, connected with Captain Hawk 
 that I naturally took it up ; and, as it is rather, in its way, a bit of a curiosity' 
 I shall take the liberty of transcribing it here for the special benefit of my 
 readers. 
 
 No. 17. 
 
130 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE BOLD HAWK. 
 
 Come, all young lads and lasses fair- 
 Come round me in a throng, 
 While I the tale of Captain Hawk 
 Relate you in a song. 
 
 Oh, the brave ! — oh, the bold, 
 Handsome, tail, and not too old 
 Highwayman, Captain Hawk. 
 
 On Hounslow-heath he held his sway ; 
 
 The poor could pass him by ; 
 But, if a rich man chanced to come, 
 'Twas " Money, sir, or die !" 
 
 Oh, the brave !•— oh, the bold, 
 Handsome, tall, and not too old 
 Highwayman, Captain Hawk. 
 
 The Oxford mail was bowling on ; 
 
 The guard was ready there ; 
 But Hawk cried " Stop !— a toll, a toll ! 
 I only want what's fair." 
 
 Oh, the brave 1 — oh, the bold, 
 Handsome, tall, and not too old 
 Highwayman, Captain Hawk. 
 
 With snow the blunderbus was full ; 
 
 Whiz ! — pop ! It would not go ; 
 And purses, watches, rings, and gold, 
 Were handed in a row. 
 
 Oh, the brave ! — oh, the bold, 
 Handsome, tall, and not too old 
 Highwayman, Captain Hawk. 
 
 But fate and he did not agree 
 
 Long after that last job ; 
 Judge Holmes from 'ssizes coming home, 
 Hawk scuttled his old nob. 
 
 Oh, the brave ! — oh, the bold, 
 Handsome, tall, and not too old 
 Highwayman, Captain Hawk. 
 
 In Newgate cells he breathed his last — 
 
 The boldest knight of any. 
 Good people all pray buy the song ; 
 The charge is but a penny. 
 
 Oh, the brave !— oh, the bold, 
 Handsome, tall, and not too old 
 Highwayman, Captain Hawk. 
 
 After reading this song I retired to rost, with my mind so intensely full of the 
 image of May Boyes in the coffin cell, that it was no wonder my dreams were 
 daunted by her, and that I continually fancied I beheld her in some of the scenes 
 which the eventful narrative I had so recently concluded had pictured her. 
 
 I hesitated for some time on the morrow, as to whether or not I should tell any 
 one of my intended visit to Newgate. 
 
 I thought that if I could find any judicious friend whom I could make my com- 
 panion, and to whom I could precisely recount the story of May Boyes, that my 
 own gratification would be much increased thereby ; but when I came to look over 
 the muster roll of my acquaintance, I could not say to myself that there was any 
 one who would be likely to feel with me in the matter, or whom I could entirely 
 and safely trust with the means I had of obtaining admission to the most inter- 
 esting portion of the old prison of Newgate. 
 
 " No," I said to myself, " I will go alone, come what may of it ; and then, if I get 
 into any trouble or mischief of any kind or description, no one can say that I drew 
 him likewise into it. I must go alone and see what discoveries I can make, and I, 
 will go this very night." 
 
 Having then made up my mind thoroughly, to this course, I found the day hang, 
 very heavy upon my hands. And although I did not rescind or even reconsider 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 131 
 
 my resolution not to communicate the affair to any one, or to make choice of a 
 companion, yet, more than once, I could not help feeling most acutely the want of 
 one. 
 
 If I could, without a lingering doubt of the propriety of my choice, have fixed 
 upon some kindred spirit, all would* have been well ; but it was not to be done. I 
 felt the evil of making no confidant ; and yet I would not make one, because, I 
 feared that the evil of doing so would be greater. 
 
 I thought I had better put up with the ills I knew of, than such others that I 
 could only guess at. And so as the evening closed in, I made my solitary pre- 
 parations for my lonely visit to Newgate. Of course, I told myself over and over 
 again that the only risk 1 ran of anything uncomfortable, was in the possibility of 
 being overheard by some official persons, and searched for, and apprehended on the 
 somewhat novel charge of burglariously breaking into Newgate. 
 
 But this was a remote contingency indeed ; and, although, as I say, it really was— 
 taking a reasonable view of the question — the only cross contingency that was at all 
 likely to arise, I could not reconcile to myself the idea of going unarmed. 
 
 No ! I tried to reason myself out of it. I tried to tell myself that were I armed 
 to the teeth, it could make no difference ; for that I, of course, if found out, would 
 not think of killing anybody ; yet I did load my pocket pistols and bestowed them 
 snugly about-me, feeling a sense of security with those old friends, who had ac- 
 companied me in many a journey, ready for my grasp. 
 
 I likewise was very careful to provide myself with ample meaas for getting a 
 light, and I stowed away in one of my coat-tail pockets no end of little bits of wax 
 candles — and likewise took a flask of brandy with me and some biscuits. 
 
 Really, any one to have seen my preparations, would have thought that I meditated 
 some terrific excursion, attended with much danger, and calculated to last a con- 
 siderable space of time ; instead of perhaps only a brief visit of an hour or so 
 into Newgate ; that is to say, if the little door really led from the offal cellar to 
 the dungeons ; and the little strange old man, whose wits were evidently a little 
 damaged, had not adopted the idea as one of his delusions. 
 
 The very thought of such a grievous disappointment made me quake again, and 
 I became doubly anxious, for the night to come, in order that I might put an end to 
 such doubt regarding the success of the enterprise on which I had set my heart. 
 
 I waited until half-past eleven before I started from my own house to carry out 
 my adventure. That I knew to be a quiet time in London. Early people have gone 
 home, and late people are in theatres and taverns. 
 
 It wanted yet a little of twelve when I reached Newgate market, about which j 
 were a few straggling passengers, and it must have been only my fancy which made I 
 m» think that they regarded me with looks of curiosity as I walked along, flat- I 
 tering myself that surely I seemed as unconcerned as any of them. Perhaps, how- j 
 ever, after all there might have been something in my aspect which made them ; 
 think I was bound on some strange errand ; for I dare say that my efforts to appear ! 
 calm, and easy, and unembarrassed, had quite a contrary effect. 
 
 I lounged about the market waiting until I saw a good opportunity of reaching ' 
 the shop and house, under which was the o'ffal cellar, which now possessed to my i 
 mind so much greater an amount of interest than it had when first I entered it, or 
 even when I left it, carrying with me that^lletwhich I fully expected to yield 
 me such treasures, and for which I had t^rthlf^ for an acquaintance with the 
 beautiful and gifted May Boyes. 
 
 I say an acquaintance, because after perusing,"^ e eventful narrative, of which I 
 considered her by far more the heroine, than I considered the audacious Captain 
 Hawk the hero, 1 felt that 1 knew her, and imagined what she would say under 
 such and such circumstances ; and in my mind's eye, as Hamlet says ef his father, I 
 could see her. 1 
 
 At length I found myself at the mouth of that very mysterious cellar, and seeing 
 that I was completely alone, and that all was still and calm around me, I at once 
 took the wished for opportunity, and dived flown the steps into the murky re- 
 gion. ■ 
 
132 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 I had, however, before my eyes a wholesome dread of that dreadful well which 
 had been the grave of the cripple, so that when I had got a short distance only down 
 the steps, I did as I had done on a former occasion, that is, I paused to get a light. 
 
 Being, as I have already informed my readers, well supplied with the necessaries 
 6f doing so, I speedily lit one of the candle-ends 1 had brought with me, and 
 then when I could see my way, 1 carefully descended the remainder of the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 I looked around me now with some interest of quite a different character to that 
 which had previously invested the place ; for to tell the truth, when first I took 
 home the wallet of the old cripple, I expected to find it contain more a record of 
 crime than such a heart-stirring episode of romance as I had been delighted to 
 extract from it. 
 
 I glanced at the well down which I had seen the old man go, and down which T 
 had so nearly gone myself, 4 and I don't mind confessing that I shuddered to think of 
 how near I was to paying a most terrific price for my curiosity and love of ad- 
 venture. 
 
 I was then, — I speak confidentially, don't let it go any further— actually foolish 
 enough to stoop and listen intently, as if the old man could be still alive. All was as 
 quiet as the very grave— and then, with a 8igh for his fate, which, although, in his 
 state of body and mind at the time, not perhaps invested to him with a tithe of its 
 horrors, was yet dreadful to think about. I turned my whole attention to the door, 
 behind which I expected to find the mysterious and solemn passages of subter- 
 ranean Newgate, as we may call that portion of it which I was so exceedingly 
 anxious to see. 
 
 Yes, there it was. The door,; which would, when once opened, leave a pas- 
 sage free to me actually to that coffin cell in which Captain Hawk had breathed 
 his last, and which had been made sacred by the presence of May Bayes. 
 
 Oh ! how I longed to reach it. I held my light close to it, and examined it 
 very carefully indeed. It seemed wonderfully strong, and it was rather deep-set 
 in the wall. The lock was most massive, and must have been, at the very least, 
 half a hundred weight. 
 
 I found, by attentive examination, what I had not before observed, namely, a 
 bolt, which was near the bottom of the door ; but how, after incredible pains, 
 for I am quite sure many years must have elapsed since those old hinges, 
 moved, I at length got the door to yield to me, I need not detain my readers to 
 describe, for I make no doubt but that, as I was myself, they are much more 
 anxious to know what was beyond that old doorway, than about the door itself, 
 which presented such an obstinate resistance to my curiosity ; but at last I suc- 
 ceeded. Yes, it was open, and I stood within the precincts of Newgate, — dread- 
 ful and dreaded Newgate ! 
 
 A damp, chilling, pestiferous air came rushing through the open space, and 
 for a moment I thought that my candle was extinguished ; but the flame still 
 held with a weak grasp upon the wick ; and when I stepped aside, it recovered 
 itself, being out of the current of pent-up, unwholesome air, which came from 
 that, no doubt, long un visited region. 
 
 Of oourse, I made up my mind now to wait awhile, until the bad damp air 
 had escaped, and by repeated experiments with the candle, I found that it was 
 each moment improving and becoming purer, until at length the light burnt 
 tolerably, a»d I was sure that, at all events, I ran no chance of being suffo- 
 cated completely by walking forward. 
 
 I lit up a new piece of candle, so that I might not have to do so perhaps at an 
 awkward juncture, and then on I went, after gently closing the little door to 
 within about an inch behind me, where it remained. 
 
 My readers may well suppose that I had sufficiently studied the plan of the 
 passages which led to the coffin-cell, and which had presented itself to me in the 
 wallet, to have it all engraven on my memory with the greatest exactness, so 
 that I needed to make no reference to it whatever, but could proceed according 
 to the instruction I had derived from it, as well as if I had been the ghost of 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 133 
 
 some ancient official of the prison, well accustomed, in the ordinary course of 
 duty, each day to thread those long and most dismal passages. 
 
 And dismal and dreary, indeed, they were. The walls were composed of 
 rough-hewn stones, so ill joined together, that through numerous interstices 
 water continually exhuded, which, trickling to the ground, formed, in [some 
 places, pools of moisture, and in others, where it had sunk into the earth, I had 
 to wade almost through a mass of thick, tenacious mud. 
 
 But all this did not deter me ; no, nor would such difficulties, multiplied ten 
 times over, have been sufficient to prevent me from prosecuting an adventure on 
 which 1 had set my heart and soul so completely as I had upon this. 
 
 The roof, in some places, was very low, and when I looked up occasionally, I 
 certainly could not help, with some amount of alarm, thinking that the roofing 
 had sunk, and that at no distant period those subterraneous passages would, 
 many of them, become blocked up by their roofs falling in, as the material that 
 supported them decayed. 
 
 It was an uncomfortable thought now to imagine the possibility even of such a 
 catastrophe taking place behind me, and so making me a hopeless prisoner in 
 those silent regions ; but I would not allow myself to dwell upon such a con- 
 tingency. 
 
 "It's very unlikely that the roof should just wait for me to come here before 
 it falls in," I said to myself ; " so that consideration shall not deter me from pro- 
 ceeding." 
 
 1 was gratified to find all the passages and turnings as they had been described 
 to me in the plan ; and I came at last to a staircase which had not been shown 
 there, because a passage, which was shown as the one that I ought to pursue, 
 went past the foot of it. 
 
 I paused here a moment, and felt a great desire to ascend the stone staircase, 
 which seemed to go up a considerable height ; but I did not do so then. 
 
 "Time enough — time enough," said I, "when I have seen the coffin cell, to 
 which I can make my way with certainty, before I commence any explorations 
 of these regions of my own, and without knowing - where they may lead me." 
 
 Acting upon this prudent resolution, on I went, according to the plan ; and 
 now I felt sure that I should soon come upon the cells, one of which had the 
 ominous name that had belonged to the one I sought. 
 
 I found that the narrow passage in which I now was, had a slope upwards, as 
 much as I could guess, of one foot in about six or seven, so that I told myself, 
 that if I went on much at that rate, I should soon surely be upon the ordinary 
 level of the prison. 
 
 Suddenly, however, this rise terminated, and the pathway, such as it was, be- 
 came flat again ; and then it slightly widened, and the roof seemed to be higher, 
 and was flat instead of being arched, as most of the passage roofs were along 
 which I had passed. In another moment I noticed a door on my right hand, 
 and then another, and then another. 
 
 ** These are the cells," I said. 
 
 At that instant, the sound of a footstep over head gave me such a sudden 
 alarm, that, in hastily turning round, I knocked my candle against the wail, and 
 out it went, leaving me in such a profound darkness, as I think I had never before 
 seen anything at all resembling it, it was so utterly black and intense. 
 
 I did not feel half so much alarmed as angry at myself, for having been so 
 foolish as to be frightened at what, after all, was a natural enough occurrence, 
 I had ascended along that passage the floor of which was on a slope sufficiently 
 to be just beneath one of the stone paved thoroughfares of the prison j and, 
 doubtless, the footstep that I had heard, and which soon died away, proceeded 
 from one of the turnkeys going his rounds. 
 
 It was, of course, the suddenness of it that had affected me ; and now I blessed 
 my stars that 1 had taken the precaution to provide myself with the means of 
 procuring a light, which I set about doing at once, and soon re-illumined my 
 candle-end. 
 
334 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Then I remembered that the No. 8 had indicated in the plan which was the 
 coffin-cell ; and I looked all over the first door, and then the second, without 
 finding any number at all, or any indication of there ever having been numbers 
 upon them. 
 
 This was provoking, because, not to be able to identify the precise cell would 
 have much disappointed me. A moment's thought, however, brought to my 
 mind an idea upon the subject. 
 
 " Oh," I said, " of course this No. 8, whieh was marked upon the plan, means 
 the number counting from the first one of these cells, so that there can be no real 
 difficulty in finding it." 
 
 The moment this idea fairly took possession of my mind, I felt that it was 
 correct, and that I should have no difficulty now in finding the coffin cell. I began 
 counting at once the cell doors, commencing at the first one, and so on until I came 
 to seven, when, to my intense disappointment, that seemed to be all, for there, to 
 all appearance, the passage from which these dismal abiding. places led, terminated. 
 
 " Well," I exclaimed, " this is too bad, after all— really too bad ;" and I felt 
 for a few moments quite irritated that I should have been hoaxed in such a way. 
 
 " What if, after all," I said, as I stood in that gloomy -place irresolutely, with 
 the light in my hand ; " what if, after all, it is a mere fiction, and there was no 
 such bold, daring highwayman as Captain Hawk, no such beautiful, confiding pieee 
 of excellence as May Boyes, no Judge Holme, and, worse almost than all, no Sir 
 John Boyes, and no such thing as a coffin cell !" 
 
 These were, I must confess, most painful suppositions. I felt quite vexed, and 
 yet there was a lingering something in my mind which still whispered to me, " Pa- 
 tience, patience ; are you not within Newgate ? Has not the door done its duty, 
 and conducted you into those regions so long untrodden by man ? Yes," I said, 
 " that's true, but where's the coffin cell ?" 
 
 Echo, as such things do in Ireland, did not answer that it really did. not know ; 
 but, as I had raised my voice a little, the last word I uttered came upon my ears in 
 a mocking s@rt of cadence, and sounded to me like sell, instead of cell. 
 
 "JYes," I said, " it is what might be vulgarly called a sell, sure enough j but, 
 however, I will not be disappointed from any fault of my own." 
 
 I accordingly took the light in my right hand, and commenced a very careful 
 search along the walls of my uncomfortable abiding place. Still I could make no 
 more, than seven doors, and they all seemed fast, and I had no particular wish to 
 expend time or strength upon them, unless I were quite certain there was no coffin 
 cell to be found. 
 
 I had the plan in my pocket, and, placing the candle on the ground, I took it out 
 to consult it. Now the reader will remember, perhaps, that I congratulated and 
 applauded myself upon having consulted that plan so closely, and studied it so 
 thoroughly, that I had it engraven upon my memory. 
 
 And so I had, excepting one little important particular, and that consisted in the 
 fact that the door of the coffin-cell was not on the same line with the doors of those 
 other seven cells, but was in the end of the wall at right angles with them, where I 
 had not thought of looking, seeing casually just that it was a black mass, which I 
 concluded terminated the long narrow passage in whieh I was. 
 
 The plan was in my pocket again in a moment, and then I sprang forward and 
 examined the wall carefully. There was a door— a deep-set low door, which seemed 
 not to have been openedfor many a year, if one might judge from the way in which, 
 with dirt, it had actually, in a manner of speaking, incorporated itself with the wall. 
 Huge cobwebs, too, hung over it, which it must have taken industrious spiders a long 
 time to complete, and of course that door made No. 8 ; and likewise I told myself 
 must, of course, be the door of the coffin cell. 
 
 But now, how was I to make good my entrance to it 1 True, there I was, and 
 there was the door, but it seemed quite fast, and was, no doubt, considering the 
 purpose for which the place was built, tolerably strong. 
 
 It took me some minutes to discover on which side were the hinges, and on which 
 the lock, if lock at all there was, which after a time I began very much to doubt, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 135 
 
 because locks, in those days, were not suck delicate structures but that they made 
 themselves tolerably perceptible to the eyes. Indeed, our ancestors had very few 
 ideas of strength and security that were not associated with size. 
 
 " There surely is no lock," I said ; ** or, if there be, it is better contrived than 
 most of those huge, cumbrous specimens of the locksmith's art which belong to the 
 period when these cells were built. 
 
 After a time, I set down my candle at some distance, and determined to try what 
 a vigorous push against the door of the coffin cell would do. For this purpose I re- 
 treated a few steps, and summoned up all my energies to throw myself against the 
 door, with all the force I could call into action consistent with my personal safety. 
 
 " One, two, three," I cried, and then away I went. The door flew open before 
 me as if it had not been fastened at all, which to my mortification I found afterwards 
 was the real state of the case, and in I went to the coffin cell like a cannon ball. 
 
 I must have gone completely across it from one end to the other, for I came with 
 an uncomfortable blow against the opposite wall, and then I tumbled down and hit 
 my head against the corner of something — a knock that made me for the moment 
 see a thousand lights in the coffin cell ; and I dare say, if any one had seen me, I 
 looked quite as foolish as Sir John Boyes ordinarily did when he attempted any- 
 thing clever. 
 
 " Well," I said, as I gathered myself up, " I deserve this for being so ridiculous. 
 I ought to have had the common sense to try milder measures with the door before 
 flying against it in this manner, and here it was only just close shut all the while, 
 and I have made a battering-ram of myself for no purpose." 
 
 It was provoking, but, at all events, I had gained my object ; and, as my head got a 
 little better, and left off that uncomfortable throbbing which succeeds a hard knock, 
 I went out to the passage and brought in my light. 
 
 I held it up in my hand, and then I saw the peculiar shape of the ceiling and the 
 floor of the cell which gave it its name. The plan of the place was, as nearly 
 as possible, the shape of a coffin. 
 
 The walls were of a dull greyish colour, disfigured in many places by long streaks 
 of wet, which by some means had oozed in and trickled down them. There was the 
 slant window which permitted the prisoner to see the sky, and nothing else ; and 
 there was the wooden seat upon which May Boyes and Captain Hawk had sat while 
 that dreadful conversation ensued between them that so shortly preceded his death. 
 
 I placed my candle on the floor of the cell, and I sat down upon that seat. I 
 crossed my arms upon my breast, and gave myself up completely to fancy, as I 
 depicted to my mind's eye the two beings who had made that place to me so 
 memorable. 
 
 " And it was," I said, " to such a place as this that she came— she, the timid, 
 trusting, fond, and gentle girl — she who had been reared in the very lap of luxury, 
 she had cast aside all that was repugnant, all girlish feelings and scruples, and came 
 , here to such a wretched place as this, on no errand but to beseech the man who 
 had made her heart desolate to implore his God to forgive him." * 
 
 What heroism was equal to that? Where shall we find anything so great, so 
 truly noble ? Oh ! May Boyes, surely you have found your reward in Heaven. 
 
 There was suddenly a strange crackling sort of noise, and I glanced towards my 
 light from whence it seemed to proceed. I saw that it had burnt down to the end, 
 and was going out. Then, before I could rise from my seat, there was a momentary 
 flickering radiance like thelast struggles of expiring intelligence, after which out it went, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SHADOW ON THE WALL.— THE TURNKEY^ FRIGHT. 
 
 I rose, with the intention of getting myself another light, but then I paused 
 suddenly, for the cell had about it a soft melancholy kind of radiance. A thought 
 told me that it was the moon which had risen, and which had sent some of its 
 earliest rays into that dungeon. 
 
 '« Yes, yes," I said. " The ascending passage which I traversed brought me ta 
 
136 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 the level of these cells, into which, although their basement may be under ground, 
 sunlight and moonlight can indirectly penetrate. And this was the kind of light 
 by which May Boyes asked Hawk to say, 1 God have mercy upon me/" 
 
 A holy sort of awe crept over me. The delusion was perfect, and, as I sat down 
 again without attempting, or even wishing now to light a candle, I could believe 
 myself carried back a hundred years, and should scarcely have been surprised to see 
 the highwayman standing in his fetters before me. 
 
 But what is that ? A sudden chill comes over me. My blood runs cold J What 
 is it ? moving— yes, moving ! Great God ! it is the shadow upon the wall ! The 
 shadow of death which the excited imagination of Captain Hawk had made out to 
 be the spirit of his father come to warn him of death, and to lead him to perdition. 
 
 Yes, it was so. What had happened so many years since was now happening 
 again. The moon's rays were obstructed by the same chimney-stack, for such I 
 believe it was, and th« same shadow was cast upon the wall of the coffin cell. 
 
 This wa* to me deeply interesting, and the more I looked upon the slowly ad- 
 vancing shadow, the more it took to my eyes the outline of a human form, and 
 I ceased to wonder at the fancy of Hawk converting it into that of his murdered 
 father. 
 
 It was wonderfully like, and the slow movement it had in consequence of the 
 [ moon's progress in the heavens, of course materially aided the delusion. I watched 
 it even as they had watched it, until it reached the door of the cell, and then I rose, 
 and, with a quiet, subdued step, I walked out into the passage. 
 
 1 felt in a state of great imaginative excitement. I had succeeded beyond all 
 my hopes, and I had actually, which had not occurred as possible, although it might 
 well have done so, seen that very shadow of death, the mere description of which 
 had haunted me ever since I had read the description of it in the papers from the 
 old man's wallet. 
 
 I soon procured another light, and then I asked myself, " Shall 1 go home, or 
 ! shall I still attempt to pursue any further researches V 
 
 At first I decided that I had done enough for that night, but when I saw a pas- 
 sage before me very narrow, and at right angles to the one which had led me to 
 that spot, I considered that it was that, which led to the interior of what might 
 now be called habitable Newgate, and was no doubt the route by which May Boyes 
 had been conducted to the coffin cell, on her melancholy visit. This passage was 
 paved, and comparatively comfortable, if one may be permitted to profane such a 
 word by applying it to Newgate at all. 1 walked along it just before I left, to 
 in what sort of place it terminated, and found it of considerable lengih, as wtu .is 
 making several winding turns. Everything, however, must have an end in this 
 world, except a ring, so on 1 went, and presently I saw a door before me, which, 
 when I came up to, I looked at with great care, because 1 felt certain that it led 
 into the interior of Newgate. 
 
 Let into this door, about two-thirds up its height from the ground, was a square 
 iron grating, about the size of a man's face ; but, to my surprise, I found that 1 could 
 not see through it, as it was blocked up on the other side by seme singular sub- 
 stance of a hairy nature, as if a bit of an old mop, or, perhaps, art old wig, had been 
 nailed up against it. 
 
 I looked and looked, but could not at all make out what it was. It seemed of a 
 reddish brown colour, and then it stuck so close to the grating, that a quantity of it 
 protruded through, so that it seemed as if it were actually held there by some 
 weighty substance on the other side of the door. 
 
 All this puzzled me amazingly, and it was rather from a sudden and an unreflect- 
 ing impulse, than from any premeditated design in the matter, that I put my light 
 to it, when it caught fire, and all frizzled up in a moment, making a horrible stench. 
 
 But what was my astonishment, not mingled, I don't mind saying, with terror, 
 when the blazing, smoking obstruction was suddenly removed, and a loud voice cried, 
 
 " Murder ! murder ! murder ! Oh, d — n it, somebody's set my blessed head 
 alight I" 
 
 It was one of the turnkeys of the prison then, who had no doubt sat down there 
 
NEWGATE. 137 i 
 
 at his post, and fallen asleep, to Whose head of hair I had applied the flame of the 
 candle. 
 
 Of course to put out my light, although I could not put out his, was the work of 
 a moment, and I shrank back as far as I could out of all possibility of being seen. 
 
 The outcry which the turnkey raised soon brought some others to the spot. I 
 heard a scampering of feet, and then a loud voice said, — 
 
 " What's the matter ?*»— « The— the matter— I—I'm d— d if I know." 
 
 C m Why did y0U cal1 for assistance V '— " Why— a— my head was on fire, 
 that sail I can say about it. Don't you smell it? I only gave it a rub with a 
 mutton chop as was ordered for somebody to-day, and that's how it blazed away so, 
 I supposes." 
 
 J* how came your head alight V f -L« How came it— oh I how came it ! 
 Well, then, to the best of my belief, I don't know/" 
 
 " You were asleep, I suppose?"—" I asleep, sir— I asleep ! Catch me asleep, 
 ppatcn a weasle asleep, sir, not me. I was a-sitting down, thinking over old times 
 
 No. 13. 
 
138 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 a little, when whiz something came, and all the blessed hair on my head blazes up 
 like one o'clock. Here's a nice Guy I shall look for never so long! Hang me, if 
 I can make it out ]" 
 
 " Oh!" said one; "he must have gone to sleep, sir, and put his head in the 
 lantern." 
 
 This man, whom they called sir, was evidently in some authority ; for, after a 
 pause, he said, in a tone of voice which betrayed anger, — 
 
 " I tell you what, my fine fellow, real alarms we don't much like here ; but we 
 won't have false ones at any price at all ; so don't come that sort of thing. I sup- 
 pose you are drunk, you idiot, and so set yourself a-light. Some of these nights 
 you'll burn down Newgate." — " Me drunk, sir V 
 
 *' Yes, you. How else could you have set yourself a-light ? You were drunk or 
 asleep. What were you doing, if you were in neither of these conditions?" — 
 " Nothing, sir." 
 
 " Well, then, I promise you, that you will be discharged if you do it again." 
 
 Away walked the man who had threatened the other, as well as those who like- 
 wise had been summoned by his cries ; and, when he was alone, he muttered to 
 himself, — 
 
 " Well, if I was to be scragged to-morrow on the strength of not knowing how 
 it corned about, 1 couldn't say, not I. It beats me all to blazes, it does. I was 
 a-sitting here, a-leaning agin' the door, when, all on a sudden it comes about. 
 Well, well— Pm blamed ! that's all." 
 
 I crept slowly away, traversed again the passages, and reached the offal cellar. 
 In another half-hour I was at home, after this successful adventure in Newgate, 
 with which, though, 1 had not done. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE MAD WOMAN IN THE HUT ON THE HEATH. 
 
 Upon reflection, I was very much amused at the little episode which had oc- 
 curred, and ended in the, I believe, total destruction of the head of hair of the 
 slumbering turnkey. 
 
 I could picture to myself what an intense subject for reflection, while he was 
 alone, I had supplied him with, and how he would in vain seek for any rational 
 mode of discovering how his hair had been set light to, when, according to his per- 
 ception, no light was near it. 
 
 I quite longed for an opportunity of seeing him in daylight, and I promised 
 myself that some day I would go and find ouf what public-house in the neighbour- 
 hood the turnkeys of Newgate went to, and make an attempt to see the singed man. 
 
 What a glorious thing it would have been to make him believe that his hair 
 caught fire from aome principle of spontaneous combustion, and that he would be 
 always subject to it ! However, I went at once to rest, and fell asleep thinking of 
 these things, and promising to myself ^all sorts of romantic gratifications from re - 
 peated visits to Newgate. 
 
 And it was quite evident to me now, that if I chose to perpetrate a few practical 
 jokes, I might produce an amazing amount of consternation among the official per- 
 sonages ; but that I shrunk from doing, because I was afraid of compromising 
 my secret. 
 
 The business of the day called me away in the morning ; but as early as X could 
 escape from the turmoil of existerTce, towards evening I shut myself up in my own 
 room again, and produced the cripple's wallet, where I hoped yet to find rich stores 
 of amusement, and ample food for reflection. 
 
 My principal object, however, at once was to find out the particulars concerning 
 Captain Hawk, and the poor demented creature whom he evidently kept under 
 such strict surveillance, in the miserable hut on Hounslow Heath. 
 
 I turned over several bulky masses of paper, which, from the titles that were en- 
 
NEWGATE. 139 
 
 dorsed upon them, promised to be of great interest, until I came to one which, 
 from its heading, I had no doubt was the one which I was anxious , to discover. 
 It had, written in bold characters at the top of the first page, the following words, 
 which were evidently intended to be taken as a kind of title to the tale :— • 
 
 PROUD PRUDENCE OF ALDGATE : 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF CAPTAIN HAWK, THE HIGHWAYMAN. 
 
 " Proud Prudence of Aldgate," I said to myself; " that is a droll title as ever I 
 heard of, What can it mean ? Oh, I suppose Prudence is a proper name, at all events ; 
 pride was her characteristic, and Aldgate her locality. Well, it may be what I 
 seek, and, at all events, as it is an episode in the life of Captain Hawk, I shall 
 read it." 
 
 It commenced thus, and I soon became absorbed in its contents. 
 
 *' Simon Langdale," said Mrs. Prudence Langdale to her husband, as they sat 
 together at breakfast one fine autumnal morning — " Simon Langdale, are you aware 
 that you are burning up your inside completely?" 
 
 " Burning up my inside, my dear ! what do you mean V* — " Why with eau de 
 vie, to be sure. Simon Langdale, you are a wretch, and, what is more, I desire that 
 you don't presume to call me my dear any more ; I won't endure it. Call me 
 madam, if you please, sir; and remember that the blood of the ancient Firkinses 
 flows in my veins." 
 
 « 4 Fiddlestick !" said Simon Langdale.—" Sir V* 
 
 " Fiddlestick, wife ! You are always so boasting of your relations, that one 
 would think you had no merits of your own at all ; and as for my burning my in- 
 side out with eau de vie, that's my business ; and I believe the sooner it was burnt 
 out the better pleased you would be. And as for calling you madam, I'll see 
 you blessed first !" 
 
 « You will « I have said it." 
 
 " Oh, you vile, dreadful, low-lived, born-to-be-hung, parish-brought-up, know- 
 nothing, cowardly, mean, insulting, vulgar beast. If I were in the habit, or capable 
 of calling names as you are, I should certainly, Simon Langdale, call you some ; but 
 you know you can insult me ; you know that I am a tender plant ; you know that 
 the least thing brings on my hysterics, which is just what you like, because you 
 hope that some day they'll choke me ; but they won't, Simon Langdale, so I tell 
 you. Twenty guineas — twenty guineas, I say, this moment 1" 
 
 " Bless mv heart and life, what for ?" — " To get a dress to go to the court 
 ball in," 
 
 " A dress to go to the devil in. Wife, wife, this court ball has turned your 
 wits completely ; but go you don't, as sure as " — "I will." 
 
 ** You sha'n't. And, if you do, madam There, you see I have called you 
 
 madam. If you do, I'll hang myself in the front attic." — " You had better do 
 it at once, then, for go I must. I shall go to the court ball, or else I shall go mad !" 
 
 "You will do both if you do either." — "Then I don't care. Let me see. 
 There's Mrs. Deputy Martin, there's Mrs. Marmaduke, the marshall's wife, 
 there's Mrs. " 
 
 " Don't bother me, I tell you. It isn't a fit place, I tell you, wife, for you or 
 I to go to. Now, I know what you are going to say, that I am an alderman, 
 and so have had a ticket. Good ; that's a matter of common courtesy. A ball 
 at Guildhall is one thing, but a ball at St. James's Palace is another ; so don't 
 think of it, wife. Before we married, you know, folks called you Proud Prudence 
 of Aldgate. Don't keep up the title, for you may depend it would be better to be 
 called Modest Prudence, of Cateaton- street.'' 
 
 "Oh! good God! I think I hear anybody daring to call me Prudence at all. 
 I'd tear their bones out, and wouldn't leave a whole eye in their body. I'd let 
 them know ! Ah ! now, Simon Langdale, there's a chuck, let me go. There, 
 
140 NEWGATE. 
 
 now you mean it all the while. Only twenty guineas — only twenty. Did I say 
 twenty, or twenty-five ? Well, twenty be it. Come, now, Ducksy Dumbkins, 
 I'll make twenty do. You wouldn't see your own Prudence — your own lambkin 
 pining away? Mr. Langdale, Til go, that's flat. You may grin, sir ; you may 
 
 chuckle, you lump of ugliness, but go you mean me to go ? You don't ? Oh ! 
 
 the — the devil !" 
 
 Mrs. Langdale flounced up stairs, leaving her husband to digest this scene 
 along with his breakfast as best he might. 
 
 "Ah !" he said, with a sigh, "now that's a good sort of woman enough in the 
 main, but she is Proud Prudence still. She has not a real bad quality about her, 
 but, poor thing, she is dreadfully proud of finery, and showing off at entertain- 
 ments. Ah ! it's a sad thing ! but, still we got on tolerably, and I respected her 
 for what she really was, and winked at her faults ; but now, since the confounded 
 court ball, which the kin& has taken it into his head to give, out of compliment 
 to the citizens, her head has been fairly turned, poor creature. Alas ! alas ! 
 what will become of it, Heaven only knows ! She really ought not to go ; and, 
 I've made up my mind Hilloa ! who's that V * 
 
 A singular-looking being of a boy made his appearance at the door of the room, 
 and there he stood gasping, in a vain effort to speak. 
 
 "Ah!" said Simon Langdale, who was a jeweller of great repute in the city, 
 " ah ! it's no use attempting to hurry poor Ben ; he stutters so dreadfully, 
 and, I think, more and more lately. Take your time, Ben, take your time. All's 
 right. No hurry." 
 
 " T— t— t— t— t— t «' Ah ! to be sure." 
 
 " There's— a — c— c — c — c— ca — ca " — " Verv good." 
 
 « Carriage at the d— d— d— d— d— d— "— " Door." 
 
 " Yes ; and — and — there's a " — " Somebody wants me, of course. Right 
 
 again. You speak quite plain, now, Ben. Really you have quite a flow of 
 talk, you have. I'll come down in a minute. 1 suppose it's some of my fine 
 customers from the west end, who find that after all they have to come to a real 
 good workman in the City to get their jewels set perfectly. I'm coming, Ben, 
 I'm comjng." 
 
 The jeweller buttoned his coat around him, and went into his warehouse, 
 leaving Ben to make the most of the compliments that had been lavished upon 
 his oratory. 
 
 " B — b b — bless him," said Ben, while a tear started to the poor fellow's 
 
 eye ; " he — he— he took me out of the w — w — w — w — workhouse when nobody 
 else wo — w — would, because I — I — I — I — I— stammered a — little." 
 
 When Langdale had got down stairs, he found that a very handsome and aristo- 
 cratic-looking equipage was at the door, and that a gentleman, attired in the 
 first style of fashion and elegance, was waiting to see him. The jeweller was 
 one of that sturdy, well-to-do, ancient race of tradesmen, of whom there are now 
 so few specimens, who humbled t© no one, but was civil to all ; and he received 
 his customer with the same attention he would have shown to any one coming 
 in the most humble manner possible for the commonest article he had in his shop 
 for sale. 
 
 " Mr. Langdale," said the gentleman, in the most fascinating manner, " my 
 name is Sir Charles Hastings, and, as you are probably aware that there is about 
 to be a court ball, I have ventured to hope that between the present time and 
 that interesting occasion, you will favour me by resetting some family jewels that 
 1 have, and in which I wish to appear." — " Certainly, sir." 
 
 (t Here are the jewels. They are neither very numerous, nor very valuable ; 
 but, as they are heir-looms of my family, I am extremely anxious to wear them." 
 
 Sir Charles placed in the jeweller's hands a small casket, which contained the 
 jewels. 
 
 " These are good enough," said Langdale, "as regards the gems, sir, but, the 
 setting is certainly grievously old-fashioned, and obscures half the lustrejofthe 
 stones/ 9 — So I believe. Can you get them done for me by the day before the 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 141 
 
 court ball, which, as probably you are aware, is fixed for Wednesday week, while 
 this is Monday V 
 
 " Certainly. You shall have them on the Tuesday. And 1 will now give you 
 a written receipt for the stones." — "Ob, not the least occasion, sir; not the least 
 occasion," said the well-bred Sir Charles. "The known honour, and the high 
 standing in life of Simon Langdale is quite a sufficient guarantee if the gems were 
 of ten times the value. I have the honour, sir, of wishing you a very good morn- 
 ing, and to apologise for taking up so much of your valuable time.'* 
 
 Sir Charles bowed with much grace, stepped into his chariot, and was gone. 
 
 " Well," said the jeweller, " I call that about as gentlemanly a young man as 
 ever I saw. That's what is called good manners, now ; none of your frippery 
 and nonsense, and clipping the king's English with an ' aw — aw — *pon soul,' and 
 all that sort of rubbish." — " And how handsome, too," chimed in Mrs. Langdale, 
 stepping forward. 
 
 "Oh, are you here, my dear?" — " Quite a duck of a man. And he, too, is 
 going to the court ball. Heigho ! all the world, that is worth calling the world-, 
 is going to the court ball." 
 
 " My dear, he is a Sir Charles Something or another, and belongs to the 
 court. Now, I can tell you, that any citizens who go will only be laughed at. 
 Dismiss it from your mind, my love, do. Come, now, what do you say to 
 making a friendly call upon the Snibsons, after the shop is shut up, at their new 
 house in the country by Camberwell?" 
 
 " The Snibsons?" — "Yes, my dear, Snibson is an old friend of mine." 
 
 " But are you aware, Mr. Langdale, that Mrs. Snibson was once, — oh, good- 
 ness gracious ! — a cook ?" — " Oh, — ah — yes." 
 
 *' And yet you go to the Snibsons ?" — " Certainly, my dear. A person may be 
 respectable in any station of life. Mrs Snibson was a cook, but so respectable 
 and well conducted a young woman, that my friend Snibson, the fishmonger 
 made her his wife, and a very good wife she has been to him." 
 
 "Then, Mr. Langdale, you may go and see your low connections, if you 
 please, but I shall not. I shall go to the west end, and call on Madame 
 Macaw.''—-" What, that pretended French milliner you have made acquaintance 
 with, who, I believe in my own mind, is no better than she should be." 
 
 " There you are wrong, as you always are, Mr. Langdale, for if ever there was 
 an angel with a taste for new dresses and loves of hats, that Madame Macaw r is 
 that angel. Oh, the things she has in her place — oh, the trains — oh, the flowers 
 — oh, the tuckers — oh, the stomachers ! " — " D — n it ! it's a stomacher to. me," 
 said Simon Langdale, and he walked up stairs, where he, after a little time, 
 recovered his temper sufficiently to say, — 
 
 " Well, well, it will wear off ; she's young yet. Perhaps I was imprudent to 
 marry so young a woman ; she's only twenty-seven, and I — humph ! I am forty- 
 seven. Oh, she'll mend, and all this flighty love of finery will leave her. I do 
 love her,, and I think, that is to say, I hope that she loves me; but she sha'n't go 
 to the coiyrt ball." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF HARLINGFORD's JEWELS. 
 
 Let our readers recollect what formidable promises had been made on both 
 sides by Mr. and Mrs. Langdale — how very imprudent it is for people to 
 jeopardize their words in such a manner, and to convict themselves so pro- 
 phetically. 
 
 Mr. Langdale had said, that if his wife went to the ball, he would hang himself 
 in the front attic. Mrs. Langdale said, that if she did not go to the ball, she 
 would go mad. Wherefore Mr. Langdale rejoined, that if she did go to the ball 
 she would go mad likewise. We shall see. . 
 
 When Mre» Saatigdals wu left below» after the few words that had gmssisti 
 
142 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 between her and her husband, she went to the stair-head leading to the kitchen, 
 and called, in a subdued voice — 
 
 "Susan, Susan." — "Yes, mem/' replied a voice, "yes, mem; I'm coming, 
 mem. The Lord preserve us, only to think, mem, of pickling a baby." 
 
 " Of what, Susan?"— " And grilling it in rashers, mem. It's what I have 
 been reading, mem, if you please." 
 
 "Susan, Susan, if you goon reading those things you will lose your wits ; 
 but come, be quick, go up stairs gently, and get me my bonnet and shawl, — you 
 understand?" — "Yes, mem, without master knowing. Oh, mem, master's a 
 swearing sort of man." 
 
 " That's no business of yours, Susan, although it's true enough. But don't 
 you make any remarks. — " Well, mem, I won't make any marks, mem ; only 
 when T sees what I sees, and when I knows what I knows, and when I thinks 
 what I thinks, then, mem, a poor servant though I be's, I comes to a concluding 
 conclusion such as I does. I'll be down like a shot, mem. The puce bonnet, 
 men, would you like?" — "Yes, yes, any one." — " Very good, mem." 
 
 Away went Susan, and Mrs. Langdale waited with no small amount of 
 anxiety for her return with the articles, for although she had announced her 
 intention of visiting Madame Macaw, yet she did not wish any farther altercation 
 with Mr. Langdale upon that subject. Accordingly, when Susan, who really 
 executed her errand with great generalship, returned with the shawl and the hat, 
 Mrs. Langdale quickly arrayed herself for the street, and out she went. 
 
 "Ah !" said Susan to Ben, who was dusting a set of scales, "Ah, Ben, there i 
 a woman now as is unhappy." — "She's a d-d-d-d-d-d d fool, then." 
 
 " Oh, you wretch." — " Your a-a-a-another." 
 
 "Well, I never did hear of such insolent insolence in all my born days. Hoity, 
 toity ! Oh, how I should like to go to the court ball ; and how I should like to 
 dance the minute de cower, and the guvhat. Oh, deary me ! oh, deary me ! 
 Should not you like to go to the concert ball, Ben ?" — " N-n-n-n-no !" 
 
 " Then you are an idiot, that's all. Oh gracious ! if I was to go and be 
 mistaken for some marchioness in disguise, and then some nobleman was to say 
 to me"— 
 
 "Susan ! some hot water V* 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! that's master's voice. The delusion vanishes. Yes, sir, 
 directly — hot water, sir — yes, sir — biling ?" — " Yes, to be sure, and be quick 
 about it." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; the old wretch is going out somewhere, I'll be bound. Oh, I sus- 
 pect that man, dreadfully ; I do — I suspect all the men — every one of them. 
 Lor ! there's a carriage. * What loves of horses ! Going to see Sir John Franks, 
 the new lord mayor, I'll be bound. No — yes — no — they stop here. Master ! 
 master ! here 's ^carriage and two footmen — here's a lady, master, with yellow 
 plush breeches — no, the footmen." 
 
 " Is Mr. Langdale within ?" asked a tall flunky, making his appearance in the 
 shop, " because if he is, tell him the Countess of Harlingford wants to see him 
 directly. Her ladyship will not alight." 
 
 Hearing the uproar which had been made by Susan, Mr. Langdale had now 
 come down stairs, and at once proceeded to the carriage window, j£t which was 
 the Countess of Harlingford, one of the most celebrated ladies of the nay. 
 
 "1 have some jewels," she said, " which I wish to wear at the royal ball, 
 but they require in some cases resetting, and in others the gems fastening ; will 
 ou undertake to do them in time?" — " Yes, my lady, if you please. They shall 
 e done 'by Tuesday week." — " Thank you, that will do — good morning." 
 
 Up went the carriage windows, nearly knocking off the j3weller's nose, and 
 away went the countess, leaving in his hand a case of diamonds. 
 
 " Well !" he said, " she i9 a beautiful creature ; and if I have any more of 
 these kind of orders, 1 shall have enough on my hands between this day and that 
 of the court ball. Confound the court ball. It seems to have turned everybody's* 
 wits." 
 
 — ■ ~ ! ' <"< ! 1 '- u • ' - & «** 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 143 
 
 The jeweller was astonished at the value of the diamonds the countess had left 
 with him, and he said to himself, — 
 
 " I mubt place them in some secure place indeed at night, for they are worth 
 thousands of pounds, and the loss of them would just be my ruin, that's quite 
 clear. I think 1 had better not let my wife see them at ail, for she will so connect 
 them with the thoughts of the court ball, that they will go nigh to drive her 
 mad.'' • 
 
 This was a prudent resolution, and he carried it into effect by taking them up 
 to his own room, where he locked them in his own secretaire, of which he alone 
 kept the key, and which he never permitted even Mrs. Langdale to go to. 
 
 He then went on some business out of doors, leaving word with Ben that if 
 anybody called with any job that was wanted for the court ball, to say 
 that his hands were full, and that he could not promise to get it done in time. 
 
 This message he wrote down upon a slate, for as for Ben being able, under at 
 least half-an-hour, to repeat anything so elaborate, was out of the question. And 
 now we need not follow Mr. Langdale on his day of matter-of-fact business in the 
 city, but we will follow his better half (as in all respects she would fain be,) to 
 Madame Macaw, the celebrated French milliner, who enjoyed so questionable a 
 character. 
 
 Mrs. Langdale found that lady at home, and indeed such was the influx of 
 business, on account of the ball, that she could not be an instant absent from the 
 establishment j and, oh, the gorgeous things with which she dazzled the eyes of 
 the admiring and bewildered Mrs. Langdale. Oh, the sparkling, rich, fanciful 
 devices and colours of the court dresses ; they were enough to turn a soberer 
 head than that of the jeweller's wife. 
 
 " By-the-bye, my dear," said Madame Macaw in her broken English, "was 
 you to know one countess was to come to go to your house to-morrow come 
 yesterday V — " A countess ! no !" 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, — one Countess de Harlingford ; she was want the jewel, the dia- 
 mond, to be set down all fresh, she was, and she proclamation here that she go to 
 Monsieur Langdale to set them down tight fix."—." Oh, 1 understand you ; she* 
 wants her jewels seen to before the court ball." 
 
 " Ah, that was it." — " Well, she had not come before I left home, although a 
 charming gentleman of the name of Sir Charles Hastings had. Oh, he is a charm- 
 ing looking fellow." 
 
 " Charmant ? II est divine" — " You know him V 
 
 «' Oh, yes, yes ; he is the elegantest town in the man what ever was and what 
 ever will be nowhere always again. Rich, generous — Vami of the ladies. Oh, 
 Sir Charles, I see him now." — ** See him, now ! where, where— -oh, where V* 
 
 " In the mind of my eyes, I see him now, as your Otello say in the dream of the 
 Winter Tale what is mate by Hamlet." — «« What an acquaintance you have, ma- 
 dame, with English literature." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, 1 have the intimate knowledge of him very much." — " You have, 
 indeed. Ah, me ! all the people go to the ball but me. I am wretched at the 
 thought of not going ; and what makes it more abominable is, that my husband 
 actually has a ticket to admit himself and a lady." 
 
 " One ticket?—*' To admit two." 
 
 " Diable ! and he not will no go ?" — u Certainly not. I have tried to persuade 
 him, but he is inexorable to all my persuasions. I have done all I could ; I only 
 asked him for twenty guineas for a dress, and the wretch smiled. Yes, he actually 
 smiled ; but I know what his principles are. He pretends that women are never 
 satisfied with dresses — never ; and that if you were to give a woman twenty new 
 dresses, she would strive after twenty-one. Now, was there ever such a libel upon 
 us all,?" — " Nevar. What a label upon us all, and you only ask de brute upon the 
 two jambes for twenty guineas. You was criminal moderation, you was." 
 
 " You really think so V — •« Oh, yes, yes, my dear madam, you must go to the 
 ball, you must/'* 
 
 " Yes, it's all very well to say I must ; but how can I V* — « You shall wind yo ur 
 
144 
 
 husband round the littlest most petite of your finger, you shall. Listen to me, and 
 I will unfold your tail, as Monsieur Macbeth remark to Shylock." — " Good 
 gracious l" * 
 
 "I will ; you must go. There is one young demoiselle who was to go to. come 
 the court ball, and she order one dress which put you in one fit." 
 
 '* What?" — " Oh, you understand. The young lady cannot go to herself the ball 
 all of consequence of tumble to great many pieces at onee, and a small baby — you 
 understand — shocking affair — you understand." 
 
 " Dear me, yes.'*' — " Well, you shall go in her dress, you see. You shall what 
 you call in high life prig the ticket from your husband, and you shall come here and 
 dress yourself and go in one coach and dance wid the king. That is what you 
 shall do." 
 
 w Oh, I am delighted. Oh, Madame Macaw, you are the best friend I ever had 
 in the world. You will not disappoint me — you really mean it I have spoked 
 
 the truth." 
 
 fi Then I shall go in spite of Langdale. Now that will Jje a triumph. What a 
 lucky cnance ! oh. how delightful ! How I shall enjoy it — oh, joy, joy ! The 
 court ball, so unlike any other ball ; of course, madame, I know not how to thank 
 "you sufficiently." — " Oh, it was no matter, you shall go. Make your mind uneasy 
 as you can, and be tranquil, for you shall go, depend upon me. Oh, there will be 
 such diamonds I" 
 
 " Diamonds ?"— " Yes, there will be such diamonds, worth all the world to- 
 gether." 
 
 " I — I ought to have diamonds !" 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE INSIDIOUS ADVISER. — THE WELCOME FLATTERY. 
 
 "Ought to have the diamond !" exclaimed Madame Macaw. "Oh, ciel ! 
 ought for go to have the diamond, and you the jeweller of the wife as never was." 
 — "Yes; that's all very well, madame," replied Mrs. Langdale, "but it don't 
 at all follow that, because I am the wife of a jeweller, I am to have any dia- 
 monds. You don't know what a husband I have. It was only last Michaelmas 
 that I wanted to put on some things out of the shop, to go to ray excellent friend, 
 Mrs. Bullwinkle's ball, and my wretch of a husband would not let me. ' No, 
 no/ says he, * it looks too like carrying the shop on your back.' " 
 
 " He was a wretch. One monster he was — but — but — there is no one to 
 listen ? Hush, hush ! I will suggestify you. Come close to me, with your ear." 
 — " What is it V' 
 
 " Your husband, he — has the jewel ?" — " Oh, he has jewels, of course, in his 
 trade." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! Do you not see ? Oh !" — " Indeed, madame, I do not. I have just 
 told you that his having jewels in his trade makes no difference to me for that. 
 I cannot get any of them, so that it is only the more provoking ; but I suppose, 
 according to the old proverb of a shoemaker's wife being the worst shod, I 
 shall have to put up with such dreadful treatment.'"' 
 
 " Oh, vou do not comprehend one thing as I was to would say. 1 ' — "What 
 thing?" ~ 
 
 "Do the jewel get worse for the wear at one ball?" — -"Worse! no. You 
 cannot wear out jewels/' 
 
 " Well, that is well. What, then, is the one thing what is to go to hinderance 
 you to take what you w as want on the night of the ball, and then on the morn- 
 ing, when there was not no ball, place him back again, and your husband never 
 not know all about it— eh? What was to stop you to hinderance to do that 
 thing P* 
 
 Mrs. Langdale at first was staggered at this suggestion. It revolted her. It 
 was true that she quarrelled frequently with her husband. It was true that she 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 was on anything but good terras with 
 him, and that most especially they dif- 
 fered on the subject of this court ball, 
 but still he had been a kind and a good 
 husband to her, and there was just a 
 faint suspicion in her mind that, al- 
 though she so violently wished to go 
 to the court ball, he was right in the 
 reasons that he gave why she should 
 not go. 
 
 She did revolt from this species of 
 robbery ; and, although she saw how 
 it might be done easily, and that the 
 chances of detection were extremely 
 slight, indeed, she shrank from what 
 looked like robbing him whom she 
 had sworn to love. 
 
 Madame Macaw was a woman of 
 the world ; she saw the effect she 
 had produced, and she saw the mental 
 struggles by which it was succeeded, 
 but she said nothing ; she was quite de- 
 
 No, 19. 
 
146 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 termined that Mrs. Langdale should now speak first. This the latter did, after a 
 pause of some duration. 
 
 " No, no," she said, " no, I could not do that. 1 — I acknowledge that it might 
 be done, but I cannot do it ; no, not even for the court ball." — " Very well, my 
 dear friend, do not go. You cannot, as you say, go without the jewel, and so you 
 will stay at home in the city, and be the good sort of wife to the man who will not 
 go for to get right oyer one prejudice, and let his lady go with all the great beauty 
 to the ball, where she would be distingue. Ah, I do think T see you with the dress 
 made of the blush rose satin, covered with the lace which cost me a guinea the 
 yard." 
 
 " Is the dress really a blush rose satin Ah, oui. Come, I shall show you. 
 Jenny, Jenny, where is you, you slut what is idle — come to me ?" 
 
 One of the attendants in Madame Macaw's show-room answered this polite sum- 
 mons, and the milliner ordered her to bring the dress which she had spoken of to 
 the half-bewildered, doubting, fearing Mrs. Langdale. The blush satin rose-coloured 
 dress was produced, and the effect it had upon poor Mrs. Langdale was almost to 
 deprive her of the power of reflection. She let it hang in rich folds over her arms ; 
 she ran her eyes delightedly over its beautiful texture ; she admired the lace, than 
 which nothing could be more beautiful, and, in the mind of her eye, as Madame 
 Macaw called it, she saw herself reflected by a thousand mirrors in the gorgeous 
 halls of the Palace of St. James, with that identical dress onj and the observed of 
 all observers. 
 
 " There," exclaimed Madame Macaw, " is it not charmante -is it not one great 
 delight ? You shall observe that sixty guineas only pay the cost of the lace, what 
 is alone upon that dress. You shall see " 
 
 " Oh, Madame Macaw, what are you doing ? Why, you have undone all my 
 dress, I declare, and it is falling off me." 
 
 The wily madame had, while Mrs. Langdale was attentively engaged in examin- 
 ing the beautiful dress, with the assistance of Jenny, loosened the dress she had on, 
 so that now, by a touch, it fell to her feet. 
 
 " You shall try on the blush rose satin," said the milliner. ** My eyes in my 
 head do long to see how well it fit your charmante figure." — " No, no — really, 
 now, 1 had rather not ; and — and I had better not." 
 
 " You had better, shall." 
 
 The resistance of Mrs. Langdale was weak, indeed. The dress was thrown over 
 her head, and partly put on her and fastened. What a miracle it was in the way 
 of fitting her. Oh, if it had been made for her it could not have better adapted 
 itself to her figure. A superb mirror was wheeled round to the light, so that Mrs. 
 Langdale could see the whole length effect of the superb costume in which she was 
 enveloped. 
 
 We have said she was a pretty woman, and the dress was certainly a master- 
 piece of the milliner's ait— she did look superbly beautiful in it ; and for some 
 moments she stood entranced, with her hands clasped, and her eyes rivetted upon 
 her own figure, as it was reflected in the mirror, whose gorgeous frame gave to that 
 reflection all the appearance of a most magnificent portrait, set in a frame worthy 
 of it. 
 
 Madame Macaw burst into such a series of rapturous exclamations, that even 
 Jenny, the waiting maid, was astonished; but, however, she, as in duty bound, 
 took the cue from her mistress, so that if anything had been wanting to complete 
 the bewilderment and fascination of poor deluded Mrs, Langdale, the fulsome 
 praises of her companions would have done so completely. 
 
 " It is superb," she said. — " Superb — magnificent i" exclaimed Madame Macaw ; 
 " but, oh, cielf it was not the dress, it was not the satin, it was not the lace — but 
 it was the beautiful figure of yourself, Madame Langdale, ma chere, which was set 
 off the others, and make all the things what is look divine— oh, yes." 
 
 " Nay, now you flatter." — " I flatter — I—me ! Oh, no ; you are not one of the 
 things what comes for to buy — why should I be one of the things to flatter you f 
 
 There was a cogent argument in those words, which convinced Mrs. Langdale . 
 
NEWGATE. 147 
 
 that Madame Macaw's admiration was really genuine. Besides, she was pretty, 
 and the reader may well imagine that that was a discovery which she herself had 
 not failed to make, long before that eventful period. 
 
 " Take it off," she said, with a sigh ; " take it off. I wish you had never tried it 
 on me. It does, indeed, fit me to a miracle.' , — " Ah, it does. Turn yourself round 
 about, and look at your behind." 
 
 " Take it away, take it away." — " But you shall go to the ball in this dress, for 
 all that. You shall " 
 
 " Please, madame," said a young woman, appearing at the door, " a gentleman 
 has called in his carriage, and he says he promised Lady Harlingford, that as he 
 passed, he would make an inquiry if her dress was getting on with, as her ladyship 
 is unwell !* — " Oh, it is going to be done. Who is the gentleman V 
 
 " It is Sir Charles Hastings, madame."— 4 ' Sir Charles Hastings !" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Langdale. " He has been at our house only to-day ; ho^ singular that he 
 should come here." 
 
 " Oh, he is one bel esprit. You shall go and tell him, Jenny, that the dress 
 shall be done."--" Yes, madame." 
 
 Jenny departed on her errand ; but she came back again in a few minutes, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Oh, madame, the oddest thing ; what do you think he says V — " How can I 
 go for to say what he thinks he says odd V 
 
 " Well then, madame, he says that Lady Harlingford enjoined him actually to 
 see the dress, or else she would not believe that it was in progress, and that, as he 
 gave his word of honour he would do so, he trusts to the kindness of yourself, 
 madame, to enable him to keep his word." — " Oh, that is much absurd, 1 cannot. 
 You shall go and tell Sir Charles, that it was not possible for one gentleman to 
 come here at all ; and that one lady is with me now, which makes the thing, as 
 was much impossible, more difficult." 
 
 " Don't let me be in the way, I beg," said Mrs. Langdale. " For God's sake 
 take this dress off me, and let me go, then you can see Sir Charles Hastings." — 
 " No, no ; you shall tell him, Jenny, you shall go and tell him." 
 
 "Oh, madame!" exclaimed the other girl, who had stationed herself at the 
 window, which commanded a view of the carriage, " oh, madame, he is getting 
 out."—" Getting out what?" 
 
 - " Of his carriage, madame. He's coming up the stairs, I declare !" — " Hide me 
 somewhere — oh, hide me somewhere, I implore of you!" exclaimed Mrs. Lang- 
 dale. " In this costume, which does not belong to me, [ would not that any one, 
 who might see me under other circumstances, should behold me, for worlds. 
 Madame, I cannot take it off myself ; pray assist me, or let me fly into some other 
 apartment !" 
 
 " You shall hold your tongue fast," said madame, " and he shall not know you 
 or speak with you. Let him come in ; he will look at the dress of the Lady Har- 
 lingford, and then he will walk himself down the stairs." 
 
 There was a tap upon the door of the apartment, and Madame Macaw herself 
 opened it. Upon the threshold stood the handsome Sir Charles Hastings. He 
 bowed low, and said, in the most courteous tones, — 
 
 1 Madame, if you say I am not to pass this threshold, it would ill become me, as a 
 gentleman, to do so ; but if you would, for one moment, permit me only to glance at 
 the dress which is in preparation for my relative, the Lady Harlingford, so that, 
 with truth, I could tell her that I had seen it, I should esteem it as a great favour, 
 and would then depart immediately." — " Oh, Sir Charles ! you are too much great 
 piece of the gentilhomme not to keep your word. You shall walk in for one moment. 
 Jenny, you show Sir Charles the dress." 
 
 " Madame," he said, bowing low, "a thousand thanks. I owe you a heavy debt 
 of gratitude." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Langdale was ready to expkse with fright ; but she retired to the further 
 end of the room, and kept her back resolutely towards Sir Charles Hastings, although 
 she longed to take a good look at him, if she iiad dared. She could hear all that 
 
148 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 was going on, however, of course, and she fancied that the dress of Lady Harlingford 
 was produced, and Sir Charles said, — 
 
 '* I know not how to apologise to you, Madame Macaw, for what must be" a great 
 intrusion ; but the real fact is, that I do not think that Lady Harlingford will be 
 able to go to the ball at all, for the court physician assures me that she is more 
 seriously indisposed than she herself imagines." — " Indeed ! oh, I was extreme 
 sorry !*' 
 
 " And so, as an invalid should not be thwarted, especially when that invalid is a 
 lady whom one respects as I do the Lady Harlingford, I trust you will accept such 
 a statement as my apology for this seeming, but I assure you, madame, not real 
 rudeness." — " Oh, you shall not mention it no more," said Madame Macaw. " You 
 shall not say one word, Sare Charles." 
 
 " But," added Sir Charles, after a moment's pause, " I feel that there is another 
 quarter where lik&vise my best apologies are amply due. There is a lady present 
 here, who, perhaps, thinks that 1 have most unjustifiably intruded." — " No, no," 
 said Madame Macaw ; " she shall be satisfied." 
 
 " I cannot go until I have my pardon from her own lips. I perceive she is a lady 
 of distinction, and I should be most unhappy to live in her remembrance for what 
 seems an act of rudeness merely, termit me, madame, to solicit her forgiveness. 
 Nay, you must really. I owe it to myself to do so, as much as to the lady." 
 
 Madame made a slight resistance ; but Sir Charles Hastings passed her, and ap- 
 proaching the trembling and terrified Mrs. Langdale, he said, in tones of the pro- 
 foundest deference, — 
 
 " Madam, I am here a humble suppliant for your forgiveness. I feel that my 
 presence here will to you seem like an insult, and I assure you that I merely pro- 
 tract it with the hope that you will deign to tell me you will not harbour an 
 unfavourable opinion of me for what my promise to a lady has compelled me to do. 
 May I hope that you will forgive me i I know not whom I address ; but, oh ! 
 there is that undefinabie charm which tells me it is one of nature's fairest specimens/' 
 
 Mrs. Langdale felt as if she could have fainted ; and, that she made no reply, 
 rather arose from the fact of her agitation preventing her from speaking, than from 
 any other cause. 
 
 " Nay," he added, after a pause, " this is cruel. Why would you crush with 
 your resentment one who thus implores your favourable consideration ? Here at your 
 
 feet "— " No, no, no 1" said Mrs. Langdale, as he knelt on one knee; and she 
 
 half turned. 
 
 " Oh, madam !" he cried, " how am I repaid, now, for this bold intrusion. Oh, 
 most richly — most richly ! I have beheld a face which, henceforward, will haunt 
 me in my dreams, as the fairest vision of beauty that has ever dawned upon my en- 
 raptured soul." — " Sir I — I cannot hear this language." 
 
 " It is the language of the heart. That you are the scion of some noble and 
 ancient stoek — perchance, allied to majesty itself — I can well believe ; but in the 
 name of mercy, and of gentle charity, I ask you to say that you forgive me." — *' I 
 do — I do." 
 
 " Oh, what music ! Nay, I shall not believe, unless you give me one touch of 
 that fair hand, that I am forgiven." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Langdale scarcely knew what she said or did ; but she held her hand 
 out, and said, — 
 
 " There— there. Go now — go now !" 
 
 Sir Charles immediately took her hand in his and covered it with kisses. Mrs. 
 Langdale felt her breath nearly going. Oh, what an adventure was this ! 
 
 " Beautiful being," said Sir Charles, " tell me — oh, tell me of some name by 
 which I may, to my own heart, call one who henceforward will be my guardian 
 angel." — " No, no, no !" 
 
 u No ! Oh, yes, you will. Such beauty surely has the kindred spirits of gentle- 
 ness and mercy nearly allied to it. You will relent. You will be at the court ball, 
 of course, and I shall have the joy of seeing you there! Oh, tell me who you are." 
 — Leave me, sir — leave me !" 
 
NEWGATE. 149 
 
 " I cannot — 1 dare not >"— " Dare not V 
 
 " No ; for my soul's sake, I dare not. I feel that, for the first time in my life, I 
 have found the one being whom I can love." — " Sir, I cannot and will not have such 
 language. I have a husband." 
 
 Sir Charles clasped his hands, and uttered a deep sigh of despair, as she turned 
 full upon him, and the flush of excitement that was upon her cheek lent her new 
 beauty, so that, indeed, she did look fully entitled to all the praises which he, even 
 in the most hyperbolical language, could address to her. Madame Macaw now 
 probably thought that affairs had gone quite far enough, so she advanced, saying, — 
 
 ** Sir, you shall leave the lady now, and she shall forgive you." — »« Yes, yes," 
 said Mrs. Langdale. 
 
 " Madam," added Sir Charles, as he rose to his feet, for he had kept his position 
 upon one knee — " madam, I feel that in apologising for one offence I have, unwit- 
 tingly, given another. I ought, it is true, to have at once surmised that so much 
 loveliness could not be long unappropriated. You are another's, madam, and, let 
 us meet where we may, never again from my lips shall you hear one word which 
 shall offend your honour." — " I am satisfied," said Mrs. Langdale, faintly. 
 
 " We shall meet at the ball." 
 
 She said nothing, but she trembled and sank into a chair. A sutfden faintness 
 came over her ; she had only time to stretch out one hand towards Madame Macaw 
 for support, and then she fainted. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE RECOVERY OF MRS. LANGDALE. — THE APPEAL TO THE JEWELLER.— THE 
 INTENDED SURPRISE. — THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BALL. 
 
 When Mrs. Langdale recovered from the faintness which had come over her, 
 and which had prevented her from, if e^eu she had felt inclined, which she was 
 not, continuing the conversation with Sir Charles Hastings, she found herself 
 still in Madame Macaw's show-room. 
 
 She was divested of the dress which so much — or perhaps, after all, we ought 
 to say, so little against her will, had been placed upon her, and she had been re- 
 dressed in her own. After the first feelings of surprise at finding herself where 
 she was had worn off, she wept abundantly, as she said, — 
 
 " Oh, Madame Macaw, what a dreadful adventure has this been ! What, if 
 by some accident, now, Sir Charles Hastings was to find out who and what I 
 really was ?" 
 
 " Oh, shall make yourself tranquil." — "But I do dread it. His jewels are at 
 my husband's, and I cannot tell when he may call, and chance to see me acci- 
 dentally." 
 
 " Ah, now, you shall listen to me. When you was faint away, poor Sir Charles 
 he was want to kill himself dead, for he was call himself the cause of all that 
 faint ; Jenny and me hold him, and then he was more compose, and say he shall 
 meet you at the ball." — " No, no, he will not meet me there." 
 
 " How you know V* — " I cannot go — if — if — if even now I felt inclined, which 
 \ ought not, 1 am sure, after what has happened." 
 
 " Oh, fiddle-a-de-dee." — " And I must now go home, at once ; I have been 
 absent too long." 
 
 M You shall go, my dear, btit you shall listen to me. I tell Sir Charles all 
 about you ; who you was and who you is, and all about how you was want to go 
 to the ball." — " You will tell him ? Good God ! Madame Macaw, do not do 
 any such thing, I beg of you ; the very thought of your doing so makes me ill. 
 Let roe implore you not to think of it for a moment." 
 
 V It is not now the use for to think, I have tell him all." 
 
 Mrs. Langdale looked the picture of despair. The colour fled from her cheeks, 
 and she glanced reproachfully at Madame Macaw, as she said, — 
 
 " How could you, ruadame, oh, how could you be so indiscreet? If he had 
 
150 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 known me not, I might have contrived that he should never have seen me again ; 
 but now, to what a world of persecution may you not have subjected me ? Oh, 
 it was very wrong." — " Not at all, not at all. He take one grand oath here that 
 he keep on stirring the heaven and the earth continual until he shall find you 
 out, so as I know that he would do so, I did imaginate that it was best to tell 
 him all." 
 
 "Alas! alas! and what did he say V — "Why, he say that he respect your 
 feeling very much, and, that if you would go to the ball, that he would, on the 
 honour of one gentilhomme, take you there care of you, and bring you home 
 again, and say nothing to you but what one sister might say to her mother." 
 
 " Did he say that ?" — " He say all that ; and then he swear again one big oath 
 that he love you, b^t that he intend at once to-day smothering himself in a 
 passion." 
 
 " Smothering himself?" — " No, no, not himself, but to smother his passion in 
 himself." 
 
 " Oh, I understand you ; but I cannot go to the ball with him. I do not 
 know but what it is possible he may be a man of such honourable principle that 
 I might trust him implicitly, but I dare not make the trial. No, no, no, I shall 
 not go to the ball — without my husband consents that I should — I cannot think 
 of it, madame." — "Oh, you shall think again, my dear child. Sir Charles, you 
 may depend upon, he would protect you, instead of himself being the betray." 
 
 ■ It might be so, but yet I dare not venture, madame. I will make one more 
 attempt to induce my husband to go himself, and to take me with him. If that 
 fails, I fear all is lost, and that I must even, as best I may, put up with my dis- 
 appointment, for I cannot altogether fly in his face, and go in spite of him. Be- 
 sides, the diamonds present an insuperable obstacle. I cannot get diamonds, that 
 I am certain of ; for, when I come to consider, he told me, more than a week 
 since, that all his stock of good jewels that were in a state fit to wear, would 
 he out on hire on the occasion of the court ball." — " Le diable !" 
 
 " It is so, and therefore, you see, there is an insuperable objection ; and per" 
 haps it is as well that it is so." 
 
 u As well that you cannot go to the ball?" — " Yes, yes." 
 
 f Oh, no, no. Ah, poor Sir Charles ! how he will look for you ; and the 
 more he will lcok, the more he will not see you. Ah, poor young gentleman, 
 his heart will be quite broke into two piece ; rnd the ball of the court will lose 
 the most beautiful face and figure which should be look upon. If you do not go, 
 I shall be myself quite disappoint not to see you dressed for one ball that shall 
 not be his like again for many years,. Ah, me ! ah, me V 
 
 " Madame Macaw, I feel your kindness, I assure you, in providing me with a 
 dress to go in, if I chose to avail myself of it; and I feel Sir Charles's kindness, 
 too ; and, when you see him again, I wish you would tell him that I thank him 
 heartily for the kind offer which he has made to me, but do not think it would be 
 at all prudent or right in me to accept it ; and now, if you will let one of your 
 maids get me a chair, for I cannot walk so far, t will go home." 
 
 This speech was uttered with an air of decision which convinced Madame Ma- 
 caw that just then there was nothing more to be done in the matter, so she 
 had a sedan-chair fetched for Mrs. Langdale, and, loading her with expressions 
 of kindness, and exacting from her a promise to call soon, she saw her depart from 
 her house. 
 
 '* Oh, indeed, very well," she said, as she nodded her head,' and smiled ; "you 
 are fright a little, are you? and you say you will not go to the court ball? Very 
 well, very well, Madame Langdale ; I say that you shall go to the ball, and you 
 will go to the ball, and you must go to the ball. I shall not take one purse of 
 guineas from Sir Charles Hasting for nothing. Oh, no ; you shall wear diamonds, 
 Madame Langdale ; you shall wear the rose-blush satin costume, and you shall 
 dance at the ball of the court." 
 
 It was quite a relief to Mrs. Langdale, when she reached home, to be told by 
 Ben, after a great amount of stammering, that his master was not at home. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 151 
 
 His absence enabled her to proceed at once to her own room, and to remove from 
 her countenance all traces of the agitation which was visible upon it, in consequence 
 of the events which had occurred at Madame Macaw's, so that in the course of an- 
 other hour she presented her usual aspect, <and no one would have suspected that 
 she had fainted, or that she had had any such adventure as that which had hap- 
 pened to her at the court milliner's. 
 
 But as Mrs. Langdale's agitation subsided, some of her old feelings, which had 
 been chased away by alarm, returned to her, as she caught herself saying more 
 than once, — 
 
 " After all, how delightful it would be to go to the ball in that love of a blush 
 rose satin dress, along with Sir Charles Hastings." 
 
 But still she did not absolutely waver in her resolution. A strong sense of the 
 impropriety of any such proceeding was now present to her mind, and she made up 
 her mind, that although she would in the very strongest, manner make an attack 
 upon her husband for leave to go, yet she would not utterly and wholly fly in the 
 face of his interdict. 
 
 This was all very well, and all very wise as a resolution ; but, alas ! Mrs. Lang- 
 dale's mind happened to be one of that order which is continually making wise 
 resolutions and never carrying them out. She was a creature of impulse, in a great 
 measure, and, perhaps, if she had had a husband more capable of appreciating her 
 character, and with judgment of that description which would have enabled him to 
 bring out its best points and suppress its worst, she might have been much happier 
 than she was as the wife of Simon Langdale, the wealthy jeweller, of Aldgate. 
 
 He, too, had gone out of the house with some amount of irritation ; but that had 
 all subsided by the time he came home, and he was fully disposed to meet his wife 
 upon the most amicable of terms. 
 
 It was a great pleasure to him to find that he was received with a smile, for Mrs. 
 Langdale had made up her mind that she would not have herself to blame, if she did 
 not obtain the consent of her husband to going to the ball, so that, perhaps, for a 
 long time they had not sat down together with such an outward show of happiness 
 as upon this day, when in reality there was uppermost in both of their minds a sub- 
 ject prolific of all sorts of contention and disagreement. 
 
 The afternoon meal passed off quietly enough, and then when Mr. Langdale had 
 thrown himself back in his chair, and seemed disposed to enjoy himself a little, his 
 wife thought proper to commence the attack. 
 
 " Simon," she said, " you will be wonderfully busy getting ready for the ball V* 
 
 He winced a little at the very name of the court entertainment ; but he replied in 
 a eontented enough tone : — 6< Yes, my dear. People want their jewels reset on such 
 an occasion as this, and of course everybody wishes to outdo in splendour everybody 
 else if they can." 
 
 " Have you thought any more about it V 
 
 '* About what V — " Why, about my going, to be sure. Simon Langdale, now 
 listen to me. I know you are fond of talking yourself, and that you don't think 
 much of my arguments ; now listen to me, however. Is it not much better for you 
 to let me go to the court ball, and have a quiet, comfortable house in consequence, 
 than prevent me, and so make me believe, which, of course, I shall, that you would 
 not give up a mere whim and a prejudice of your own for my happiness?" 
 
 " Well, my dear, I have heard you," said the jeweller, " and now, will you hear 
 me?* 
 
 « Very well." — " Then I can a*k you, is it not much better to give up a mere 
 whim of going to a ball where there will be nobody for whom you care one straw, 
 than to make your home and your husband uncomfortable by persisting in it ?" 
 
 <f Well, but you don't consider that it. is natural I should like to go to the ball. 
 What are balls given for but that people should go to them ?" — " And you don't 
 consider that it is natural I should not like you to go to this ball, my dear. I 
 cannot go myself, because, I tell you, I know the invitation is a mere compliment; 
 and do you suppose I should like you to go to a ball alone Vf 
 
 *' Alone ! Oh, no ; surely some one could be found who is going, in whose com- 
 
152 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 pany I should feel myself protected." — " I don't know one. - It has been quite 
 understood among the citizens that only a few are to go to represent the corporation, 
 and no ladies." 
 
 " No ladies?"—" Not one." 
 
 " Why, goodness gracious, what are all their wives about ?" — "They are sensible 
 women, my dear, and understand reason when their husbands speak it to them. 
 They don't want to go." 
 
 " Don't they, indeed, Simon Langdale ? It's all very well, sir, for you to tell 
 me that ; but I know women better, sir. Their churlish husbands won't let them 
 go, you mean, for fear the young gallants of the court should be too civil to them." 
 
 " Very good, my dear, very good." 
 
 w It is not very good, sir. On the contrary it is remarkably bad, Mr. Langdale." 
 
 " Well, well, I am not deaf ; you need not scream at me in that manner." 
 
 " Mr. Langdale, I say am I to go the court ball, sir, or not ?" — " You are not." 
 
 " Then, I will." — " My dear, my dear, always think twice before you utter those 
 words, I will. You know well now that you will not go. I cannot go myself even 
 if I were inclined just to gratify you, to put myself to so much trouble, so you must 
 be content to hear all about it, which, no doubt, you will do, from what's the 
 woman's name, the milliner?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, she is my friend the milliner. The court milliner — Madame Macaw ; 
 a better friend to me than you are." — " Indeed, my love." 
 
 ° Don't 'my love' me, sir ; I won't have it. I won't endure it. It's an insult —a 
 base, unmanly, sort of insult. You refuse to allow me the least enjoyment, and then 
 think to call me 'my dear.' No, sir, it won't do. Bat come, Mr. Langdale, it's the 
 tvventy guineas that sticks in your throat for the dress, I know it is." — " Certainly it 
 is, to my thinking, a piece of great extravagance to give twenty guineas for a dress." 
 
 " Well, sir, I will relieve your mind from that. I don't want any money from 
 you. I can go without, and now, I suppose, you have no objection." 
 
 "My good woman, how can you go, when I tell you distinctly that I am not 
 going myself, and that I know of no one who is, to whom I could entrust ycu?" 
 — " Madame Macaw will go with me." 
 
 " Madame Devilskin. Do you fancy I would countenance two women going 
 alone, especially when one is my wife, and the other a person of such very ques- 
 tionable standing as this Madame Macaw, whom you will yet find to be the most 
 dangerous acquaintance you ever made or I am much mistaken ?" — " Then that's 
 just what you are." 
 
 " What ?"— " Why, much mistaken, to be sure. You don't know who or 
 what you are talking about, Simon Langdale ; so now I'll tell you, Madame Macaw 
 has a cousin." 
 
 " A good many, no doubt." — " And that cousin is a gentleman and himself 
 going to the ball ; there's a protection at once for me ; and now, I suppose, you 
 can have no sort of objection to my going. It will be no expense to you, for 
 Madame Macaw will lend me a dress. I shall be well taken care of, for her 
 cousin will do that. There, now, Mr. Langdale, I rather think, now, I have an- 
 swered all your objections." 
 
 " Do you, indeed ?" — " Of course, I do." 
 
 "Then, I can tell you, Mrs. Langdale, that if before there had been the least, 
 lingering idea in my mind, which I am sure there was not, of endeavouring to 
 make some arrangement for you to go, you would have, by what you have just 
 said, completely obliterated it." — "No." 
 
 44 Yes ; I say, yes. Madame Macaw it is who is has put all this stuff into your 
 mind. I shall call upon that lady, and ask for her mock cousin. Only let me 
 catch him, that's all." — "Simon Langdale, you are, out of all question, the 
 greatest brute that ever I heard of." 
 
 "Ah !— " And I will go to the ball." 
 
 " We shall see." — " I say I will go to the ball. Do you hear me, sir? I have 
 made up my mind to go, and go I will, as sure as that I'm a woman." 
 
 " We shall see." — " We shall ; and you will live to regret opposing me. Let 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 153 
 
 roe see— what was it you said you would do — hang yourself in the front atttic ? 
 Ah ! so you did. The sooner you go and do it, the better, Mr. Langdale, and 
 I shall be out of my misery, and you will be out of yours." 
 
 "And you said, that if you went to the ball, you would go mad." — "No, I 
 didn't ; I said that I would go mad if I did not go' to the ball." 
 
 u Well, you have, for you behave more like a mad woman, than a sane one. 
 Wife— wife ; take a better thought of this affair for your own happiness sake, as 
 well as for mine, I pray you. You are standing, as it were, upon a precipice, 
 down which you may throw yourself, or from the edge of which vou may draw 
 back if you like." ' 
 
 So saying, Simon Langdale rose and walked from the room, with a counte- 
 nance more in sorrow than in anger, leaving his wife to decide upon what she 
 really meant to do. Her first act consisted in a passionate flood of tears, and 
 
154 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 then she exclaimed with hysterical vehemence, " I will go — I will go ! Now I 
 am resolved, I will go ! Nothing shall prevent me, I will go ; and — and I'll go, 
 too, in the blush, rose satin dress ; and — and I'll go, too, with Sir Charles Hast- 
 ings, I will ; and — and all the point lace at a number of guineas a yard ; and I'll 
 dance and laugh, and enjoy myself— I will — I — I will !" 
 
 There was nobody to contradict her, so she had it all her own way, and then 
 she cried again, and thought she would not go, and then she got in another pas- 
 sion, and swore she would. 
 
 In such alternations of feeling she passed some time, perhaps nearly an hour; 
 and then she sat down more calmly, and began to think. 
 
 " Simon Langdale supported my poor mother," she said. " He — he took me 
 to his heart and his home, when I had scarcely a meal's victuals ; and — and he 
 has been so good to my poor little brother, Charley. Oh ! why does he not let 
 me go to the ball, or — or, why does he not tell me I may go, but ask me kindly 
 as a favour to him not to go V* * 
 
 She thought now over many scenes of kindness, until tears came to her relief, 
 and then she suddenly rose and said, " 1 will go to him at once, and speak to 
 him about it. We shall come to a better understanding, I am certain. I have 
 been wilful, and that has made him a little harsh. I will tell him so. Yes, I 
 will go to him ; I dare say he is in his counting-house below." 
 
 It would have been a happy thing for both Simon Langdale and his wife, had 
 he really been in the counting-house, which, however, he was not. 
 
 When she reached the door of that financial sanctum sanctorum, she paused a 
 moment, as some of her wilful feelings came back to her ; but then she banished 
 them, and her better nature prevailed. She opened the door, and said gently, — 
 
 " Simon." 
 
 No one answered her. All was still ; and the conviction then came across 
 her, that he had gone out. She sought stuttering Ben, and said, — 
 
 " Where is your master ?" — " G — g — g — g — g — g — gone out !" 
 
 u Did he leave any message ?"— " N— -n — no — mum. He — he — he — he only 
 laughed." 
 
 " Laughed — laughed ! He laughed ! Then, I will go to the ball. I won't be 
 laughed at. Oh, no, I won't be laughed at. That won't do. If he laughs, I 
 will go to the ball. I will wear the blush rose satin dress ; and 1 will— -yes, of 
 course, I will." 
 
 Thus were all the better feelings which had found a brief home in Mrs. Lang- 
 dale's breast suddenly, in their birth, stifled. Pride again resumed its sway. 
 Alas ! what creatures we are of the pettiest, meanest, smallest circumstances. 
 
 Had he, the jeweller, but remained at home another hour, what misery might 
 have been averted. How deep and dreadful a plot for the destruction of the hap- 
 piness of two people, would have been nipped in the bud. But it was the will of 
 Heaven that certain things were to come to pass. The jeweller was to go out at 
 that inopportune time, when he might have remained at home, and been a hap- 
 pier man ; and Ben was to tell Mrs. Langdale that he laughed. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she repeated to herself. " It's quite settled now. I will go to the 
 court ball in spite of all the world ; but I must think of how I am to get jewels, 
 for I not only will go, but I will go in diamonds, too." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE SUGGESTION. THE VISIT OP SIR CHARLES HASTINGS. 
 
 Yes. The scales of honour and, disobedience, which had for a time hung even 
 in the mind of Mrs. Langdale, at length assumed a very different position indeed. 
 Had the jeweller been at home, pride, vanity, and all its kindred and bad emo- 
 tions, would have kicked the beam; but unfortunately for the happiness of both 
 of them, he was gone, and more unfortunate still was it, that he laughed as he 
 left the warehouse. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 155 
 
 Oh, that laugh — that most unlucky laugh of Simon Langdale's ! What tre- 
 mendous events did it bring about ! We have all heard of how the loss of a 
 horse's shoe divided once the fate of an empire, as thus : ''The general's horse 
 lost his fore shoe, and fell lame. The general was thrown and stunned. The 
 army devolved to the command of the second in rank, and he had not the capa- 
 city to win the battle, and so the kingdom was lost." Now that unfortunate 
 laugh of Simon Langdale's, although it did not by any means jeopardise a king- 
 dom, yet had an effect upon the lives and the fortunes of many individuals. 
 
 And what makes the matter all the more provoking, is, that he was not laugh- 
 ing at his wife. Not he, for on that subject he was as grave as any married 
 man would need to be. 
 
 The fact is, that he laughed at two boys, who at that moment happened to be 
 passing his door as h« came out. One of these boys was carrying some com- 
 pound in a dish to a baker's, which required the application of heat to make i it 
 assume compactness ; and, as the dish was very full, he had to go on as if he 
 were treading upon eggs, to prevent its precious and troublesome contents from 
 spilling. 
 
 Now it was not in the nature of any other boy to see such a state of things as 
 this going on, and not to do something. The boy who could have passed on- 
 wards, unheeding such a glorious opportunity for mischief, would have been a 
 vara avis with a vengeance, and we should have prophesied that he would not 
 live long. 
 
 " Drop that," he said, and at the moment, down he flung himself at the other's 
 feet. 
 
 The effect was immediate. Away over him went boy, and dish, and pudding, 
 with a frightful smash. And it was this at what, despite all the unpleasant 
 feelings which were lugging at his heart, that forced a smile from the jeweller. 
 Ben had seen the smile, but he did not see the cause of it, so that he had made 
 quite a correct report, so far as his knowledge extended, to Mrs. Langdale ; and, 
 ss we have with pain recorded, that laugh did the business. 
 
 " I will go to the ball. Now I'm determined I will go to the ball, and I'll go 
 in diamonds, too. Ah, if there's such a thing as a diamond to be had in the 
 City of London, I'll go in it, if Simon Langdale were to hang himself in the front 
 attic, before my very eyes." 
 
 She went up stairs, and in the course of half an hour she had vexed herself 
 into a belief that her husband only prevented her, or tried to prevent her from 
 going to ball, in order to exercise over her a capricious amount of authority, and 
 that she was a very ill-used woman, indeed, and that it behoved her, for the 
 honour of women, and wives in particular, not to put up with any such conduct, 
 but to show Simon Langdale, and husbands in general, that such things would 
 not do. 
 
 "I should not have minded quarrelling," she said, "but I won't be laughed 
 at. He thinks he has nothing in the world to do but to issue his orders, and say 
 do this or do t'other, and then he can go out laughing at the idea of what a poor 
 slave he is making of his wife ; but I'll let him know to the contrary — I will go 
 to the court ball. I say I will; and I'll have diamonds, too; and Til go in the 
 blush rose satin, and — and I'll dance with everybody, and more particularly with 
 Sir Charles Hastings. Oh, what a wretch that husband of mine is. To object 
 after I had taken the trouble to tell such a — a fib about Madame Macaw 
 having a cousin, who was going — but what will not a vile man do P" 
 
 While Mrs. Langdale is thus expatiating upon the wrongs of women, and her 
 own wrongs in particular, let us see what Simon Langdale is about. 
 
 The temporary cachinnation, which, in spite of him, had taken place when he saw 
 the boy with the pudding fall over the other, was extremely evanescent ; and 
 then he began with a heavy heart to think seriously concerning the unsettled 
 state of his domestic affairs. 
 
 *• Alas ! alas !" he said. " It is a sad thing for me that Mrs. Langdale has set 
 her heart so much upon going to the ball at the court. Never before have we had 
 
156 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 so serious a quarrel about anything. But this affair really dees seem to have 
 given a death blow to our felicity altogether. And she's a good wife, too, in 
 other respects, and has very many excellent qualities ; but, certainly, the love of 
 dress and of display comes between her and her wits, altogether." 
 
 Thus he walked on, having no fixed determination in his mind, until, finding him- 
 self near the house of an old and valued acquaintance, he made up his mind, 
 not only to call upon him, but to make him acquainted with the whole cause of 
 his griefs. 
 
 " I'll call upon Job Musters, the saddler," he said, *' and just ask him candidly 
 what he would do, under the present circumstances, if he were me. I will ex- 
 plain all to him, and I will, as I know him to be a very prudent man, take his 
 advice, always provided I see that he goes into the subject with a proper spirit." 
 
 Master Job Musters was at home, and he welcomed his friend Langdale with 
 all the warmth of an old and valued associate. He heard him to an end, 
 calmly and attentively, when he told him all about Mrs. Langdale wishing to go 
 to the ball, and when Simon concluded, he said, — 
 
 "And is that all?"— "All!" said Simon Langdale; "I think it's enough. 
 Here's my home made so uncomfortable that I cannot sit down to a meal in it 
 without, to a certainty, expecting a disturbance about this infernal court ball. 1 
 think that's quite enough." 
 
 "Now, Simon, you have come to me, you say, for advice?" — H Yes, indeed, 
 havel." 
 
 " Well, under ordinary circumstances, advice is an article that I never trouble 
 my friends with ; for the fact is, that it is generally considered in the light of 
 some extremely unwelcome visitor, to whom one is forced to be a little civil, and 
 yet whom we wish at the bottom of the Thames all the while." — "Yes ; but be- 
 tween us, you know, it's a very different affair, Job. We have known each other 
 now, too many years, for any such feelings to arise." 
 
 " That is true ; and so, when you come to me for advice, or I come to you, we 
 each of us expect to be dealt candidlv with. And so I say let your wife go to 
 the ball."—" Let her go »" 
 
 " Yes, Simon Langdale. Let her go. You can do it without compromising 
 yourself at all. I am not one of those who think that women should be ruled 
 roughly. A woman, my old friend, is a gentle and affectionate creature, who 
 may be led with a silken thread to anything ; but you will not — you cannot 
 drag her with a cable of iron, so don't attempt it. You may break a woman's 
 heart, but you will not by force bend it. Try persuasion and affection, and it 
 is in your hands like a piece of clay — you may mould it as you please. Let your 
 wife go to the ball ; but mind me, Simon Langdale, let her know that it is affec- 
 tion for her that induces you to do so, not. fear. Tell her that you do not like the 
 idea of her going to the ball. Tell her that you have many objections to her 
 going, which it grieves you to think she cannot see the weight of, but tell her 
 thus : that you love her so well, and have her happiness so much at heart, that 
 rather than she should feel unhappy, she shall go in spite of all possible objections 
 in the world." 
 
 " You really advise me to that ?" — " From my heart I do." 
 '* And she will go V — " No, she won't." 
 
 " Not go ! Not go, when I tell her she may ! — not to the court ball !" — " I say 
 she will not go, Simon Langdale. But when you have said all that to her which I 
 recommend you to say, and said it very gently and kindly, too, and looked upon her 
 with eyes of affection, she will most likely burst into tears, and, clinging to you, she 
 will say, i What to me is a court ball compared with your love, Simon? 1 will 
 not go!'" 
 
 " You — you think that ?" said Simon Langdale, blowing his nose with a loud, 
 trumpet-like sound, to hide his emotion. — " 1 know it ; I tell you 1 have studied 
 human nature a little ; and so I am able to say, with some degree of certainty, what 
 will happen. Without, being a conjuror, Simon Langdale, I prophesy that, if you 
 attempt to drive your wife to any course of conduct, you will not succeed, but will 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 will only make yourself and heralike unhappy ; but if you try to lead her, you will 
 succeed nine times out of ten, and pass your life serenely with her." 
 
 " I'll try it — I'll try it. Job Masters, I come here to take your advice, and f will 
 take it. It shall be so. My old friend, I thank you — I sincerely thank you from 
 my heart. I feel already a happier man from the very fact of having made up my 
 mind to such a suggestion." — "Very good; and you can have the consciousness, 
 which is always a pleasant one, you know, of feeling that, if you fail in gentleness 
 and kindness with anybody, you are on the right side at all events." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly ; I love her, Job, better than I love myself. She is young 
 and handsome, and, perhaps, I am a little jealous of her. I do not know, but it 
 may be so ; I dare say I have been wrong, and have said some unkind things, but 
 that will soon be all right, my friend ; and when she says that she does not want to 
 go to the ball, I will send for you, and we will think of some means of passing a 
 pleasant evening on that very night when the court ball is to take place." — " Agreed 
 — agreed." 
 
 Simon Langdale took a friendly glass with his friend, and then he set off home- 
 ward, still resolved upon adopting the course which had been so judiciously recom- 
 mended to him. But, alas ! he modified it. There was in Simon Langdale s mind 
 an awkward principle which always induced him to try and improve upon what was 
 very well as it was. 
 
 Had he gone home at once, and seen his wife, and carried out the excellent ad- 
 vice which had been given to him by his friend, all would have been well, because 
 he would have been able to explain away why he laughed ; and we think — don't 
 you, reader? — that Mrs. Langdale would have foregone the nail. 
 
 " Yes," said Simon, as he went home ; " I will completely overcome Prudence 
 by kindness, and I will manage it nicely — very nicely. 1 will avoid speaking of the 
 ball till the very day when it. is to take place, and I will let her still think that my 
 determination for her not to go is irrevocable and fixed ; then, within only a few 
 hours of the time to get ready, I will go to her, and I will say, — 
 
 " My dear, I cannot see you unhappy. God knows that you are very dear to me ! 
 Go to the ball, Prudence, and there is money to provide you with whatever is ne- 
 cessary to take you there. If that don't quite overcome her, nothing will, I'm sure ; 
 and then Job Masters shall come to us in the evening, and we will think of some 
 means of passing the time agreeably." 
 
 The spirit of intrigue should be called the demon of intrigue, for a most evil and 
 demoniac spirit it is at the very best. Oh, Simon Langdale, Simon Langdale, had 
 you but been a simpler man, paradoxical as it appears, you would have been a wiser 
 one, and, most unquestionably, a happier one. 
 
 And now Mrs. Langdale is not without an adventure during the absence of Simon, 
 her husband ; for who should drive up to the jeweller's door, in his chariot, but Sir 
 Charles Hastings ; and, oh ! horror of horrors to Mrs. Langdale, she was in perfect 
 dishabille, and Ben came up to her and said, — 
 
 " There's a— -a — a gentle — gentle — gentle " — " I know— I know — I know," 
 
 screamed Mrs. Langdale ; " tell him your master is out ; tell him I am out too — or 
 ill ; and that. I cannot see him ; but I'll come down in a minute. Tell him — oh, 
 dear — oh, dear — don't tell him anything at all. How dreadful I He's come to 
 speak about the ball, of course. What shall I do, and what will become of 
 me?" 
 
 « w — w— what am I to tell — tell him?" stammered Ben. "I — I don't quite — 
 understand ex — ex — exactly, missus." — " Well, then," said Mrs. Langdale, " you 
 must tell him something, you know ; and yet, Heaven help me, I don't know what 
 it's to be. Stop, Ben — stop a bit. I ought not to see him ; I'm sure I ought not 
 to see him ; so you can tell him I'll be down directly ; yet, no ; what would people 
 say of me 1 — what will Simon Langdale think ? — what will he have a right to think 
 if I see Sir Charles ? I cannot — I cannot ; and you will tell him, Ben, that — that 
 as Mr. Langdale is not at home, I'll come and see him myself." 
 
 Poor Ben looked bewildered ; he evidently did not know what to make of Mrs. 
 Langdale's speeches, and he continued to gaze at her, with his mouth wide open, 
 
158 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 making, now and then, a spasmodic attempt to say something which really partook 
 rather of the ludicrous. 
 
 And, all the while she was talking to him, in what a nervous fidget she threw 
 herself, for fear her hair should not he properly arranged, or her dress in any way 
 out of its just folds. It was astonishing to see her ; how her colour went and came, 
 and how she trembled, until, at last, before Ben could stutter out another half word, 
 she had passed him, and, with a palpitating heart, descended to the warehouse. 
 
 There was no one there excepting Sir Charles Hastings ; but, had the place been 
 crammed with visitors, she would have seen no one but him. 
 
 And here we must pause for one moment to exonerate Mrs. Langdale from the 
 remotest suspicion that might arise in the minds of any of our readers that she en- 
 tertained an idea not in accordance with her duty. 
 
 She did not feel this flutter of excitement, at the appearance of Sir Charles, for 
 the man personally, although he was young, dignified, and handsome ; but he 
 had become associated in her mind with the thoughts of the court ball ; and, from 
 the first moment that he had made his appearance at Madame Maeaw's, she had felt 
 a kind of moral certainty that if she went to the ball at all it must be under the pro- 
 tection of this courtly gallant. 
 
 True, he had told her that he loved her, and with the most audacious libertinism 
 had, even although he knew she was another's, accosted her in the language of 
 affection. 
 
 This she ought not to have forgiven ; but what woman is there that does not 
 view such an error with a leniency that makes it but a venial one in her imagina- 
 tion? If it be a crime to tell some fair object who is another's, of an undying 
 attachment, mingled with passionate regrets, it is one forgiven almost at the moment 
 of its commission ; and so, although Mrs. Langdale was, as the world goes, virtuous, 
 yet she did not feel any violent accession of resentment at Sir Charles's declaration. 
 
 But, although she, in the excitement of her spirits noticed not, and even looked not 
 to see if they were alone, Sir Charles was much too calculating not to be fully aware 
 of the advantages of such a state of things, and he accordingly threw a warmth 
 into his address, that he would have been far from doing, had any one but the fair 
 object of it been at hand. 
 
 " My husband," said Mrs. Langdale, and she almost stammered as bad as Ben ; 
 "my husband — is— is out, and so you see, Sir Charles, I — I— cannot — must not 
 see you, or talk to you." , 
 
 " Alas ! then," he exclaimed, with passionate earnestness, as he clasped together 
 his jewelled hands ; " alas ! then, it is as I feared, and I am wretched. What to 
 me are the smiles of royalty, the pomps and pageants of a court, and all the glit- 
 tering array of glorious fabrics that wealth, ancestry, and spotless honour can pro- 
 duce me, if I have beyond recall banished myself from even the pitying concern of 
 the idol of my heart V 
 
 " Sir Charles, Sir Charles, let me implore you — ".Nay, perchance you 
 
 know not what it is to love with a passionate devotion that defies all obstacles, but 
 yet a devotion which looks to the happiness of the dear object as the greatest and 
 most glorious achievement of the passion. Madam, I have tried, with cold and 
 calculating reason, to tell myself I ought to banish from my heart, for ever, a 
 thought of one who fills that vacant throne of my affections I never thought a 
 human form could occupy." 
 
 *« Oh ! sir, I cannot, dare not hear this language. Leave me — let me implore 
 you to leave me." — " Then it is too true." 
 
 ** What is true V* — " That you will not forgive the hasty declaration of a pas- 
 sion long concealed in the very penetralia of my heart, but which, when I saw 
 you on that happy morning when you lent a grace, beyond the reach of art, to that 
 costume which you condescended for a moment to wear, flew to my lips, and found 
 a fervid and a hurried utterance, which but weakly and poorly depicted it, and yet 
 which I feel has for ever condemned me in your estimation." 
 
 Tears gushed to the eyes of Mrs. Langdale, for poor Sir Charles spoke in a tone 
 of such exquisite bereavement, and so threw, as it were, his whole soul into every 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 159 
 
 word he uttered, that she would have as soon thought of doubting holy writ, as for 
 one instant have harboured the suspicion that he was playing the hypocrite. 
 
 " No, no," she said, in the enthusiasm of the moment, and it was her kindly 
 and better nature that spoke — " no, no, you are not condemned, but destiny has 
 placed a barrier between us, which you must always remember. Go now, Sir 
 Charles, I pray you go." 
 
 " Then you can pity me — you can feel for me that gentle feeling which poets 
 tell us is akin to love ; and you may do so without a stain upon that spotless 
 honour, which finds its chastest palace in your breast. Oh! Mrs. Langdale, do not 
 fancy that this is some new-born passion, springing phoenix-like from the ashes of 
 some former love." 
 
 " Did— did you know me?" — " Not until you were another's. " 
 
 " Alas ! alas V — " And can you regret? Is it possible that for a moment you 
 can dream that you might have been happier with me ? But, oh ! do not tell me 
 so, for the very thought would drive me mad ! Rather contemn me, and cast me 
 from you. Tell me you never could have loved me, and then I shall believe it was 
 my destiny to adore without a hope ; and not that my malignant fate flashed before 
 my eyes the costly jewel I would have given an universe to possess, but found it 
 was another's. I am a desperate man — even now I feel that I totter upon the verge 
 of destruction." 
 
 <l Oh ! Sir Charles, wherefore this excited, language ? Be calm, I pray you— 
 remember where you are. Leave me at once, or I, while I have sufficient discre- 
 tion in me left, must leave you." — " No, no, no — this is a farewell, and do not add 
 poignancy to it by one unkind word. 1 came here with some message, but my heart 
 and brain are so bewildered, that I scarce remember it." 
 
 Mrs. Langdale half turned, and caught a sight of Ben, whose mouth was so 
 preternaturally wide open, that it seemed a very doubtful proposition if it would 
 ever shut again. She had just discrimination enough left to feel the danger of the 
 conversation which she was carrying on, and being within a few paces of a glass 
 door which opened into the counting-house, she hastily retreated to it, and dis- 
 appeared into that sanctum sanctorum of Simon Langdale, closing the door be- 
 hind her. 
 
 Sir Charles looked at Ben, and Ben looked at Sir Charles, and then the latter, 
 taking a guinea from his pocket, and holding it gingerly between his finger, and 
 thumb, said, — 
 
 <* My good fellow, you will have the kindness to go to the next vintner's, and 
 liquidate this coin at your own pleasure. Do you understand me?" — " D-d-d-'l — 
 d — d if I do. D-d-d-d- do you want ch-ch-ch-change — cause I haven't g-g-g-got it." 
 
 f It's your mistress wants change," said Sir Charles, insinuatingly. " Oh ! very 
 good — w-w-w-will you mind the sh-sh-sh-shop while I go ?" 
 
 " Oh ! certainly." 
 
 Poor Ben walked out' at the warehouse door ; Sir Charles reached it in two 
 strides, and shot a heavy bolt into the socket ; but his difficulties were not yet over, 
 for as he turned, he encountered the pious servant of all-work, who by some sort 
 of prescience had become aware that something unusual was occurring, had 
 ascended from the lower regions, and now confronted that bold and reckless 
 libertine. 
 
 But Sir Charles was by no means disconcerted. Another guinea was in a. 
 moment produced, and stepping up to this female cerberus, he readily dropped it 
 into her outstretched palm, as he said in quite a confidential tone, — ' * 
 
 " You're deaf and blind, and will remain in the kitchen." — " Yes, sir, the Lord 
 of Hosts always willing," and down she went. 
 
 While all this was going on, which, by-the-bye, occupied but a very few minutes, 
 poor Mrs. Langdale sat weeping in the counting-house ; for when she heard the 
 door close after Ben's exit, she fancied that signified the departure of the heart- 
 stricken Sir Charles Hastings, who loved her so deeply and so tenderly. 
 
 " He's gone!" she said, — " he's gone! he does love me ; but, thank God, he's 
 gone ! I do not love him — no, why should I love him ? I ought not, and dare 
 
 t 
 
160 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 not; and yet, oh! how different might have been my fate! He's so kind, so 
 gentle, so full of the very poetry of passion, so handsome, so gallant, and such a 
 soul of honour ! That wretch, Ben, too, to stand staring ! but I must warn him." 
 
 She laid her hand upon the lock of the glass door ; it turned with marvellous 
 facility, for another hand was on the other side assisting her. 
 
 " Is that you, Ben V she said. 
 
 " Call me what you will," exclaimed Sir Charles ; " any name from your lips is 
 sanctified. You are my fate, my destiny — I cannot live without you ; with honour 
 1 cannot possess, and therefore I will die." 
 
 A half scream of surprise burst from the lips of Mrs. Langdale. 
 ' r " Oh ! this is madness, ruin," she said ; " what will become of me — what will 
 become of me?"— "Nay, presage no evil to yourself, fair dame; but if I have 
 offended you, take this sword and sheath it in the truest heart that ever beat—nay, 
 madam, turn not from me. They who know me as the gallant of the court, know 
 little of the depth of feeling that lies beneath the glittering surface of cold indiffer- 
 ence that the manner of the age compels me to assume. I am not what I seem — I 
 am not what I seem." 
 
 " Sir Charles Hastings, Sir Charles Hastings, are you bent upon your own 
 
 destruction and upon mine ? My husband is jealous " — " Ay, because he is 
 
 so much older than yourself." 
 
 " Nay, I must not hear you speak thus. There are servants, too, in the house — 
 I pray you let me pass." — " Lady, I am mad ! for days and nights 1 have dreams ; 
 for there are waking dreams as well as those which haunt us in sleep — of the dear 
 felicity of being with you even as I am now, to tell you how I love you, how I 
 worship you ! to tell you that the remainder of my existence, though worthless it 
 may appear, can find its only sunshine in your smiles, its only storms in your 
 frowns ! Oh ! you weep, you weep — you do feel for me ; and when I'm mingled 
 with the dust, and when, at some moment, you feel the want of a heart to beat in 
 unison with your own, and echo thought for thought, you will tell yourself that there 
 was one which, rather than harbour one unworthy thought of you, stilled its pulses 
 for ever. 1 ' 
 
 Mrs. Langdale was overcome ; she sank upon a seat, and covering her face with 
 hei hands, she wept like a child. It was a storm of passion, and, like most storms, 
 was not likely to last long ; but while it was in its fury, while it raged in her bosom 
 and through her brain, that arch hypocrite, that deep, designing dissembler took 
 advantage of the mental tempest, and uttered what he dared not to have profaned 
 the ears of the really virtuous woman at heart with, in her cooler and calmer 
 moments. 
 
 Springing to her side, he flung his arms round her, and, in accents of the most 
 passionate devotion, he exclaimed, — 
 
 " Oh, Heaven ! restrain those tears ; they fall upon my heart with crushing 
 force — upon that heart which rather would rain drops of blood from its inmost core, 
 than have awakened in you a grief like this. Never again — never again, dearest 
 and best, shall you be troubled with the sight of one who dares not say he will 
 forget you, but who will give you an opportunity of consigning him to the oblivion 
 of the past." 
 
 "No — on — no!" she said. "I cannot forget ; but I abjure you by that very 
 love which you profess, to leave me now." 
 
 " Ah !" he suddenly exclaimed, " I do remember. Oh, how this love, as it 
 were, swallows up every sense, ingulphing even memory with a lava-like torrent. 
 When with you I live only for the present, the past is forgotten, the future scarce 
 the shadow of a dream." 
 
 " I pray you, sir, to — to take your hand from off my arm. Is this your honour ?" 
 — " I am reproved ; but let me tell you Prudence, dear Prudence — that, I believe, 
 is your name — V 
 
 Oh, how sweetly were these words pronounced ! Never had any one said to her 
 " dear Prudence" in such tones before. They were spoken in the very melody of 
 passion, chastened by the most exquisite and tenderest of feelings. What an accoir.- 
 
NEWGATE. 161 
 
 plished actor was that man ! She looked up in his face, it was Learning with 
 delight. She caught the reflex of his sparkling eyes upon her own. For a moment 
 a thrill of joy shot through her frame ; her head sunk upon his breast, as with a 
 gUFh of thoughtless tenderness, she replied to him, — 
 
 " Yes, yes, my name is Prudence. Call me dear Prudence once again." 
 
 This forgetfulness of who and what she was lasted but for a moment, and she 
 almost terrified him by the suddenness with which she wrested herself from his 
 embrace. Then clasping her hands, she cried, in agonised accents, — 
 
 My husband and my God forgive 
 
 The tempter lowered his tone. 
 •« There is nothing to forgive/' he 
 said ; "on this breast, without a stain, 
 might that head be pillowed ; but let me 
 tell you while I may, what brought me 
 hither."— " Oh ! be brief, be brief." 
 
 *< The court ball."— <; Yes ; the court 
 ball. Around that ball is my very des* 
 tiny entwined. Speak not of it to me. 
 Would to Heaven it were over, and with 
 it all its temptations." 
 
 " Nay, hear me out. You will not be 
 happy unless you grace the scene. That 
 scene will not be graceful unless made happy by you. Fortune herself seems 
 determined upon smoothing the path to your presence to that assemblage of all 
 that is great, all that is costly, and all that is beautiful." 
 
 " How mean you ?*—.«' As thus. Your friend, Madam Macaw, by rare good 
 fortune, has that costume on her hands, or rather had, for since it has graced 
 once that form which is the idol of my soul, I have become its envied possessor ; 
 and now, by such a freak of fate as could not be foreseen, there are diamonds at 
 your disposal, which shall vie with those of royalty itself." 
 
 " Diamonds V — " Yes ; my relation, the Countess of Arlingforrf, as you know, 
 dear Prudence," the villain saw that there was a spell in those words dear Prudence, 
 u has committed the care of all her jewels to your husband, in order to have them 
 
 No. 21. 
 
162 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 reset for this very ball. They are now in his possession ; but she will not want 
 them, for as if the very finger of Providence itself was manifest in this affair, the 
 lady for whom the blush-rose satin dress was intended has died, and she being a 
 relation of my aunt, the countess, the latter cannot, in the first flush of grief, think 
 of making one in the gay and glittering assemblage." 
 
 " She will not go?" — " No; and so her jewels may well deck a fairer form. You, 
 dear Prudence, can lend a lustre to the glittering gems, they never before could 
 borrow from any of their noble wearers," 
 
 Mrs. Langdale shuddered. 
 
 " You wish me to go," she said, in the dress of the dead, and the jewels of the 
 afflicted?" — " The dead never saw that dress while living, and the afflicted will 
 recover in a week, plunging again into all the frivolities incidental to a weak and 
 thoughtless woman." 
 
 There was a severe mental struggle in Mrs. Langdale's breast. At one moment 
 she felt all the flush of mad excitement concerning the court ball rising in her 
 heart, while at another, the consequences of going there secretly from her husband, 
 and in defiance of his behests, in company, too, with the man who had not scrupled 
 to avow his strong attachment to her, rose up in fearful array before her imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 He marked the struggle between vanity and reflection, and, like a skilful general, 
 be threw his forces upon the former side. 
 
 " I can well perceive," he said, " that you view this matter too seriously. 
 Wherefore should you debar yourself from the pleasure of being present at a scene 
 which will become a national reminiscence? If you had no one who could accom- 
 pany you, the case would be different ; but when you have me, upon whom you 
 can so much rely, and upon whose honour, and upon whose protection you can 
 throw yourself witk all the abandonment of the greatest confidence, wherefore 
 should you shrink ?" — " 1 do shrink, indeed." 
 
 " Oh ! you will not know yourself. I have looked on many fair forms most 
 exquisitely attired, but never saw 1 one to equal you in that costume at Madam 
 Macaw's. No wonder that for a moment I Tost all power of reflection, and cast 
 myself at your feet." — " This flattery is a courtier's trade." 
 
 " Then, if I am no courtier, it is no trade of mine. I cannot flatter those I 
 love, and as all my best affection can be summed up in my thoughts of you, you 
 may believe as, very sooth, each word which comes from out my lips,"—" May I, 
 truly V 
 
 " You may. Oh ! I think I see you now, with all those diamonds, the heir- 
 looms of an ancient, honourable race — some the gifts of monarchs, some purchased 
 at prices that would half compromise a petty kingdom."—" Indeed ! so precious?" 
 
 ** Ay, most truly ; and I think 1 see you with them in the saloons of St. James's, 
 with every eye bent upon you, and I think 1 hear the eager whisper from one part 
 to another, of 4 Who is she ? who is this paragon of beauty ; this world's wonder ; 
 this ^ery phoenix of perfection? whence comes she V " — i( Yes, yes." 
 
 " Then, how deliciously the pleasant music will waft itself through the softly 
 scented air ; and then succeeds the dance, and amid the waving plumes and the 
 glittering lights from thousands of gems of the purest water, I shall see but your 
 eyes beaming v. ith a more heavenly Justre, and dealing destruction to a thousand 
 hearts at every glance." — " Yes, 1 will go. No, no, I dare not." 
 
 " Oh ! a million thanks. You will go ; and the jewels ?" — '* Ah ! the jewels. 
 I cannot get the jewels ; my husband is so careful of so precious a charge." 
 
 " Indeed ! I suppose he keeps them in the — the — the — the " — " Yes ; in 
 
 the cabinet in his bedroom." 
 
 6i Ah! sweet saint, which you can open." — " No, no." 
 
 " You can, dear Prudence. Nay, you are jesting with me ; you can easily 
 open it with tl e key." — " Ay, but Simon keeps it." 
 
 " And you can steal it from him — a harmless theft. Come, now, dear Prudence, 
 I will banish every scruple, I will take the whole responsibility on myself." — 
 " You?" — " Yes ; recollect my relative, the countess ; what danger can there be 3 
 
 ■ 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 163 
 
 Believe me, I shall not lose sight of them for a single moment, for you will wear 
 them." — " But, if my husband should discover the loss of those gems before I 
 return, he will be frantic." 
 
 " And serve hitn right. Of all men on the face of the earth, dear Prudence, 
 husbande are the most unreasonable, the most difficult to please, the most trouble- 
 some, and the most captious of men. Now any one but this Simon Langdale of 
 yours, would be delighted at the opportunity of your going and enjoying yourself 
 at the court ball. Every smile that your bright eyes created, ought to give him 
 pleasure to think of. Every sigh that was breathed as a tribute to your beauty, he 
 ought to feel quite like an attention paid to himself ; and for me to accompany you 
 as your chaperon, he really ought to consider the most delicate compliment I can 
 pay him." 
 
 " Ah ! you do not know him/' — u And Heaven preserve me from his acquaint- 
 ance," said Sir Charles. "But now how pleasantly have we arranged all this. 
 What a pretty, little, pleasant, sweet, unpretending plot, so full of unassuming 
 mirth. I think 1 see Simon Langdale on the following morning, as he smiles 
 over his breakfast-table, confessing that he has been a little outwitted." 
 
 " And do you think for one moment that he would smile ?" — " Of course he 
 will. I should say he'd l>e delighted - quite petrified with pleasure. Let me see, 
 you will take the key from him while he sleeps, you will open the cabinet, and 
 get out the jewels, my carriage will wait you by St. Paul's, we'll drive to Madam 
 Macaw's, you dress yourself while J wait dying with impatience in the vehicle, 
 and then to the palace." 
 
 " Yes, yes, to the palace. But it will be very difficult. You perceive I shall 
 have to take the key the night before, and then if Lady Arlingford were to send 
 for her jewels V — " She told me she would not.'' 
 
 "Then that will present certainly a chance of success, and yet I tremble. I 
 did not say I would." — "Nay, you did, you did. Oh! dear Prudence, is this 
 kindly of you? You know you said you would; and then what a delightful 
 thought it would be to you to feel that without compromising yourself in the 
 slightest, you have made me, who loves you so well, happy, even for a few 
 hours." 
 
 " If I can, I will ; but not in the way that you purpose. I dare not protract 
 the time till night." — "Then leave eariy ; as early as you please." 
 
 "One hour after sunset on the night of the ball," — " Yes, ye?, dear Prudence, 
 that will do well ; an hour after sunset my carriage shall be in St. Paul's Church- 
 yard. You will know my servants by the orange and purple liveries " 
 
 " Yes, assuredly." — " And mark me, do not forget the jewels, for it is contrary 
 to etiquette to go into the presence of the sovereign on such an occasion without 
 them." 
 
 " If I be not there, you may be sure that Simon Langdale has stopped me. 1 ' — 
 " Oh ! how can I thank you ?" 
 
 " Hush ! what noise is that ? There seems a strange rattling at the outer 
 door." — " It is nothing, dearest. 1 will leave you. Oh, Prudence ! dare I hope 
 that you will forgive a kiss, such as a brother might bestow upon your hand — 
 lips I mean." 
 
 He suited the action to the word, and then like an accomplished actor, feeling 
 that he had arrived at a climax which enabled him to make a good exit, he was 
 gone, leaving the flush of pleasure and excitement upon the cheek of that poor 
 deluded Mrs. Langdale, who certainly ought to have known better; but all we 
 can say is that she didn't. Sir Charles Hastings reached the door, and im. 
 mediately upon unbolting it, Ben tumbled in. 
 
 " I've been kn-n-n-n-knocking an hour." — "The greater fool you." 
 
 "There's your chch-ch-ch-change." — "Swallow it," and out went Sir 
 Charles. 
 
 " What a s-s-s-s-singular character. I shaVt do a-a-a- any such thing. It 
 strikes me th-that young m-m-man stuiters a little." 
 
164 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SIMON LANGDALE'S FELICITATIONS. 
 
 " Yes/' said Simon Langdale ; " oh ! dear, yes. She's a good creature, after 
 all. I remember what attracted me first to her; her kindness to her poor old 
 mother ; an excellent trait. She shall go to the ball, at least that is I mean to 
 say that she won't go to the ball ; but I'll tell her she may go if she likes to go. 
 Excellent advice, excellent advice. There's nothing like a judicious friend, who 
 gives you good advice ; and after that there's nothing like turning it over in your 
 mind, and improving upon it a little." 
 
 Simon Langdale smiled to himself as he pronounced these words, " a little/' 
 so that any one who had seen him could have been able to swear that he used 
 them only in a jocose kind of spirit, and really meant that he had improved upon 
 his friend's advice not a little. 
 
 " Now," he added, " if I were to go to Prudence, and say to her, 6 Prudence, 
 you shall goto the ball/ it would just look like caprice, and she would very 
 naturally turn round, and scream in my ears ' why couldn't you say that before?' 
 But when I plan this little pleasant surprise for her, I can fancy I can see her 
 heart melting like an icicle in April before a glimpse of sunshine." 
 
 Simon Langdale rubbed his hands together. 
 
 " Yes, yes, up to now it's been she sha'n't go, but that'll turn to she won't go, 
 and a pleasant supper shall we have that night. Let me see— upon my soul that 
 will be an improvement upon the plan. I'll get up a little party here; I'll invite 
 the Wilkinses, the Weatherbones, with their three daughters and cousins ; the 
 Tomkinses, with the aunt that plays the harpsichord ; the Waddlem ores— yes, I 
 must have the Waddlemores, notwithstanding the deaf grandmother, who will 
 tell anecdotes about George the Second ; the Phinnics — let me see, the Phinnics. 
 Well, yes, I'll have the Phinnics, although that Joseph Phinnic is a most in- 
 fernal coxcomb — and the Crickendales. That'll make a nice, pleasant little party. 
 Let me see, three, six, eight, eleven, fifteen, seventeen ; quite enough, in all 
 conscience, and Prudence shall wear the very dress that she might go to the ball 
 in, but that she won't go to the ball in." 
 
 Mr. Langdale smiled, and poked the fire. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, dear," he said, " it's a true proverb, though an old one, 'you may 
 lead a horse to the water, but you can't make him drink;' i gentleness turneth 
 away wrath ;' and I'm inclined to think my old friend's right, when he says you 
 may lead a woman by a silken thread, when you couldn't drag her with a chain 
 cable." 
 
 Such were Mr. Langdalc's felicitations on the evening before the ball, and such 
 was the amiable plot, which it would have been such a mercy if he had left alone, 
 that he got up for the purpose of astonishing his wife, when in reality in its 
 result it only astonished himself. 
 
 And Mrs. Langdale, had she quite made up her mind to accompany Sir 
 Charles to the ball, or was it only in the excitement of spirit consequent upon 
 his natural presence that she thought of acting so foolish a part? Was she, 
 now that he had left her, torn and distracted by all those conflicting commotions 
 which such a woman was likely to feel under such circumstances? Alas! if it 
 were so, what pleasure could she expect at an entertainment to which he would go 
 with a mind so loaded with troubles ? 
 
 And what a piece of sophistry was it for her to try to persuade herself that it 
 was pity for Sir Charles Hastings that gave her the strongest argument for 
 going. 
 
 " He loves me ! she said ; " poor Sir Charles, how much he loves me ! He 
 will be very unhappy for the remainder of his existence ! So young a man too, 
 and I to have thrown myself so completely away, as I have, upon Simon Lang- 
 dale, and not to be able to requite an affection so noble and so deserving." 
 
 Mrs. Langdale sat down in her own apartment. It was a little back room, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 165 
 
 which she called her own ; and there she wept as she pictured to herself the 
 brilliant destiny that might have awaited her, and indeed that she considered 
 must have been hers, had not cruel fortune mated her to the jeweller. 
 
 She saw herself the belle of the court, the beauty of many seasons, the very 
 glass of fashion, and even moving in the highest circles of the aristocracy. She 
 might have had her carriages, horses, servants, her town and country 
 mansions, and all those refinements of existence which lend a charm to life, and 
 make it pass away like one long summer's day without a cloud. 
 
 "And now, what am I ?" she exclaimed. " Alas! poor Sir Charles, and what is 
 he ? disappointed and forlorn both of us, like the babes in the wood, we can but lay 
 down and die. Ought I to disappoint him? no. Ought I to give him one additional 
 pang to what he already suffers, by refusing to go with him to the ball ? no, no, that 
 would be as cruel as it would be ungenerous. I will not be behindhand with him 
 in sacrifices ; he ventures much in asking me, shall I venture nothing in going ?" 
 
 By these and such like specious arguments — arguments born of the imagination 
 far more than of the judgment — did Mrs. Langdale make up her mind thoroughly 
 that she'd go to the ball ; and now her whole thoughts became concentrated in the 
 completion of that grand portion of the plot, which was to consist in getting posses- 
 sion of Lady Arlingford's jewels. 
 
 Probably Mrs. Langdale would have had a difficulty in reconciling herself to this 
 appropriation of the jewels, even for a single night, had it not been that she con- 
 sidered they were legitimately lent to her by Sir Charles Hastings, who had avowed 
 his relationship to Lady Arlingford. 
 
 This was a fact which in her mind took off the greater part of the disagreeable 
 feeling that otherwise would have attached to her appropriating the jewels. 
 
 " I have his sanction," she said, " for the act ; the jewels are his aunt's, and 
 therefore I ought not to hesitate. Yes, I am determined upon going, quite — 
 quite." 
 
 At the very time that Simon Langdale sat felicitating himself in the manner we 
 have described, his wife was planning how in the next few hours she could gain 
 possession of the key of the cabinet, in which she had every reason to believe the 
 jewels were now placed, since the resetting of them was finished and the jeweller 
 either was about sending them home, or was expecting them to be called for, although 
 the latter was the most probable, because it will be recollected that Sir Charles 
 Hastings had informed Mrs. Langdale of the inability of his aunt to go to the ball. 
 
 Nevertheless, she was extremely anxious to know what view her husband took 
 regarding the disposal of his jewels, and contrary to her custom, she asked him to 
 remain at home to supper, although he mumbled out something about an engagement 
 in the earlier part of the day. 
 
 " So," thought the jeweller, " she begins to find that opposing me is after all of 
 no use, and now she has evidently given it up as a bad job ; but yet, after all, she 
 may make another attempt to induce me to let her go to the ball — for women are as 
 obstinate as the very deuce upon such matters — and I shall affect to hold out, for 1 
 would not spoil my plot of to-morrow night on any consideration." 
 
 He was the more confirmed in the opinion that Mrs. Langdale felt that she could 
 not go without his permission, but had made up her mind to request it in a different 
 fashion, by the extreme suavity of her manner, and the domesticated kindness with 
 which she superintended his supper table. 
 
 " Ah, my dear," he said, " how happy we can be when we like !" — " Yes, 
 Simon, and why shouldn't we be happy," said Mrs. Langdale, for she felt quite 
 amiable in the strength of the entire success with which she considered she was 
 about to hoodwink the jeweller ; <e and why should we not be happy ?" 
 
 " Why, my dear, we might be happy, but you know that causes have arisen lately 
 to disturb very much our domestic peace — that confounded court ball, you know." 
 
 '* Oh, my dear, don't mention it." 
 
 Simon Langdale looked rather blank ; for he thought how foolish his plan would 
 look if he found that she didn't want to go after all. 
 
 " Not mention it ; why, you don't mean to say that you have forgotten it? and-— 
 
166 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 and — don't want to go V — * Oh, no, I have not forgotten it. I could not forget it ; 
 but as we have get to live together, Simon Langdale, we may as well live as happily 
 as we can, and I don't want even a court ball to be an endless cause of strife." 
 " A most sensible remark, Prudence." 
 
 " By the bye, Simon, what became of those jewels you had to do for Lady 
 Arlingford ?" — " Oh, I hurried the job on and got it all finished, and then comes a 
 note to say that her lad y ship is in mourning in consequence of the death of a rela- 
 tive, and can't go." 
 
 " It is quite true, then," thought Mrs. Langdale, as a flush of joyous excitement 
 sent the colour to her cheeks. «* It is quite true, as Sir Charles told me. Indeed, 
 Simon, what a mortifying thing to the lady !" 
 
 " Yes, she said she'd send for them in a few days, so I've locked them up in my 
 cabinet. There's the necklace, earrings, bracelets, and the diamond circlet for the 
 head —those jewels are worth a little fortune, and I really wish they were out of my 
 possession, for of all the uncomfortable things in the world having other people's 
 property in your keeping is the worst, and this is to such a large amount, that I 
 actually wake in the night and think of it." — " But you lock the cabinet and keep 
 the key safe V 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes. I don't carry the key about with me ; I tell you what I do with 
 it, I put it again under lock and key. 1 keep it in the drawer of the wardrobe, which 
 you know I call my own. Nobody would think of there locking for the key of my 
 cabinet, and the beauty of it is, that if they did find it by accident, there is nothing 
 to leave them to suppose that it unlocks the way to such a treasure as Lady Arling- 
 ford's jewels." — " How very clever," said Mrs. Langdale, in a half hysterical manner. 
 
 " Yes, my* dear, you're Prudence by name and imprudence by nature ; the jewels 
 are safe enough, I believe, in their casket." — " The crimson casket that I saw ?" 
 
 " Yes, the same, and it is foolish of me to disturb myself about them, and now, 
 my dear, how do you think of passing the evening at the court ball V — " I must 
 not think upon that evening," said Mrs. Langdale, "for if I do I shall be 
 wretched." 
 
 There was a great deal of truth in this speech, for she really felt that it was only 
 in the absence of thought that she could carry herself through the adventures which 
 fortune seemed to have destined her to know. 
 
 And now she had got all the information she required, and felt that she might, 
 if she chose, wait even until the last moment, or nearly so, before she possessed 
 herself of the jewels, without which her appearance at the court ball would be so 
 contrary to all rule. 
 
 So strange and varied are the inward movements of the human mind, that 
 she felt now almost disappointed at the little difficulty she would experience in 
 possessing herself of the jewels. There was nothing adventurous in taking the 
 key from a drawer, to which 3he had herself access, and then opening the 
 cabinet with it. 
 
 But, for all that, she passed a restless night ~ a night full of visions of the ball, 
 while now and then her imagination took a darker turn, and some hideous 
 spectre" seemed to rise before her, with a warning gesture. 
 
 And once she dreamt that she was descending, with frightful velocity,, an 
 incline, which terminated in a precipice ; and she thought that a figure was 
 beckoning her on, which bore so strong a resemblance to Sir Charles Hastings, 
 that she would have sworn it was him and none other, but before she had got 
 halfway down the steep descent, a form in the shape of a radiant angel, and 
 yet wearing most strongly the appearance of Simon Langdale, followed her, 
 wringing its hands, and in gentle accents beseeching her to pause, but she would 
 not ; she turned a deaf ear to the supplications, she listened not to the entreaties, 
 and then, at length, she arrived at the extreme verge, and, with a shriek, she 
 passed over into the dread abyss. 
 
 The shriek was a real one, for her dream had taken such possession of her 
 faculties, that she actually uttered the cry, and sprang from her bed, to the 
 great alarm of Simon Langdale, who thought, to be sure, that the house was on 
 
 Jtm 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 167 
 
 fire, or that seme fearful catastrophe, of some more undefined character, had 
 occurred . 
 
 "Prudence! Prudence!'' he cried,, "what is that ?"— - " Oh, God, what a 
 dream !" she exclaimed. " It is nothing ; it is nothing." 
 
 " What have you dreamed, dear Prudence? vou must be unwell ; you screamed 
 aloud."—" No— yes ; did I, though ?" 
 
 " Indeed you did, and alarmed me ve?y much. It is near morning; see how 
 the light beams through the window. Come to bed again, dear Prudence, I can 
 see you trembling in the pale light." 
 
 Weeping and alarmed she crept again into that bed which, after again rising 
 from, she was never more to look upon. She wept herself to sleep, and so 
 passed the night preceding the court ball. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE JEWELS. 
 
 The morning was dull and gloomy ; a thick mist seemed to hang over the face 
 of nature, and there was a suspicious s&Hness in the air, which, to those who 
 were the best judges of elemental vagaries, tfye Murphies of that day, presaged 
 some coming convulsion of the air, probably of a more fearful character on the 
 very account that it was preluded by such a suspicious calmntss. 
 
 But what was any elemental strife or coming strife to Mrs. Langdale, in 
 comparison to the war of various emotions which took place within her breast? 
 A third time during that day she changed her opinion — she would go, and she 
 would not; and more than once she proceeded half way to her husband's 
 counting-house, to throw herself at his feet, and confess all to him, seeking in his 
 arms a shelter from the insidious advances of the court gallant, who had procured 
 from her a promise, which, perchance, was the only one in her whole existence 
 which honour would have dictated to her to break. But her purpose held not, 
 and again she would creep back to her own apartment and weep. 
 
 Thus the day . wore on till past its meridian. Several fitful gusts of wind 
 had rushed howling through the streets, and the weatherwise predicted a stormy 
 night, as Mrs. Langdale crept softly to her bedroom, for the purpose of possess- 
 ing herself of the key of the cabinet, which contained those glittering gems 
 she so much coveted to wear. 
 
 The same evil spirit that had allured her down the precipice, seemed now, in 
 her imagination, to stalk before her, beckoning her onward to the drawer wherein 
 the key was kept ; but she paused not, for the good genius was not there to 
 wring its hands, and implore her to pause awhile ere she took one irremediable 
 step in her career of disobedience to those vows she had pledged at the altar's 
 foot, and called upon her God to witness. 
 
 *- 1 must, I must," she said. " Oh Simon, Simon, why have you been cold and 
 distant to me to-day? Why have you seemed to have some mystery that you 
 would hide from me ? Now, now or never, is the time, by kindness, to wean me 
 from all that is evil, or all that may be evil, but you will not do it. Simon 
 Langdale ! Simon Langdale ! where are you now ?" 
 
 She could reason thus, and her eyes were filled with tears, which almost 
 blinded her to what she was about ; yet, strange to say, she paused not, but, as 
 if urged on by some invisible spirit of diabolical intent, she reached that drawer 
 wherein she knew the key was kept ; that key which, in the guilelessness of his 
 heart, the jeweller had told her where he had hidden. 
 
 The drawer was one of many in a large wardrobe, that occupied the whole 
 side of the chamber ; it was her nuptial chamber too, and she, as well as Simon, 
 had a key which opened all the locks in common. 
 
 " Oh, why did he trust me? why did he trust me ?" she said. " I now shrink 
 at the deed 1 may do easily, but which I would have done with scarce a thought 
 had he kept all the means from me to perpetrate it." 
 
168 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 She never faltered for a moment — the pangs, the hesitation, and the agony, 
 were all mental — the physical being seemed to act without them ; and now the 
 drawer is opened, and she places her hand upon the first object that meets her 
 gaze. It is not the casket which contains the jewels, but it is a small leathern 
 case, opening by a spring, and the spring is touched and it is opened in her 
 hands ere she is aware of what she is about. 
 
 What does it contain ? a portrait of herself, a faded flower, and a long sunny 
 lock of hair; stay, there are some words — a scrap of paper falls at her feet — she 
 lifts it — and, while the tears run down her cheeks, and sobs rend her bosom, she 
 reads — 
 
 " Dear remembrances of my own Prudence. May Heaven's blessing, and its 
 choicest gifts, be hers." 
 
 It is with a half-shriek that she recognises the handwriting. It is her husband's 
 — yes, that husband whom she was about so deceive, to inflict unheard-of pangs 
 upon, to rob — she could call the abstraction of the jewels now by its right epithet. 
 
 " No, no !" she cried ; " Simon, dear Simon, the struggle has passed ; God has 
 looked down upon me. I am yet innocent, and myself again." 
 
 She sunk upon her knees, she clasped her hands, she prayed, she wept, like 
 some gentle child chidden by one whom it loved, and then suddenly the sunshine 
 burst from out the murky sky, and a bright beam, fresh from Heaven, fell upon her 
 face. She smiled — smiled as she was wont to do ere one thought of wrong crossed 
 the radiant purity of a soul that, as yet, knew but little of vice; and then she rose 
 gently, and replaced those memorabilia of the past in the drawer from whence she 
 had taken them. She felt very happy, and, with a soft and gentle, wife-like step, 
 she crept down the stairs which she had ascended a guilty thing in heart, to meet 
 her husband, and the words which hovered upon her lips were, " Simon, dear Simon, 
 will you forgive me 1" 
 
 Yes ; there was yet another chance of redemption ; yet another chance ,of the 
 most frightful evils being avoided, and all being well again in the jeweller's house. 
 But surely some evil and malignant destiny was at work to blight and render nuga- 
 tory all that was good in the disposition of Prudence Langdale. Never, surely, 
 before had such a combination of circumstances occurred to force, as it were, a 
 human being to wrong as now assailed her. 
 
 Even while those pearly drops of genuine feeling stood in her eyes, even while 
 yet her heart was beating with the highest and the holiest emotions, evil for- 
 tune was playing a prank which at once crushed all her better feelings and aspira- 
 tions, and threw her back again to destruction. 
 
 Alas, poor Prudence ! and alas, poor Simon Langdale ! you are both intent upon 
 cross purposes ; and yet both wishing for the happiness of each other. 
 
 We shall see now what it was that turned the current of genuine feeling from the 
 proper course in which it had begun to flow in the bosom of Prudence Langdale. 
 We shall see quickly how it was that in an instant, as if by a touch from the wand 
 of some fell enchanter, these better feelings were crushed, and her heart beeame sad 
 and withered as regards its duties, while she began to consider that to set the holiest 
 vows she had ever made at naught, was but a piece of self-defence, such as any 
 woman might aspire to. 
 
 In reaching the warehouse, as Simon Langdale loved better to call it than the 
 shop, she had to pass across from the foot of the staircase to a door opening from 
 the passage, and, as she so passed, the whispered consultation of two persons met 
 her ears, close to the private door of the house, and turning her eyes in that direc- 
 tion, she observed, to her amazement, and probably, too, not a little to her con- 
 sternation likewise, her husband in close conference with what appeared to be, by 
 the contour of the figure, as she could see her but dimly, a young and interesting 
 female. Mrs. Langdale paused, and, for a moment, her Breath almost forsook her. 
 
 Who could this be ? she asked herself, hurriedly, and then she drew back, as any 
 wife might do, to note more, and listen to the conference if she could. 
 
 " Hush J Not so loud, my dear," said Simon Langdale. " My wife's at home.' 
 
 " The .villain !" said Mrs. Langdale. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 171 
 
 " I'm sorry you came at such a juncture/' added the jeweller ; " for if she were 
 to see you, she really might suspect that something was going on, and Heaven knows 
 what she might do." 
 
 " Suspect !" whispered Mr?. Langdale ; "and well I may, when suspicion is a cer- 
 tainty. Good God ! does he think I'm a fool V* 
 
 " Now, my dear," added Simon Langdale, * be off with you at once ; we shall 
 get into some scrape. There now— there now— come now, don't laugh." — " But 
 I can't help laughing, sir," said the girl, with a twitter. 
 
 " Why, you little saucy minx, any one, to see you, would think it was an 
 intrigue." 
 
 " Would they indeed ?" said Mrs. Langton, as she drew back towards the kitchen 
 stairs ; " what a mistake that would be. Oh, Simon Langdale ! Simon Langdale ! has 
 it come to this ? But I'll go and tear her eyes from her head before she leaves the 
 
 No. 22. 
 
168 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 .xjuse. She shall walk out of that passage in fragments, or I'm not a living 
 woman. Yet, no, no ; I'll pretend to know nothing ; to have seen nothing ; to sus- 
 pect nothing ; and I'll go to the ball, and I'll run off with the first man that asks 
 me, anywhere. I've found him out now ; the snake in the grass, the spotted 
 leopard ! and he, too, to pretend to be so particular ; he to pretend to be so choice, 
 that I mustn't even go to the court ball. Oh, the wretch — the wretch ! Here's a 
 discovery! I'll — I'll— no, 1 won't. Now she's going; he speaks lower, and I 
 cannot hear what he says ; but he gives ber money, I hear the chink of it. He 
 laughs and she laughs, too. Vengeance ! vengeance V 
 
 The private door was opened, and the girl slipped out. Mrs. Langdale hid her- 
 self completely from the observation of her husband by going two steps down to- 
 wards the kitchen, and she saw him turn and rub his hands with the greatest of 
 glee. 
 
 " Ha! ha!" he said; " I rather think I'm managing this business nicely. I 
 would not that Prudence should have the slightest suspicion of what's going on for 
 worlds ; there's no knowing what she would think or say. However, it's all right, 
 and when she does know of it, she'll have a surprise, that's all. Ha, ha ! little she 
 suspects, after all her toimenting me about this ball, what's going on. That's a very 
 nice, tity little girl that. The idea of her laughing over it ; I don't see anything 
 to laugh at. It's a regular sort of thing, and, surely, if I think nothing of it, she 
 needn't. I, a married man, and holding a respectable position, as I do, in the 
 world — but that's the worst of these young girls ; I always find them so volatile— 
 i they'll laugh at any little thing." 
 
 And so Simon Langdale passed into his warehouse. 
 
 " Little thing P said Mrs. Langdale, as she re-appeared in the passage. " So 
 this is a little thing, is it, Simon Langdale, and you really think little of it? Oh, 
 how dreadfully are my eyes opened ! A man old enough, too, to be everybody's 
 father. Oh, good gracious ! good gracious ! it's enough to turn one to stone. And 
 he sets up for morality, too; the man who thinks it wrong , for his wife to go 
 to the court ball. His only objection to them young girls is, that they laugh at any 
 little thing. I'll have the jewels now. The hypocrite ! the arch hypocrite ! the 
 villain ! to deceive me so, after I had stooped to wed him ; and even now, too, 
 when I was going to tell him that I had sacrificed my own inclination to give him 
 satisfaction. Oh, Sir Charles Hastings— Sir Charles Hastings ! what a different 
 man are you. If my fate had happened to let me know you while yet I was free to 
 become your own, how happy should 1 have been ; but all is lost now, all is lost. I 
 will go to the ball, and never again will I set foot within this house. Farewell — 
 farewell to it for ever ! and now for the diamonds. I have no scruples now, Simon 
 Langdale ; I follow your example. You think nothing of it ; shall I think anything 
 of anything, when my husband thinks nothing of something V 
 
 Alas! another mistake —another fatal mistake! Why did not Mrs. Langdale 
 rush forward when she saw this clandestine interview going on between her hus- 
 band and the young lady who would laugh ? Why did she put up with such a 
 breach of her matrimonial rights and privileges? Why did she not, as ninety-nine 
 wives out of one hundred would have done, at once, by force of arms, assert her ex- 
 clusive property in the jeweller? if she had done so, all would yet have been well ; 
 for, to let the reader into a secret — we confidentially let our readers into all our 
 secrets — that very young iady, concerning whom Mrs. Langdale considered she 
 had such cause for disquiet, was neither more nor less than a mantuamaker's assist- 
 ant, who came to take Simon Langdale's orders for a dress, which he intended, on 
 that very evening, to present his wife with, ostensibly to go to the court ball in ; 
 but really to receive the visitors whom he had invited and expected to oblige him 
 with their presence. 
 
 " .Now I have done it," said Simon Langdale ; and he never spoke a truer word 
 in his life ; " I'm quite certain, from what I know of the real generous disposition 
 of Prudence, that, when 1 tell her she may go to the court ball if she likes, and that 
 I give her that permission in consequence of my affection for her, she will imme- 
 diately hesitate, and say no to the proposition ; so that we shall pass as happy an 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 171 
 
 evening, ay, an happier one, than ever we passed in our lives, together. I am cer- 
 tain of it, quite certain ; and this very dress which I will offer her, as cne to go to 
 the court ball in, which the little laughing slut of a girl promises to bring in a 
 couple of hours, she shall grace her own home with." 
 
 Simon Langdale rubbed his hands again. He felt quite a happy man over the 
 conviction of his own cleverness ; and how he then laughed as he suddenly said to 
 himself, 
 
 " What an idea ! If she'd only seen me talking to that pretty little dressmaker's 
 girl, I shouldn't wonder if she'd been jealous, actually jealous. Ha ! ha ! I — I— 
 nave talked to dressmaking girls in my day; that was a time when I was a young, 
 handsome, sprightly fellow, and many a pair of fine eyes wept for me ; many a 
 young creature, I am afraid, had her prospects blighted ; but I can't marry 
 everybody, that's for certain, and so I married none, until, I fear, too late in life 
 for happiness ; well, well, I must make the best of it." 
 
 " Ch-ch-ch-ch-change for a guinea/' said Ben, who had been for about five 
 minutes in the counting-house, without the jeweller knowing it. 
 
 "The devil!" said Simon Langdale. " How long have you been here?" — 
 " Since y-y-y-you s-said the girls were bl-bi-bl-blighted." 
 
 " That's very awkward," said the jeweller, ; " now this fellow will go blabbing 
 all over the neighbourhood. What a fool I've been, to be sure. Here, Ben, my 
 boy." — " Y-y-yes," said Ben. 
 
 " Here's a guinea." — " I — I — see it," said Ben. 
 
 " And you may keep it, too — mum's the word ; don't you go stammering and 
 stuttering about what you heard me say, you know ; all nonsense, Ben — only 
 something out of a play, you know — but I don't want it repeated — you under- 
 stand me? — here's a guinea — I don't want it repeated." — " M-ra-m-m-raura as 
 an oyster,' 1 said Ben ; " n-n-n-nothing couldn't be clearer — that makes two." 
 
 "Two what?"— "Two g-g-g-g-g-g- guineas." 
 
 ** Two guineas ! why, how came you by two guineas ? I have only given you 
 one." — "N-n-n-no; but the gentleman that cc-c-came when you wasn't at 
 home, and k-k~k-k- kissed missus, gave me another, and that makes t-t-t-t-two." 
 
 "The devil!" said Simon Langdale, and over he went, with a three-legged 
 stool upon which he was sitting, into the corner of the counting-house. 
 
 At this momenta hand was introduced through the small opening of the glass 
 door, and a tug at Ben's skirt ensued, and such a tug, too, that it dragged him 
 fairly out into the warehouse, where helound himself face to face with Mrs. Lang- 
 dale, who said, hurriedly, — 
 
 " Ben, there's a guinea for you ; don't say that Sir Charles Hastings was 
 here to-day." 
 
 And then away she shot up the staircase. Ben looked after her with a stare, 
 of amazement. 
 
 *' It r-r r-r-r-rains guineas," he said; "what a r-r- remarkably odd th-th- 
 thing ; everybody g-g-g-gives me a g-g-guinea to do nothing." 
 
 "Ben, Ben," cried Simon Langdale from the counting-house, "Ben, you 
 rascal, where are you ?"■ — " C-c-c- coming." said Ben, and he again made his 
 appearance before the infuriated jeweller. 
 
 " You atrocious vUlain ! you scamp ! tell me — tell me, immediately, who was it 
 that was here — and — and must I pronounce the horrible word — kissed my wife? 
 Tell me, directly, and tell me truly ; and, if you tell me, without hesitation, there's 
 another guinea for you." — " Th-th-thankye," said Ben, " I've been very 
 p-p-p p poor for a long while ; but it's along t-t-t-t-t- turning that hasn't a 
 lane." 
 
 He held out his hand, and Simon Langdale put another guinea into it, and 
 then, Ben, coolly pocketing it, said, — 
 
 " It's only a bit of f-f-f-f-f-fun, that's all."—" What's a bit of fun? Answer, 
 you scoundrel, immediately." f 
 
 " There's nobody b-b-b-b-b~been — nobody k-k-k-kissed nobody." — "You vil- 
 lain ! do you mean to tell me that you invented that tale just for the purpose of 
 
172 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 harrowing my feelings, and producing in me a state of dreadful excitement," such 
 as I never experienced in my life before?" 
 " Y-y-y-y-yes," said Ben. 
 
 The jeweller made a rush at him, but Ben, it appeared, was aware that guineas 
 were not to be coined for nothing, and he seemed to be fully prepared for "any 
 contingency that might arise therefrom. With the greatest dexterity he avoided 
 his master, and got out into the warehouse, the only result of the jeweller's 
 demonstration being that he put his hand through the glass door of his counting- 
 house, cutting the bridge of his nose severely ; but Ben had vanished. 
 
 "You scoundrel cried Simon, " 111 catch you yet. The idea of playing upon 
 my feelings in such a manner, and upon such a subject, too. And yet, what, 
 after all,, if it be true? what if— no, no, it cannot be — it cannot be; I will not 
 suspect Prudence of being so guilty^ She is heedless, that I will say of her, and, 
 perhaps, at times frivolous; but she would not, I'm certain she would not behave 
 in the manner attributed to her by that rascal Ben. And yet, and yet something 
 must have put it into his head ; he could not altogether invent it. I'm in a 
 perfect agony. Shall I doubt her? No, no, perish suspicion ; she is vain, she is 
 wilful, and full of strange conceits, but she is not guilty ; I'll stake my life upon 
 her truth. No, no, I'll turn all my attention to making what secret prepara- 
 tions I can for my guests." 
 
 Simon Langdale intended to keep up the secret to the last moment, before he 
 would let his wife know the agreeable surprise he intended for her ; besides, the 
 dress had not come home, and therefore he could not very well startle her as he 
 intended to do until he actually had it in his possession. 
 
 He had told the guests to come at a particular hour, and he had begged them, 
 one and all, to be extremely punctual ; his motive being, that it would be quite 
 a fine treat to see them all come in with a rush, and astonish Mrs. Langdale, at 
 the very moment, perhaps, too, when she was admiring the dress, and had flung 
 her arms about him, as he hoped and expected she would, crying, — 
 
 " Simon, dear Simon, I will not go the ball.'' 
 
 " Ah, that will be capital !" he said to himself, with glee ; " for I will then 
 say to her, ' My dear Prudence, if you will not go to the ball at the palace, 
 another ball shall come to you, at your own house ; a ball that you shall enjoy 
 thoroughly and entirely, because you will find that you can enjoy it without 
 reproval.' And then I fancy I see her delighted looks, and how the guests will 
 come thronging in, and how she will laugh and cry by turns as she puts on the 
 really handsome dress, a twenty guinea one, as she actually said she would 
 have, to grace her own home with. And I feel quite certain that to-night will 
 be the commencement of a new era in her existence, and that we shall enjoy 
 happiness for the future such as we have scarcely ever yet aspired to." 
 
 ******* 
 
 And what was Mrs. Langdale about now ? Had she made up her mind com- 
 pletely to get rid of all the better aspirations of her nature, and really carry out 
 to its full extent those measures which had been recommended to her by one 
 whose motive she ought to have suspected, and upon whose most impassioned 
 words she ought not tor a moment to have relied 1 
 
 Alas ! alas ! personal vanity had failed in leading her better nature astray ; 
 the love of display, and what is called by the world pleasure, had faded before 
 a flush of better feelings, and she might have been rescued, but that the most 
 fell and terrific passion which can attack poor human nature came to the aid of 
 the bold, the bad, and the designing Sir Charles Hastings, and accomplished for 
 him what all his persuasions, all his good looks, all his flattering and insidious 
 addresses would have failed to accomplish. 
 
 Jealousy ! yes, that monster r< which doth mock the meat it feeds on," had 
 taken possession of the soul of Prudence Langdale. 
 
 The little episode in the passage of the house, between her husband and the 
 girl who would laugh, and whose neat and pretty little figure haunted her 
 imagination like some hideous spectre, concluded the business, and at once made 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 173 
 
 morality, generosity, and good feeling kick the beam ; while in the preponderating 
 scale were heaped now all a woman's vengeful feelings. 
 
 Yes, she was jealous of the man whom she had affected to despise ; and, per- 
 haps, never till that moment of agonised reflection had she really known how 
 much she loved him ; never until that moment had she felt that he had entitled 
 himself to her respect as well as her affections; and now, like some wilful, way- 
 ward child, she felt the full value of that which she had cast from her, that 
 which she could not help feeling she had played with until she had lost. 
 
 " It is too late now," she said, as she pressed her hands in agony upoR her 
 brow ; " all is lost now. It may be my fault in a measure ; I will not, cannot 
 say I have been the wife I ought to be to Simon Langdale ; but still, he should 
 not, under the same roof with me, have brought another that he loved better ; 
 th&t was cruel, very cruel. I may be weak, I may be vain, I may be foolish, 
 but — but— if he had chosen to have looked beneath those superficial feelings, he 
 might have found some capacities and some thoughts that would have repaid 
 him for all his troubles. He who seeks for jewels in the bosom of the earth, 
 must be content to cast aside much dross and worthless material, ere he feasts 
 his eyes upon the priceless gem he pants for." 
 
 Then came a gush of tears, and then for the time the mental struggle was 
 over. 
 
 " The jewels ! the jewels !" she said, and a marked change came across her 
 countenance ; " I must have the jewels. I will ruffle it with the best and bravest 
 of them. They shall not see that I feel too much ; high mirth shall hold its 
 revels in the chamber of my brain, and — and— Simon Langdale shall find, too 
 late, that he had a treasure which he cast from him, and which, cunning lapidary 
 as he is, he knew not the value of. I think I'm a little mad. I wish that I were 
 dead. Yet, no, no ; I've a woman's heart to feel resentment ; yes, he shall not 
 find me the poor melancholy thing soft pining women will become sometimes 
 when they find themselves deceived, and that the man they loved has forsaken 
 them for another. Loved ! loved I said I — I do not love him. The jewels ! the 
 jewels !" 
 
 In another instant the precious casket was in her hands, those hands which 
 Simon Langdale had so often held between his rougher palms, and gazed on 
 with delight. The twilight was softly creeping on, deep shadows were stealing 
 across the earth, not the shadows of particular objects, but the giant sombre 
 mantle of night. The time of appointment was near at hand. 
 
 "An hour after sunset," she said, "an hour after sunset, that is the time; 
 I will go at once. This house is hateful to me, its very atmosphere breathes 
 desolation. Farewell, Simon Langdale, farewell for ever. Be happy, if you can, 
 with her who has usurped my place in your affections ; let her sit, if she so 
 pleases, on the throne of your heart's idolatry, I shall not be here to trouble you 
 with even a vision of the past, and — and — you may forget me as you list." 
 
 She crept down the staircase, and she shuddered like a guilty thing as she 
 went. The narrow passage was traversed — she gained the door — a choking sob 
 rose to her throat, and then she was in the street — she took one glance at the 
 house which she felt that she should never see again ; and then, with a seeming 
 indifference, that hid a world of agony, she walked to the place of rendezvous 
 with Sir Charles Hastings. 
 
 There is a coach with emblazoned arms upon its panels— it stands in St. PaulV 
 churchyard, nearly opposite to the door of a fashionable mercer, who has come 
 so repeatedly to the threshold, and bowed so low, in honour of the very equipage, 
 that he has given himself a pain in his back. 
 
 There is one individual in the coach— a cavalier attired in a costly suit— his 
 manner is fidgetty and impatient — it is evident that expectation and a dread of 
 disappointment are struggling fiercely at his heart ; ever and anon he looks wist- 
 fully from the carriage window, while deeper and deeper come the shades of even- 
 ing, until his looking must be in vain, and yet, still he looks. 
 
 How uneasy he grows— now on one seat and then upon another«-he endeavours 
 
174 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 to throw himself into a pleasant attitude, but the mind forbids repose to the 
 body, and in vain he tries to be serene. 
 
 " She will not come," he muttered—" she will not come ; something has oc- 
 curred to prevent her — some cursed piece of conjugal explanation, or some acci- 
 dental discovery on the part of the husband has prevented her. Yet, yet — no, 
 no— why should I say so ? — an hour after sunset is the time, and I've no right to 
 expect her yet. Why am I so fidgetty and anxious? Why ! because the prize I seek 
 is a great one— the stakes I play for, heavy. I think that she will come ; but 
 if she should not— well, well ; if she should not, I have but failed, and that's all." 
 
 He flung himself back in the corner as he spoke, and seemed now to have 
 made up his mind to wait, with more patience than he had hitherto manifested, 
 the advent of some circumstance in which he was largely interested. 
 
 Our readers need not be told that this was Sir Charles Hastings waiting for 
 the jeweller's wife. Now he was still for a certain time, until suddenly he started, 
 when St. Paul's clock struck the hour. 
 
 " Time, time, it is time," he said ; and then, almost as he spoke, a hand was 
 laid upon the carriage window, and he knew what hand it was, although his 
 conscience at the moment did not smite hirn : it was the hand of the deluded 
 wife, of that young vivid thinking creature who was now about taking that 
 irretrievable step which was to place a barrier for ever between her and 
 happiness. 
 
 For Sir Charles Hastings to open the door from within, and to spring from the 
 carriage, was the work of a moment. 
 
 "Dear, dear Prudence/' he said; " you have come. Oh, what joy is this! I 
 know not what to say to you or how to speak my thanks." — " Hush ! say 
 nothing," she exclaimed, with a startling vehemence that had something hys- 
 terical about it ; '* say nothing, Sir Charles — to the ball— to the ball !" 
 
 " Yes, assuredly; but first to Madame Macaw's, and- and — and, dearest, tell 
 me ?."— " What — what ? You hesitate 1" 
 
 « No — but have you the diamonds V — " They are here V 
 
 " Brave girl ; now this is nobly done — ye have achieved your own happiness ; 
 how you will shine resplendent to-night — vieing with all the court beauties, and 
 shewing them what nature can do for one of her favoured children when she 
 pleases — nay, sit by me." 
 
 This was said, because Prudence threw herself into the opposite seat of the 
 carriage to that which Sir Charles occupied. He saw that she shuddered, and 
 that she was in a state of great mental excitement. 
 
 " Come now, Prudence," he said ; " think nothing of this, — with some men 
 you might feel sensations of alarm, but you know you can trust to my honour. 
 You shall be the beauty of the court ball, and then you shall return to your own 
 home again." — " No," said Prudence Langdale ; "never." 
 
 <c What ! never?" — " Never ! I shall.never look upon that home again." 
 
 " Not look upon it again ; why, you don't mean to say you are serious ?" — 
 " Sir Charles Hastings, I am maddened. I've left my husband's roof, and left 
 it for ever. It matters not why or wherefore. It is little to any one else what 
 mental agony has driven me to such a state. You owe my presence here, if that 
 presence be any gratification to you, to a circumstance you know nothing of, and 
 which it is needless for me to attempt to explain. I am wretched." 
 
 « Wretched., dear Prudence, and going to the court ball — wretched, with the 
 certainty of gleaming before the eyes of royalty in a dress of blush rose colour 
 satin, and resplendent with the jewels of one of the most ancient houses in the 
 realm ! Nay, you are jesting, or you have forgotten all the felicity that awaits you." 
 
 " I have forgotten nothing ; my curse is, that I remember too much, — if 1 
 could forget who and what I am — if I could forget the events of the last four- j 
 and-twenty hours, I might be happy ; but I cannot. Memory is the plague-spot I 
 that turns the Eden of my imagination to a sterile, barren waste." 
 
 '* And what has happened to produce so desponding a state of mind, dear 
 Prudence V — " Call me not by that epithet." 
 
 / 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 175 
 
 " Indeed !" — ''It has lost its power to charm. I will go to the ball — I will 
 smile — I will dance — I will seem to enjoy all that there is there of the magnificent 
 and beautiful ; but, while I do so, I shall feel as drear and sad as a corpse at 
 some high festivity, unbidden and repulsive." 
 
 " Oh !" thought Sir Charles, " some matrimonial fracas, I'll be bound." 
 
 The carriage suddenly stopped — My dear Prudence," he said, " we are at 
 Madame Macaw's, and now, before we alight, tell me, candidly and honestly, are 
 you serious in your intention not to return to your husband r" — " I shall never 
 look upon his face again." 
 
 " Prudence — Prudence Langdale, could you love another? Will you be mine 
 instead of a brief sojourn in my company this night, and then home again ? Do 
 you feel that you could grace, with your rare presence, all my leisure ? I love 
 you — I love you, Prudence Langdale S" — "Hush! you can, Sir Charles Hast- 
 ings, when the ball is over, do me a great favour." 
 
 " Indeed !"-—<« Yes— kill me." 
 
 " Kill you ! sacrifice such a piece of rarity and beauty ! Oh ! Prudence, Pru- 
 dence ! what has happened to produce such a feeling of despair in your 
 mind? Say that you will be mine — say that you can love me — that you can, 
 and you will, lend a charm to every hour that I can pass with you, and you 
 shall not live to regret making the acquaintance of — of one whom you may know 
 better shortly." 
 
 " I am maddened. I care not what I say — I care not what I do. Yes, yes — 
 one moment— one moment for thought — my home — my husband! It may be 
 but a passing fancy — a fancy to which T may have goaded him by my own want 
 of due affection. Spare me — spare me !" 
 
 " Ha ! jealous," said Sir Charles. — t: Yes, jealous ; my husband played me 
 false. Can you wonder, now, that T have cast aside all womanly virtue, and 
 have become the reckless thing I am ? Can you wonder, now, that I proclaim 
 myself the wretch 1 am ; and yet pause a moment — one moment for holier, bet- 
 ter thoughts." 
 
 " No," said Sir Charles ; " think of nothing but the love, the tenderness, the 
 devotion of one who lives but in your smiles; of one who knows no joy but 
 basking in the sunshine of your beauty ; of one who looks upon those charms as 
 the dearest recompense Heaven can give him, or earth bestow. Forsake the sor- 
 did man who knows not how to appreciate the treasure he has got. Be mine, 
 dear Prudence — be mine, and mine only. I do declare, by all that's sacred, that 
 I love you — that J adore yoa !" 
 
 ,e Do not say so. I am as one forsaken. You had better leave me." — " Now, 
 Prudence, you do yourself a great injustice. Leave you, forsooth, that would I 
 not for worlds. But tell me — will you repay my fond affection by an answering 
 love of even a tithe of its amount ? Tell me that you can be happy with me — 
 tell me that you will lend a charm to my future existence, and I will then confess 
 to you, that when first I sought you, it was merely your beauty that caught my 
 wandering fancy ; but now a higher, nobler influence charms me, and I see in 
 you all of excellence that shall win me back again to a world I have nearly re- 
 nounced." 
 
 " It matters little," she observed ; " I am an outcast, now ; ray husband will 
 find a solace in the arms of another— he has already found it." — <f Then you 
 can," exclaimed Sir Charles — "you will love me/' 
 
 She no longer resisted his embrace, but allowed him to drag her with gentle 
 violence to the seat on which he sat, and to rain kisses upon her lips. 
 
 " Do you wish now," he said, " to go to the ball, or shall we, with this better 
 understanding, repair to a country seat of mine, not very far from town, where 
 you will be the idol of my heart ?" 
 
 She spoke not — she only wept, and, half fainting, she sunk upon his breast. 
 He lowered one of the windows of the carriage, and gave some directions ; the 
 horses were turned, and, at a rapid pace, the vehicle traversed along Oxford- 
 street. 
 
176 NEWGATE. 
 
 The night had come on most rapidly — the chaste and gentle tints of twilight 
 deepened into the pale and black shades of actual night. The few miserable 
 lamps with which London then was lighted, shed their weak and sickly ray but 
 for a few paces round the spot on which they were situated. 
 
 Oxford-street was not then the bustling mart of commerce that it is now. 
 Since that evening on which Sir Charles Hastings' carriage conducted the poor, 
 lost Prudence Langdale up the ancient thoroughfare, vast changes and mutations 
 have taken place ; and if either she or her deceiver could look up from their 
 graves, they would not know again the place they then were passing. 
 
 But little did either of tbem care for any dangers that might arise from flood 
 or field. Little did she who had now flown from all which could or ought to ren- 
 der life desirable, care or dream of local objects. She had given up all in the 
 wild excitement — the delirium of the moment, and never again could she expect 
 the light of joy to beam from her eyes as it had once beamed— never again could 
 she look around her with any feeling but one of desolation. 
 
 But yet there was something exquisitely touching in the manner with which 
 she now clung to him for whom she had abandoned the whole world — to him for 
 whom she had fallen from her high estate. 
 
 Alas! alas! how ill would that title of Proud Prudence now become that 
 guilty wife, who had given way to the tempter even sufficiently to encourage him 
 to 'believe he had all but triumphed in its full sense. 
 
 The top of Oxford- street was gained, and then the lighting ceased entirely. 
 The carriage, with its occupants, passed through Tyburn-gate, and then it plunged 
 into what was then the deep obscurity of the Uxbridge-road, for except an oc- 
 casional gleam of light from the windows of a mansion or of a cottage, there was 
 nothing to guide them on their route. 
 
 Whether or not it ever formed part of the original plan of Sir Charles Hastings 
 thus to elope with the jeweller's wife, must remain one of those mysteries known 
 only to himself and the all-seeing eye of Heaven. The probability is, that he 
 had not anticipated such a finale to the adventure ; but that, inflamed by the 
 charms of the once innocent being by his side, and pluming himself upon that 
 heartlessness which is by so many miscalled gallantry and spirit, he could not resist 
 the opportunity of effecting the seduction, when it . presented itself to him as it 
 were unsolicited. 
 
 And what cared that heartless profligate for the ruin he would make ; what 
 cared he for desecrating that purest of heavenly shrines, an innocent and virtuous 
 woman's heart, provided he achieved his unhallowed purposes of robbery and 
 conquest ? 
 
 " Oh ! whither go we — whither go we ?" she said, faintly. " We are leaving 
 the town ; all is darkness." — "Nay ; be assured," said Sir "Charles, exerting his 
 most winning manner — " be assured that you have nothing to fear, for am not 
 I with you ; and so you can really love me, Prudence V* 
 
 " There is a well spring of affection," she said, " ever gushing at my heart 
 another has taught me to hate." — (t This, Prudence, is but an equivocal kind of 
 answer to my question. I do not wish to found a knowledge of your affection 
 upon the fact of a quarrel with your husband, which I can well perceive has 
 taken place. That other, whom you say you have been taught to hate, can be 
 none but he. What has he done, fair and beauteous Prudence, that has produced 
 such a revulsion of feeling in your mind concerning him ?" 
 
 " He has done enough to turn the heart he might for ever have kept his own, 
 away from him. Question me not ; let it suffice that I am yours ; oh ! that I could 
 bury the past in the completest oblivion." — " Be it so, dear Prudence ; let me ask 
 you, most sincerely, is it for myself you love me, or is it because you believe me to 
 be graced by a title and placed in that situation of life which will enable me to sur- 
 round you with all that is rare and all that is beautiful V 
 
 " 1 know nothing," she said ; " I think of nothing, but that I fly for ever from 
 Simon Langdale." — " Indeed ; and think you nothing of this little casket of fair 
 gems V 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 177 
 
 * Ah! the jewels, the jewels !° she cried, suddenly recalling their existence ; 
 " they must be returned — returned at once." — " Nay, not so fast ; although I am 
 fain to admit yourself to be the fairest jewel of the lot, 1 do not feel inclined 
 hastily to dispossess myself of those glittering baubles. 5 ' 
 
 " But they must go back. What will your aunt think ? — what will Simon 
 Langdale do ?" — " Why, dear Prudence, with regard to that aunt of mine, she 
 may think what she likes, because the little incident of the relationship happens 
 to be one of those elegant fictions which enabled you to perform your part in the little 
 plot with far greater force, and truth, and energy, than otherwise you could have 
 thrown into it." 
 
 "And you are not related to the countess?" — " No further than that, as being 
 one of the great family of mankind, I consider that we have all a sort of cousin- 
 ship, the one with the other, near or remote, according to the peculiar circumstances 
 
 No. 23 
 
178 
 
 NEWGATE 
 
 of each case ; and, at all events, I will stretch a point, and make free with those 
 jewels which lie there so snugly beside you." 
 
 " God of heaven !" exclaimed Mrs. Langdale, clasping her hands, " then I've 
 
 been deceived ; and you— you " — " Allow me to finish for you. I am not a 
 
 Sir Charles at all ; but I am, unquestionably; a gentleman by birth, and my pur- 
 suits are of a gentlemanly character. I am in independent circumstances, and 
 consider each rich man I meet as steward of part of my estates, and collector of 
 of some of my rentals. D — n it! what's that?" 
 
 Owing to the obscurity of the night, the coachman had unwittingly driven 
 the carriage too near to an ancient ditch, which runs by Notting-hi!l, and the 
 wheels on the near side became completely immersed in blackened mud, from 
 which the alarmed horses in vain struggled to draw it. 
 
 Uttering a succession of oaths, strikingly at variance with the courtly language 
 with which he had been in the habit of addressing her, Prudence Langdale's com- 
 panion jumped from the vehicle on the off side. Sho did not follow him ; but 
 a sudden thought seized her. 
 
 " I am betrayed — lam betrayed !" she said ; "insulted, dishonoured, ruined, 
 and betrayed ! He shall not reap the fruit of this most dreadful plot. I see it 
 all — it was the jewels — yes, the jewels. He may kill me, but he shall not say he 
 was successful ; and oh I would that this deed were sufficient to tempt him to 
 take ray life at once, and so end miseries almost too great for human endurance." 
 
 The window next to the ditch was down ; to seize upon the casket, open it, 
 and scatter its glistening contents into the blackened mud, was, to Prudence 
 Langdale, the work of a moment — the frenzied, infuriated work of a maddened, 
 disappointed woman ; and then she placed the casket by her side again, closed but 
 worthless. 
 
 Sir Charles, for so, for the want of another name, we must, still call him for 
 the present, by the assistance which he gave, succeeded in extricating the car- 
 riage from the ditch, and then he returned to his fair companion, saying, as lie 
 flung himself again by her side, — 
 
 " Do not be alarmed — all is well.'"—" Yes ; all is well," she said. " Whither 
 would you take me ?" 
 
 As far as Hounslow ; I've a sort of villa there, which I hope will meet your 
 approbation. To be sure, it is not,|>o^rroice a house as that I will provide for you, 
 and not surrounded with those lurries which eventually shall be yours."' — "I 
 m content," she said. 
 
 The carriage rattled on, and in desultory conversation, supported almost en- 
 tirely by Sir Charles, the time seemed to pass quickly, until it halted on a bleak 
 and barren spot, some short distance from which were some clustering trees. 
 
 <( We are at home, dear Prudence/' said Sir Charles ; " give me the gems before 
 vou alight."- — " Take them," she said, and she handed him the casket. 
 
 A rough-looking man approached the carriage-window with a flambeau in his 
 hand. 
 
 " 'Tis well," cried Sir Charles, as he sprang down the steps; and, probably 
 actuated more by the caprice of the moment than by design, he pressed the 
 spring lock of the casket, and opened it. 
 
 If a shot at that moment had entered his breast, he could not have been more 
 staggered than he was at the frightful fact which the empty state of the casket 
 presented to him. His look became perfectly demoniac; and then, before he 
 could utter a word, Prudence Langdale, with a wild, hysterical shriek, cried, — 
 
 " Yes ; there is your reward in that empty casket — you thought it stored with 
 wealth — behold it! Villain as you are, you are caught in the snare you wove 
 for me ! Kill me, now, if you will ; I care not, for there is nothing in this w T orld 
 I would more willingly part with than my life." 
 
 She fell back in the carriage in a state of perfect insensibility, after uttering 
 these few words, while the discomfited villain stood with the casket in his hand, 
 as if he had been turned to a statue on the spot. 
 
 * * * - * * 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 179 
 
 *» Hush! don't say a word — don't make a noise," said Simon Langdale, as the 
 Waddleskins, wealthy furriers from the Minories, arrived first of the party he had 
 invited to give his wife so agreeable a surprise. " Ha! ha! — you will laugh when 
 I really tell you — and you don't suspect it, I am sure — that Mrs. Langdale knew 
 no more of this party, than the babe unborn." 
 
 ** Well, but," said old Waddleskin, who was a very matter-of-fact sort of man — 
 "well, but, Langdale, you know — — " — "Stop! I know what you are going to 
 say — that you don't like mysteries, and all that sort of thing ; but I can give you 
 such excellent reasons for this, that I'm certain you will come into my way of 
 feeling:." 
 
 "Well, of course, Langdale, you know your own family affairs best." — "Of 
 course — of course ; come in — come into the counting-house. I want you all to 
 assemble there, and for Mrs. Langdale to know nothing about it till you're all 
 here. Good God! here are the Marrowfats and the Binkes's; how punctual 
 they are to be sure — capital— capital ! Ben, you rascal, why don't you attend 
 to the door ?" 
 
 "You be d-d-d-d-mned !" said Ben ; " I've been 1-1-1-1-iquidating one of 
 the guineas. The world's a p-p-p-p lanet, only it goes r-r-r-r-ound faster than 
 usual. How do you do, marm ?" — ■" Gracious !'' cried Langdale ; "he's drunk, 
 and laid hold of Mrs. Marrowfat." 
 
 Mrs. Marrowfat uttered a faint scream, and sat down on the floor ; whereupon, 
 Ben rolled over her, and they both lay sprawling together. 
 
 Why, his feet," said old Marrowfat, " have taken to stuttering as well as his 
 tongue. Why, mother, can't you leave the boy alone?" — " Yes," said Mrs. 
 Marrowfat, recovering, and collaring Ben ; "when I've had his life, 1 will." 
 
 With great difficulty, Ben was rescued from the grasp of the infuriated lady, 
 and set upon his feet again ; after which, he swore that he considered himself as 
 g-g-g-g-g g-ood as the Lord Mayor, and that he wouldn't be g g-g-g-ammoned 
 by anybody, and otherwise made himself so obstreperous, that Simon Langdale, 
 with the assistance of some of his guests, insisted upon pushing him into a closet 
 that stood on the staircase, just outside the warehouse-door, and locking him up. 
 
 But, somehow or other, the domestic affairs of the jeweller seemed sadly awry; 
 for no sooner was the closet door opened to execute this feat, than the pious servant- 
 of-all-work rolled out of it on all fours — thus affording an irrefragible proof of the 
 fact, that, finding out something was wrong in the economy of the household, she 
 had got in there to listen. 
 
 " Confound them all!" said the jeweller; " I think everybody's mad and drunk 
 too. Why, what do you want here, you wretch?" 
 
 The guests laughed, as well they might, at this domestic fracas ; but Simon 
 Langdale did not see the joke of it, and was exceedingly irritated that his servants 
 should, at that particular juncture, have taken the opportunity to make themselves 
 so uncommonly disagreeable. 
 
 But then, as old Mr. Marrowfat told him, that's the very time that servants always 
 do commit themselves in some way. 
 
 " Come, now, Langdale, there's more knocks at your door ; let us know what your 
 mystery is. If we are to play a part in it, put us in a position to play it well." — 
 " Well, then, you must know," said Langdale, in a very confidential manner, 
 " that Prudence took quite a passion to go to the court ball that's held to-night, 
 and that we've had a great many arguments on the subject ; indeed, so many, that 
 we've almost quarrelled. But at last, although I have refused to let her go, I made 
 up my mind to conquer her by fair means instead of by foul ; so I've invited you 
 all here, and, while you are waiting below, I mean to go up stairs and speak to her 
 kindly, and tell her that if she really wishes to go, she may, and so overcome her by 
 gentleness, that, good soul as she is, I know she will tell me that she prefers re- 
 maining with me in all the dullness of my home, than taking advantage of my 
 generosity ; and when she says as much, I shall surprise her by showing helvthat 
 there is a merry party ready, and that we shall pass the evening all galore." 
 
 " Ha !" said old Marrowfat, " it's all very well, as far as it goes ; but, what i-f she 
 
180 NEWGATE. 
 
 says she's very much obliged to you, and that, if you'll be good enough to call a 
 coach, she'll be off directly f 
 
 Simon Langdale looked rather foolish. 
 
 u Why — why/' he said, " in that contingency it would be something like a 
 failure ; but I don't anticipate it. She's up stairs now moping, I'm certain she is, 
 and thinking of the royal ball that's coming on to-night." 
 
 Further expostulation was stopped by the arrival of other guests, so that by de- 
 grees Simon Langdale got into a state of great pleasurable excitement, for his 
 counting-house was crammed full ; and what with explaining to each new arrival 
 what he had done, and what he meant to do, and expatiating somewhat at large upon 
 his own cleverness — which, by-the-bye, nobody seemed thoroughly to see but him- 
 self — he quite astonished all who knew the regular, staid, and steady habits of 
 the man. 
 
 Some shook their heads, as if they thought this conduct of Simon Langdale's 
 ominous of something fearful which was about to happen ; others, again, tried to 
 look pleased, but it was a lamentable failure ; and, upon the whole, we are inclined 
 to think very few of his guests would have felt inclined to come at all, had they in 
 any way suspected they would have been made the cat's paws, so to speak, of his 
 domestic plots and contrivances. 
 
 And now all were present that he expected, and his uneasiness became very 
 great ; for, to tell the truth, he did feel a little surprise that the uproar in the 
 house, incidental to the arrival of so many persons, had not, somehow cr another, 
 reached the ears of Mrs. Langdale, and so induced her to come down stairs to see 
 what was really the matter. 
 
 But this might be mere accident. Probably she had heard nothing, and so sus- 
 pected nothing, he thought. 
 
 " Now, my good friends all," he said, " I am much obliged to you, and I have 
 but one more favour to request of you, which is, that you will remain i tie all of 
 you, till you hear me cough three times upon the staircase, and then that you will 
 come up stairs, in a body, to the room above, and present yourselves to Mrs. 
 Langdale." 
 
 The guests agreed to this proposal, although Simon' Langdale thought, consi- 
 dering that they were invited to be merry at his expense, some ©f them might have 
 agreed to it with a better grace than they did ; but, however, up stairs he went, 
 not much inclined to be hypercritical upon that subject, so long as everything else 
 turned out right, and that it would do so, he entertained no doubt. 
 
 Stealing softly up the stairs, and breathing hard with excitement as he went, 
 Simon Langdale proceeded to surprise his wile ; but, alas! as was said by seme in- 
 genious person, in reply to a Frenchman who told him that Napoleon had surprised 
 the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo — " Yes, my dear sir ; but then, you know, the 
 duke astonished him." — Simon Langdale might be said to be on the verge of such 
 a mental precipice as regards his wife. 
 
 But never a doubt entered into his mind, for a moment, that all would be well. 
 In faet, how could it be otherwise ? He knew Prudence too well, to doubt for a 
 moment that she would misconstrue his intended kindness. Again and again he 
 repeated to himself those words with which, during the last day or two, he had be- 
 guiled his better judgment, — 
 
 « She is a little vain, and a little flighty, but she is not guilty." 
 
 Now he reached the room where he expected to find her, but all was darkness. 
 
 " Not here — not here !" he cried ; " Prudence Langdale not here ! Prudence, 
 where are you? Why am I so nervous? Something's happened. Oh, no, no ! 
 nothing has happened. She is above — of course, she is above, and I ought to be 
 ashamed of this tremor. Has not everything succeeded just according to my own 
 wishes? Has not all fallen out just as 1 planned it? Her friends have come ; the 
 dress, which has cost me so much money, I have ready at hand. She is above — 
 of course, she is above." 
 
 There was, notwithstanding these words of consolation which he uttered to him- 
 self, a sickly and terrifying presentiment of something wrong tugging at the jeweller^ 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 181 
 
 heart, and, as he slowly ascended the staircase to the room above, he had to clutch 
 the balustrades for support, or he must have fallen. 
 
 <r Where is she — where is she ?" he kept saying. "All dark — all dark. Prudence 
 —Prudence ! No one answers. God of heaven ! can she have gone without my 
 permission ? Can it be that, after all, some diabolical plot of that woman Macaw 
 has been brought to a completion this evening, and — and — no ; the thought is too 
 terrific." 
 
 He now rushed into the room where stood the cabinet, from which we are aware 
 Mrs. Langdale had taken the jewels which had so much awakened the cupidity of 
 Sir Charles Hastings. 
 
 He did not discover his loss, for darkness reigned triumphant in that apartment. 
 It was only sufficient for him that Prudence Langdale was not there. 
 
 Once more he called loudly upon her by name. He waited a moment for an 
 answer. None came, and he rushed on to the landing in a state bordering upon 
 frenzy. 
 
 4t Lights ! lights !" he cried. " I'm going mad. Lights ! lights ! lights I" 
 
 His voice rang through the house, and his guests, hearing it in the counting- 
 house, fancied it must be intended as an invite to them to ascend, and accordingly 
 in a dense body they rushed to the foot of the staircase, and began scrambling up 
 it with great vehemence. 
 
 u We're coming, we're coming," cried the portly Mrs. Marrowfat. " Don't be 
 anxious, we're coming. Where are you all?" — " Lights ! lights !" again shrieked 
 Simon Langdale ; " will no one bring me a light ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, the Lord willing," said the sanctified servant, appearing with a candle, 
 and crucifying her countenance into an appearance of great holiness. — " Woman," 
 cried Simon Langdale, as he rushed past some of his guests, and descended half 
 way down the staircase — " woman, where is your mistress ? Speak, speak, speak 
 at once, and speak truly. Speak, I charge you, and this very moment, for your 
 life's sake." 
 
 <f My mistress, sir — Mistress Langdale, sir ? Oh ! she's up stairs."—-" 'Tis 
 false ! she is not." 
 
 " Then she's down stairs, sir." — " Hypocrite — you know she is not down stairs." 
 
 " Well, then, sir, you may take my word for it, she's somewhere else, the Lord 
 always willing." — " Where's Ben — where's Ben ?" 
 
 " Please, sir, he's drunk down stairs, in the cupboard." — " What's the matter ?" 
 cried every one, in a breath ; " gracious, what's happened, Mr. Langdale ? What's 
 gone amiss? Where's Mrs. Langdale ? Where's the new ball-dress ? Where's 
 the dance ? Where's the music ?" 
 
 "D n!" said Simon Langdale, and he rushed up the staircase, and flung 
 
 himself in his room again, in an agony of despair, where he sank upon a chair in 
 a state of complete mental prostration. 
 
 But. they whom he had invited to make merry were not going t be put off in 
 that way. Oh, dear, no — not they. So, with one accord, headed by the chivalrous 
 Mrs. Marrowfat, they followed him up, and surrounded him in a singular and motley 
 group, while that lady took her stand a little way behind him, and patted him gently 
 upon the shoulder, and the pious servant held the candle, and now and then gave 
 utterance to a hely sort of sound, something between a grunt and a snuffle, as Mrs. 
 Marrowfat thus triumphed over the heart-smitten jeweller. 
 
 " Mr. Langdale, I would not for the world give you any uneasiness, but it strikes 
 me very forcibly, taking one thing with another, and comparing this with that, and 
 always thinking that there's wheels within wheels — Mr. Langdale, I say, it comes 
 over me forcible, sir, that we've been asked here, all of us, to be consulted. It isn't 
 for me sir, to take away other people's characters, more especially when other 
 people's got none, but without making the least remark, all I can say is, that Mrs. 
 Langdale, if she is Mrs. Langdale, and I can't say I ever saw her marriage lines — 
 if she is Mrs. Langdale, has walked away with some other jeweller as is something 
 else— the filthy hussey." 
 
 " Well," said somebody else, " I mean to say this, that never in all my born 
 
182 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 days, was I made such a butt of as I've been made to-day. To come all the way 
 from Spitalfields to be laughed at I" 
 
 " Oh ! he knew it all along," added a third, " and I dare say thinks it a fine 
 joke ; but we can laugh as well. Ladies, why don't you laugh? , Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 Everybody now by some means became emulous of the other in a laughing way, 
 so that poor Simon Langdale, in the midst of his misfortunes, found himself sur- 
 rounded by what seemed a chorus of* laughing fiends. 
 
 But most sadly they took his quiescence for timidity ; they little knew the hell 
 that was raging in his breast, while they were thus amusing themselves at his ex- 
 pense, and adding their vituperations to his miseries. 
 
 Suddenly he sprang to his feet like a madman, and with a cry of indignation he 
 rushed to the fireplace, and seized the poker. 
 
 " Am I to be baited," he cried, " in my own house? Curses — no. Am T to 
 be mocked at ? Am I " 
 
 The terrified guests did not wait to see what he was next to be done to, but they 
 made a wild rush to the door, extinguishing the very pious servant and her candle 
 in their progress ; and the head of the staircase being close at hand, he who was 
 next it, found himself falling, and seized his neighbour, who, in self defence, prac- 
 tised the same manoeuvre to the person next him again. 
 
 There was a wild concatenation of sounds, and then, in a huge mass, Simon Lang- 
 dale's guests toppled over the stair-head, and rolled headlong down to the more 
 ample landing of the first floor. 
 
 Alas for poor corpulent Mrs. Marrowfat ! she served as a sort of cushion, in the 
 way of a feather-bed almost, to those who fell above her ; but not at all admiring 
 the doctrine of utilitarianism, which consists of being of the greatest possible use 
 to the greatest possible number, she kicked, and fought, and scratched, and screamed, 
 until, in a state of great exhaustion, she fainted away, with one leg in the drawing- 
 room, and the other half way towards the shop. 
 
 And Simon Langdale seemed ready to pursue his advantage, for he began flinging 
 all sorts of missiles from above, so that those who could, scramble to their feet, 
 hastily did so, and scampered from the premises, some without their wigs, and 
 some with -disordered apparel, while not a few had really sustained some severe 
 contusions by the fall they had had. 
 
 As for poor Mrs, Marrowfat, she was ultimately helped up by the pious servant 
 and Ben, the latter of whom had just sufficiently recovered from his inebriation 
 to be able to be of some assistance, and then she was placed in a coach, and driven 
 home in a state very nearly bordering on collapse. 
 
 A deep silence reigned in the jeweller's house. The pious servant sat on the 
 lowermost staircase, rocking herself to and fro, while she evidently dreamed of 
 pub ic-houses, for she called aloud upon somebody who was the lord of hosts. 
 
 And there she would have remained perhaps for some time, had not Ben, who 
 was rendered pot-valiant by the potations he had taken, suddenly embraced her 
 anatomical formation, and burst into a sort of stammering: declaration of ardent 
 attachment. 
 
 " Oh, good God," said the pious servant, " the passage ain't clear ; don't, Ben, 
 don't ; let's get into the kitchen." 
 
 And what was Simon Langdale doing — ay, what was Simon Langdale doing ? 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE MANIAC AT THE HUT. 
 
 The mingled sensations of ra°e and mortification showed themselves in the 
 countenance of Sir Charles Hastings, and for many minutes he was incapable of 
 uttering a word. He glared with an expression of perfect fury upon the empty 
 casket, and at length, uttering an oath, with which we cann< t defile our pages, he 
 drew a horseman's pistol from his pocket, and presenting it at the unhappy woman 
 who for him had sacrificed so much, he would inevitably have taken her life in th e 
 
NEWGATE. 183 
 
 wild excitement of his rage, had not the coarse man who had met him arrested his 
 arm, crying — 
 
 "Come, now, captain — come, now, recollect it is a woman, and a d — d pretty one, 
 too. If yon don't like her, leave her to me." — " Hands off. By heaven " 
 
 " No, no, I won't have it ; come, come, captain, you know better. Look again ; it's 
 a woman, I tell you ; why, d — n my rags, would you take the life of a she female ? 
 If you do, you're not the man I took you for. You, too, that used to be so 
 infernally col and calculating. Psha ! psha! you ought to know better, and you 
 do, too." 
 
 "Let him take my life," cried Mrs. Langdale ; "let him take my life, it is all 
 that 1 have to lose ; I have lost every possession but that ; but tell me, ere madness 
 seizes upon me, for I feci it creeping over my brain — tell me, I implore you, who 
 and what he is V* 
 
 " Captain Hawk," said the man ; " the well-known highwayman. Now, marm, 
 you know who and what he is." 
 
 With a shriek, Mrs. Langdale tried to spring from the carriage, but her foot 
 slipped, and she fell heavily to the ground, striking her head with a violence that 
 produced a temporary cessation of feeling — a happy insensibility, since, for a time, at 
 all events, it saved her from a consciousness of all the evils that beset her. 
 
 Captain Hawk, for it was, indeed, he, shook off the grasp of his rough assailant, as 
 he cried, — 
 
 "You're right, and I pardon this interference with my actions, because it has 
 been exerted in a good cause ; you're quite right— in my rage I should have killed 
 her. Assist me to carry her into the hut, for there she shall remain a close prisoner, 
 until she discloses where she has hidden the diamonds, to obtain which I have 
 played so troublesome a part." 
 
 "And do you mean to say, captain, that you have got nothing by it after all?" — 
 " Nothing but disappointment ; the jewels were worth thousands of pounds, and I 
 thought that I had managed in such a manner, that it was impossible ! could fail in 
 appropriating them ; but behold the empty casket— the body without the soul, that 
 gave it worth and value. And here I have been waiting, for heaven knows how 
 long, and all for nothing." 
 
 " I didn't, know you were going to bring her here, captain V — " Nor did I an 
 he 1 " cino- but circumstances occurred to induce me. I meant to leave her in the 
 street, carriage and all, while I carried off the diamonds, letting her make the best of 
 it she could, while I was master of the booty." 
 
 " And you're foiled." — " I am, by some cursed chance or another, and yet I know 
 not how ; I am certain she brought the jewels with her, for at starting she had no 
 suspicions. If she had had any, she would not have come at all ; she thought me 
 all that I represented myself." 
 
 " A court gallant." — "Yes, of the first distinction and gallantry; but now, I sup- 
 pose, that the veil is removed from before my real character, she will hate me as 
 much as before she affected to admire every word i uttered." 
 
 " Ah, like enough, like enough ; and yet, you know, captain, you ain't a bad 
 favourite among the fair sex." 
 
 " What's that to you?" — "Not much, only don't you remember the last time 
 we was down here, how you and the prettiest girl in these parts — I think they call 
 her, let me see — yes, May Boyes, that's her name — don't you recollect how vou 
 and she used to gallop about the heath ?'" 
 
 " Yes" muttered Captain Hawk, " and we shall again. Foiled as I am in tkis well- 
 laid and most elaborate plot to get possession of jewels worth an enormous sum, 
 even to me, for 1 could have disposed of them well upon the continent, I will, if in 
 the course of a short time I procure no satisfactory information from Mrs. Langdale 
 where slae has put the precious gems, proceed at once to Oxford." 
 
 " Ay, envtain; to pick up that young fellow you were so thick with about six 
 months ago ?" — " Yes, Ratchley Boyes, a young and enthusiastic student, who looks 
 no deeper than the surface of things, and fancies I am his great friend, because I 
 wear a coat trimmed with siker lace and spend my money freely." 
 
184 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Yes, captain, that's the sort of fellow ; but haven't you robbed him yet V — ■ 
 " Robbed him ! I know a game much better than that ; although, I expect, that, for 
 the sake of ready money, I shall be compelled to borrow his purse of him, as he 
 comes home this time for the University vacation." 
 
 " Yes, captain ; winter's creeping on, and we must have something to keep on the 
 war with."—*' You need be under no apprehensions, for you will always have enough, 
 and more than enough, for your exigencies. Can you carry her alone V 
 
 "Yes ; and two of her if it was necessary ; she's light enough." — " Take her 
 then into the upper room of the hut and keep her secure ; but, harkye, insult her in 
 any way, or presume upon being alone with her in this desolate habitation, and I 
 will exact an account of you which you shall tremble to render. Beware ; you know 
 me, and that when I say a thing of this sort, Pm not to be trifled with." 
 
 " Who said I wanted to interfere with her V growled the ruffian, as he lifted the 
 insensible form of Mrs. Langdale from the ground. — " Not me ; but I suspect you." 
 
 " Lord love us ! suspect my virtue — there's a go." — " Beware, I say, beware. I 
 shall be here to-morrow ; till then, let her rest in peace ; answer her no questions, 
 but provide her with what food she absolutely requires. I must turn again to return 
 this carriage and horses to the confiding coachmaker who lent them, and when I have 
 paid his bill, and satisfied Madam Macaw, which, with an eye to future services, I 
 feel myself bound to do, I think I shall be as nearly penniless as any gentleman 
 well may be." 
 
 "Nevermind, captain, all the world's your banker." — t( Yes ; but I've been in- 
 fernally unlucky of late. I nearly got shot, and had a desperate struggle, which 
 after all terminated in a couple of guineas, which did not pay for the cravat I had 
 torn in the adventure. Confusion take the fellow !" 
 
 " Well, that was hard ; but some people have no conscience." 
 
 Captain Hawk remained considering for a moment, and then, with a dogged, 
 disappointed air, he walked towards the carriage, into which he sprang, saying, — 
 
 " To town — to town/' — " It's all very well, sir," said the coachman ; " but if you 
 exp3ct as hosses is engines, I happen to know better." 
 
 *' What do you mean, fellow?" — " Why, 1 means, sir, as they can't do it, and how 
 can you expect them 
 
 " Then go to the devil," said Captain Hawk, w with your horses." — " Very 
 good, sir," said the coachman ; " but we must have a rest first. Hilloa > ^e's gone ; 
 what a hot headed fellow — well, that makes no difference to me. I shall put uj, i 
 the first public -house I comes to. I think 1 sees it, indeed — drive down here, and 
 then back again — it's easy to say drive — some people thinks as they've nothing else 
 but to say, and then on you goes. I see the public-house as we com'd along they 
 calls the * Talbot ;' two or three hours' rest there won't do none of us no harm, 
 and my master in town can't blame me for taking care of the cattle." 
 
 The coachman drove slowly to the Talbot, where the swinging sign declared 
 there was such good accommodation for man and beast, and there he remained, not 
 for two or three hours which he had mentioned, but for four or five ; for he found the 
 ale there so potent, and the accommodation, take it all for all, of so capital a character, 
 that he considered it a kind of mercy of providence that he was benighted upon such a 
 spot ; and when he did start for town, it was with a very rolling movement that he 
 got upon his box — so much so, indeed, that censorious people, who make the most of 
 their neighbours' actions, would not at all have minded saying that he was drunk. 
 
 l^ut, at least two hours before he started, a horseman galloped over the heath 
 towards London. He was mounted upon a bay horse of extraordinary power and 
 beauty — he took his route to town — the man at Tyburn turnpike let him through 
 gratis, and looked after him admiringly, exclaiming : — 
 
 ™ Ha, there he goes, the most out-and-outer a&ever I know'd. That's a trump if 
 ever there was one in this 'ere world — lor bless iiim — he is a rum 'un. I should 
 just as soon think of charging him now anything to come through this blessed 'pike as 
 I'd think of charging myself— there's not many such out-and-outers as he is, and no 
 mistake." 
 
 **••*••«« 
 
NEWGATE. 185 
 
 The morning dawned sweetly, although the winter seemed to be setting in prema- 
 turely ; there was a sharp frostiness in the air, and a crispness under foot, which 
 proclaimed sufficiently that that individual denominated Jack Frost had some idea 
 of commencing his reign. 
 
 The apprentices of the city of London, as they took down the shutters of the 
 various shops, breathed upon their fingers, and really seemed to think that it 
 was cold. 
 
 But among them all none was colder than Ben, our stuttering friend at the 
 jeweller's. 
 
 Likewise there was a confused dizzy feel about his head-piece, and, to do justice 
 to his reasoning powers, he did think it was just p-p-p-p-p-p-possible that such a^ 
 state of things might have resulted from his copious libations of the preceding 
 evening. 
 
 No. 24. 
 
186 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 *■ D-d-d-d-d-damn it,'* said Ben; " I wonder what master will say to me when 
 he comes down stairs — what a wonder it is h-h-h-h-he hasn't m-m-m-made his 
 appearance yet — and missus, too, I w-w-w-w- wonder what's become of her." 
 
 At this moment a neighbour came up, and said, — 
 
 " Ben, is Mr. Langdale within? 1 want to speak to him." — " Y-y-y-yes — he's 
 up stairs, sir — you'll f-f-f-find him in his own room." 
 
 " Thankye, thankye," said the neighbour, and he passed into the house — for he 
 was on familiar terms with the jeweller. 
 
 Only j.buut three minutes elapsed, and Ben was just about taking down the last 
 shutter, when out rushed from the house Simon Langdale's early visiter, shouting 
 as he did so," 2 — 
 
 " Help — help! fetch the coroner. — Murder ! murder ! murder!" 
 
 " W-w-w-w-w-h-h-at's the matter?" said Ben. — "Oh ! oh! oh! oh! good 
 gracious, oh ! — your master's hung himself in the front attic." 
 
 Down fell the shutter with such a bang that it alarmed the whole street, and then 
 Ben sat upon it and wrung his hands. A few moments sufficed to collect a crowd — 
 a dozen people rushed into the house, and there sure enough was the poor, confiding, 
 honest Simon Langdale hanging in the front attic. 
 
 He said he would do so if his wife went from home without his knowledge on 
 that night ; and she said that she would go mad if she did not go to the hall-^njaL 
 words came true. About the period of Captain Hawk's condemnation, that is to 
 say, his virtual condemnation, and his actual acquittal, for the murder -of his own 
 father, a miserable hut, situate among a clump of trees on Hounslow Heath, was 
 found to be in flames. 
 
 It was burnt to the ground, and amongst the remnants of its wood-work was 
 found a charred and blackened skeleton. 
 
 We think that that was all that remained of Proud Prudence of Aldgate, and that, 
 so far, the episode in the life of Captain Hawk is finished. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A FURTHER SEARCH IN THE WALLET. 
 
 I must confess that, upon the whole, I was more pleased with this episode in the 
 life of Captain Hawk, the celebrated highwayman, than I was with that which ter- 
 minated his career ; but probably those who may read these pages may have a 
 contrary opinion, and it may be some particular idiosyncracy of my own that makes 
 the story of " Proud Prudence of Aldgate" of a more touching character to me 
 than that- -of " The Coffin Cell." 
 
 Not that for one moment I would compare the worthy jeweller's wife with such 
 a creature as May Boyes, for they are about as dissimilar specimens of womankind 
 as could well be presented to the reader. And yet each, in her way, had so 
 many shining qualities, so many positive virtues, that we cannot help pitying each 
 
 a There was, however, a something in my mind, after I had laid down the papers 
 containing the story of the jeweller's wife, which induced me to wish to hear some- 
 thin* more concerning her. But perhaps this was one of the charms of the narra- 
 tive °hat the mind did not become satiated with it, but that it Left a thirst for a 
 continuation. 
 
 However, among all the papers, there was nothing further that at all struck me 
 as appertaining or "belonging in any way to the history of Captain Hawk, so that 
 our readers may bid adieu to that worthy with the full conviction that a 1 ! that was 
 noticeable in his career they are already possessed of. 
 
 There was nothing particular to tempt me to make another visit to Newgate for 
 some time. The fact is, that the adventure, for I may really call it such, which 
 happened to me in the coffin cell, had left behind it such a pleasant, dreamy train of 
 ideas, that I almost dreadtd to dispel some of them by a second visit. 
 
 I dare say my readers have found out such a psychological fact, that a second 
 
\ 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 187 
 
 approach to anything which is strange and wonderful, and which has taken a strong 
 hold of the imagination either in the way of the beautiful or the terrific, has a strong 
 tendency to dispel the charm. 
 
 A prudent man, when he has read a book, seen a play, or looked upon some 
 lovely landscape, or upon some more lovely face, any of which have left a powerful 
 impression upon his mind, and an exalted opinion of their excellence, should as 
 cart fully shun a second approach, as he should shun anything which is calculated to 
 destroy one of those agreeable reminiscences, of which, alas ! there aie too few in 
 the world to permit us to tamper with them. 
 
 The tiuth of the old adage, that familiarity breeds contempt, or, as our transat- 
 lantic brethren have translated it into their own vernacular, and call it " too much 
 freedery breeds despise, I guess," is beyond all dispute. 
 
 Being, therefore, a man of some experience in these matters, and not likely to 
 threw away the chance of a pleasant reverie now and then, I made up my mind 
 that, if I did visit Newgate again, that I certainly would not set foot within the 
 coffin cell, for, without intending a pun on such a subject, instead of the romantic 
 place that it now was in my imagination, it might turn out to be a mere sell, and 
 nothing more. 
 
 My object, then, was to look among the papers of the poor old cripple recluse 
 who had bequeathed them to me, until I found something else which should in- 
 vest some portion of Newgate with an intense interest in my mind, and induce me 
 to visit it. 
 
 1 sat down late in the evening, and, spreading the wallet before me, looked gloat- 
 ingly upon the various papers which it disclosed. The epicure at a civic feast could, 
 not have been more puzzled than I was to choose ; for, from the specimens which I hid 
 had of the quality of the repast which was spread before me, I believed that I could 
 hardly hit uron anything that would not be delightful, of its kind, and 'Ml of 
 abundant matter for future reflection. 
 
 1 had not looked so thoroughly through the wallet as to say that I w r as even tole- 
 rably well possessed of the nature of its contents. In fact, I rather liked not to 
 know, for then much was left to pleasant conjecture ; whereas, if I had scrambled 
 through the whole of the papers, and knew thoroughly what was there, I should 
 have spoiled many a delightful dream of fancy, during which T pictured to myself 
 hidden treasures, which were none the less delightful to dream about that they 
 might possibly have no real existence. 
 
 With a sort of reverence I laid aside the bundle of manuscript which appertained' 
 to the fortunes of Captain Hawk, and, at some short distance beneath, 1 came upon 
 a mass of papers that, from their being folded down at one corner, so as to retain 
 them together, appeared to relate to one subject. The first one was a blank ; but 
 immediately beneath that appeared one on which was written the words, 
 
 " Adam Beech, the Burglar : showing how he was hanged innocently as regards' 
 the offence of which he was accused, but had committed others, exemplified below, 
 which should long before have brought him to the scaffold.'' 
 
 " Adam Beech ! Adam Beech !" I said to myself, " why, there was a man of that 
 name hung only three years ago, Aye, surely, Adam Beech — hung for murder, 
 too, and he protested his innocence to the last ; and this, surely, must be his veri- 
 table history. But what have we here V' 
 
 I picked up the next paper, and on it were the following words, — 
 
 <* Adam Beech was a soldier, originally, and had served with the Duke of Wel- 
 lington in his Spanish campaigns, so that, when he was convicted, he entertained a 
 sanguine hope, as it was only on circumstantial evidence, that the duke would in- 
 terest himself a little. He wrote to the duke, and received the following answer, - 
 
 F. M. the Duke of Wellington is not the Recorder, nor is he the Secretary of 
 State for the Home Department, to either of whom Adam Beech's letter might have 
 been, with greater propriety, addressed. 
 
 " ' F. M. the Duke of Wellington never interferes with the hanging cf any one, and 
 he recommends Adam Beech to submit to the laws of his country, which F. M. 
 the Duke of Wellington did not make.' ,5 
 
188 NEWGATE. 
 
 I could not refrain from a smile at this characteristic epistle from the iron duke 
 although I little expected to find it in the wallet of my friend, the beggar of the 
 offal cellar. 
 
 This page of paper contained no more than this letter of the duke's, with the 
 preliminary paragraph explaining its origin ; but, in the next page, I saw that 
 something like a regular narrative commenced, which, without further preface or 
 remark of my owh, I shall proceed forthwith to lay before my readers, calling it ' 
 
 ADAM BEECH, THE BUKGLAR. 
 
 On a tempestuous evening in the autumn of the year 1801, a boy attracted the 
 attention of some passers-by towards the lower part of Drury-lane, by his anxious 
 efforts to peep in at the window of a low public-house which has yielded to the 
 march of improvement, giving place to a flaunting gin-shop that occupies the site. 
 
 The wind was howling, and the rain was pattering about his ears ; but still, heed- 
 less of every discomfort around him, his whole soul seemed bent upon peeping into 
 the parlour of the kouse, the window of which was partially screened by a red cur- 
 tain that obstructed his gaze, although it was not sufficiently thick to exclude the 
 dancing fire-light from his eyes, or the shadowy forms of persons passing to and fro 
 within the apartment. 
 
 Occasionally, too, as the door was opened to give ingress or egress to the landlord 
 of the house, with liquor for his guests, a gust of wind would lift the curtain on one 
 side, and then the boy, with a laugh of delight, caught a view of the interior of the 
 parlour. 
 
 It was an antique, low-roofed room, with huge blackened-looking timbers across 
 the^roof, which did not seem to have been done anything to in the way of cleaning, 
 nor the walls either, for a hundred years, at least. 
 
 Polished walnut-tree tables, and chairs of the same material, were the only ar- 
 ticles of actual furniture in the place ; and at these tables sat about ten or twelve 
 ruffianly- looking, disorderly men, who were enjoying their Bacchanalian orgies with 
 a gusto that showed they belonged to that class of philosophers who let to-morrow 
 take care of itself. 
 
 The floor was covered with coarse yellow sand, and upon the walls hung a dingy 
 print or two ; but frames, and prints, and walls, had so assimilated in colour, that it 
 took something more than a cursory examination of the place to distinguish the one 
 from the other. 
 
 There was a roaring fire in the ample grate, and upon the hobs were divers 
 pots of porter and spirituous compounds, placed in that congenial atmosphere, 
 in order that they might resist the inclemency of the night. 
 
 No stranger could have looked in upon those men without feeling sure that 
 they were bullies and cutpurses of the first water. There was a something about 
 them which at once proclaimed them to be men who had cast off all sociable re- 
 straints, and who waged a predatory warfare upon society for their living. 
 
 In fact, the house in which they were assembled was what is emphatically 
 called a thieves' house ; and in London, forty years ago, those houses were as 
 well known as any other public buildings of utility or comfort. 
 
 A thieves' house, too, anomalous as the thing may appear, was always an officer's 
 house, likewise ; and the Bow-street runners did not at all hesitate taking their 
 brandy-and-water with some gentlemen whom, in a professional way, they were 
 sure to "want" some day. 
 
 In fact, the police authorities found these houses extremely handy, for thieving 
 and the apprehension of thieves, although apparently two tolerably distinct pro- 
 fessions, were there so mingled together, that it would have been impossible to 
 get on at all without some place of common rendezvous. 
 
 This house was called the Fleece; some wag, perhaps, named it; but certainly 
 well known was it as the resort of some of the most knowing cracksmen of the 
 metropolis, and occasionally a flying visit would be made>to it by a highwayman ; 
 although, after the turn of the year 1800, the genuine knights of the road began 
 to be rather curiosities, on account of their scarcity. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 189 
 
 There was one among the number of the men assembled in this parlour, who 
 seemed to have a special deference paid to him by his companions. He was a 
 middle-aged man, rather inclined to be stout, and there was an appearance almost 
 of what might be called intellectuality about the upper part of his face, although, 
 when you looked at the whole of the physiognomy, you saw pourtrayed the 
 ruffian most completely. 
 
 This man did not speak much, but he was repeatedly and continually appealed 
 to by the others ; and what he said evidently passed off as if uttered by some 
 oracle, who could not possibly be wrong. To the uninitiated in the slang of the 
 day, their conversation would have been perfectly enigmatical ; and, if they were, 
 as most probably was the case, planning some robbery, they might safely have 
 done so in the very presence of the man himself who was to be the victim of the 
 depredation, without his being a bit the wiser. 
 
 The liquor they drank was immense in quantity, and nothing but years of 
 habit could have enabled them, without showing signs of almost immediate in- 
 toxication, to imbibe such a quantity of alcohol. 
 
 " Then it's agreed," said one. " It's to be done to-night, or never. What 
 say you, Sir Gaskin ? Is to-night or never the word V 
 
 He who was addressed as Sir Gaskin was the man to whom we have directed 
 especial attention, and he replied, in a lazy sort of manner, — 
 
 " Well, lads, as you like ; to-night be it ; but it only wants three, and that 
 shall be you, Ratcliffe, myself, and some stranger to throw the officers off the 
 scent." — "Ay, but who?" said he who was called Ratcliffe ; "there isn't time 
 to get a family cove up from the country ; and, if you do, they're as raw as 
 beetroots ; and, as for taking one of your sneaking fogle-hunters, that we might 
 get a hundred of by holding up a finger, into such a job, I'd rather leave it alone 
 altogether." 
 
 "What's that?" said Sir Gaskin, as he pointed to the window; "this is the 
 second time that we've been sitting here this week, and there's been a face bob- 
 bing and peeping about, just as it is now ; there, don't you see?"—" My eyes 1" 
 said one, " if it's anybody on the look out, fishing in these ere troubled waters 
 without a licence, I'm thinking he'll be wanting some brown paper and vinegar, 
 before the night's over." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" — " Don't look— snug's the word j go on talking about 
 anything or everything." 
 
 Aware that their companion projected some scheme of offensive operations 
 against the intruder, the others took no notice, but conversed as usual. 
 
 Then he who had last spoken took up a quart pot, which was yet about half 
 full of foaming ale, and pretended to be conveying it to his lips ; but, when he 
 got it to about the level of his head, he flung it, with "considerable skill, direct at 
 the pane of glass, where the peeping face was visible, as at intervals the red cur- 
 tain swayed to and fro. 
 
 " I think you've got that, my man, whoever you are," he said, in the coolest 
 possible tone. 
 
 There was a tremendous crash, of broken glass, and the pot flew out into the 
 street. Then, before another word could be uttered, the curtain was drawn aside, 
 and a head and face appeared through the fractured glass. 
 
 " How you thought it," said the boy, who had been peeping in at the revellers. 
 " D— n you, you're done again, you fool. Do you think I didn't see you, old 
 goosy. How do you do, Sir Gaskin ?" 
 
 The men looked surprised, as well they might, at the impudent familiarity of 
 this address, for it was a mere boy who uttered it ; and, although a moment's 
 reflection showed that he was in perfect security, inasmuch as, had any of the 
 men risen to go out to him, he had abundance of start of them, yet it was not 
 every boy who would so have reasoned. 
 
 The mere fact of his deing so betrayed a boldness and aptitude, just the thing 
 to win the admiration of these lawless men. 
 
 " Who are you ?" said the apparent chief of the party, Sir Gaskin ; u who are 
 
190 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 you, ray lad ? Don't you know it's dangerous to play with men V — " I don't 
 care — I'm Adam Beech." 
 
 " And what are you V' — " Nothink ; they whopped me for it till I'm black and 
 blue, but I won't be nothink; they want mc to get a living, but 1 won't; they 
 want me to wo;k, but I'll see 'em hung first. I like you ; that's a jolly song 
 you sing of the old tree with the live acorns. It's the gallows; 1 know' that; 
 but what of it ?" 
 
 The men looked at each other, and then at the lad, and then at Sir Gaskin, 
 and a covert smile at the corner of his mouth gave them the cue that what the 
 boy said was not disagreeable to him. 
 
 u Will you come in here ?" — " Yes, to be sure." 
 
 " Are you not afraid ?" — " Afraid of who ?" 
 Well, then, come along," said the fellow who threw the pot ; " I ain't a- 
 going to touch you ; but, afore you does, just step into the road and bring the 
 pewcer." — "Bring it yourself," said the boy ; " you threw it out, not I ; and. as 
 for being afraid of you, I'll walk into you in a minute, if you don't mind — you'd 
 better be civil." 
 
 " Bravo I 1 ' said the other, "bravo! this young cock's began to crow early." — 
 " Come in/' cried Sir Gaskin, " come in with you. Hang me, if I don't think 
 you're one of the true breed. A short life and a very merry one, pulled up by a 
 yard of hemp." 
 
 Jn another moment the boy made his appearance in the apartment, and the 
 first thing he did was to lift up a glass containing some villanously strong com- 
 pound and, giving a nod to the company, he said, — 
 
 "The girts." 
 
 And then he took a very respectable draught of the steaming beverage. 
 
 "Well, I'm d — d," said Sir Gaskin, "if you ain't coming out early, young 
 fellow. Where do you live?" — "I was hatched in Russell-court ; that's the 
 fannily crib ; the old 'uns don't like it, but I mean to be a rum 'un — an out-and- 
 outer ; crack all the cribs, keep all the girls, drink all the claret, sing all the 
 songs — d — me, and I don't care what comes of it — who's afraid ?" 
 
 " Not you, it seems," said Sir Gaskin ; " and so your name's Adam Beech, is it? 
 Yeu're a hopeful young fellow. How old may you be now?' : — "I never asked 
 anybody." 
 
 " Why, you young scamp, you've not seen sixteen yet. What have you been 
 doing with yourself for the last two years, now r ?" — " Shelling an old pea." 
 
 * What ? Just please to expound that a little." — " Why/' said the boy, stroking 
 his chin, yet destitute of beard — " why, you see, my uncle's old Prout, the saddler, 
 of Long-acre ; and what I call shelling the old pea, is walking into his till and out 
 again, with some of the sw r ag sticking to me. « Adam,' says he.— 1 Yes,' says I. — 
 'Just mind the shop, Adam, my boy, while I pop round to Wrincle's the barber's.' 
 * Yes, uncle,' says 1 ; * but what shall I do while you're gone, uncle ?' — 4 What 
 yon like, my child,' says he — ' what you like ; only mind the till.' " 
 
 The thieves burst into a roar of laughter, and Sir Gaskin, patting the boy ©n the 
 bock, said,' — 
 
 u You'll do — you'll do. Hark ye, Adam Beech ; I ain't often wrong. You'll 
 be a great man yet." — " No, shall I though?" 
 
 " Yes, you will ; and I'll bring you out. You're a likely looking lad, smart and 
 active ; there's no reason why you shouldn't be a gentleman ; and, as your ancestors 
 have omitted to leave you an independent property, you can do as we do — take it 
 where you can. But mark me, you mustn't look back, nor you mustn't look for'ard ; 
 the present's the golden moment, enjoy that, and d — n the consequences." — 
 " Hurrah ;" said the boy. 
 
 " And now, mark me, there's one thing that we won't stand, and that's want of 
 [ faith." — " Nor I either," said the boy. " So I tell you all now, candidly, if any of 
 i you peach upon me, or betray my councils, or sneak about in any w-ay that I don't 
 like, pretty soon scuttle your nobs for you. Don't say you ain't warned in 
 time. And now — ahem ! — to business. Whose blessed crib shall we crack?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 The thieves looked at each other in silence. One of them opened his mouth and 
 eyes so wide, that a pint pot might have been put into the former, almost ; and, as 
 for Sir Gaskin, he pushed back his chair till he reached the wall, and halt* closing 
 his eyes, he peered at the boy with a curious expression of countenance, com- 
 pounded of admiration and growing dislike. 
 
 " Have von done?" he said. *' 'Cause say what you have got to say all at once, 
 if you pleas and then we shall know what to make of it." — " I have, for just now/' 
 said Adam Beech. " What have you got to say V 
 
 ** Hark ye, youngster! Those gentlemen belong to my band ; they trust me to 
 think a little, and they do what I tell 'em. There's no occasion for two lights in 
 one room." — " Oh, I understand you," paid the boy — " you mean you and nit — to 
 be sure there ain't. Put yourself out, and then there'll be only one." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha!" laughed one of the fellows; but his mirth was put an end to by 
 a back-handed blow on the mouth from Sir Gaskin, who exclaimed, — 
 
 ?sha ! the boy's drunk.' 1 — Drunk !" said Adam Beech. l£ Why, you lying 
 horn- 4, what do you mean by that ? Drunk ! " 
 
 There seemed now to be symptoms of a serious fracas. Sir Gaskin rose and ad- 
 vanced two steps towards the boy, but he recoiled again, as he cried, — 
 
 '* The young viper is showing his teeth ; take the knife from him." — u Not if I 
 know it," said the boy, and he gave a flourish of his arm, showing that he held a 
 bright-bladed knife, that he had adroitly taken from his poeket, ready for mischief. 
 
 And too ready for mischief ic was, indeed ; fur as he gave it that preliminary 
 flourish which certainly awed the captain, it just touched the nose of the gentleman 
 who had thrown the quart pot through the window, inflicting so sudden a cut, that 
 he was hardly aware of it, for a moment, until a drop of gory fluid dropped into his 
 gin-and-water, and then he exclaimed,— 
 
 " My eye be blovvcd ! are we to put up with this? Is this the way we are to be 
 walked into? Here's a bloody nose I've got." — " Then don't go to interfere with 
 me, any of you/' said Adam Beech. " I tell you I won't stand it. I'd just as soon 
 put my knife into anybody as look at them; it's a little pecuiiaiity of mine — 'but 
 come, let's be friends. Here, landlord — glasses all round." 
 
 The landlord, who was a great specimen of obesity, having heard some disturb- 
 ance going on, had entered the room, and he looked in amazement at the mere lad 
 who pave the order. 
 
 " Glasses all round?" he said. " Where's the money, youngster?" — '•' None of 
 your nonsense ; you keep chalk, I suppose ?" 
 
 '* Eh ! chalk ?" — <! Yes ; don't you hear? Glasses all round, and the best, too } 
 you've got ; and be quick, too, you greasy old rogue. Come, gentlemen, I forgive 
 you. We'll drown it in the bowl ; let bygones be bygones; you'll never hear me say 
 another word about it." 
 
 He who may be called the captain of the gang, Sir Gaskin, seemed suddenly now 
 to have formed a resolution ; for he said, in a tone of forced hilarity, — 
 
 " Well, be it so ; give us your hand upon it, youngster. Forget and forgive, and 
 we'll have the glasses all round. As for old Boniface, if he don't like to'score it, 
 there's plenty of yellow-boys here to pay for it." 
 
 He struck his poeket as he spoke, and produced the pleasant jingle of gold ; and 
 the others, taking the hint from him, shook hands with the lad, and they sat down 
 together, apparently the greatest friends in the world. 
 
 " Hi»rk ye, Adam Beech !" said Sir Gaskin ; " we're going to crack a crib to- 
 night ; will you make one?" — « Well, I don't mind," said Beech; « where is it ?" 
 
 " In Westminster ; and there's plenty of swag for the taking ; only they do say 
 that a sharp look-out is kept, and that it is a crib that would have been cracked lon«- 
 ago, but for the danger of the thing."-—" But that shouldn't deter me," said Beeeli! 
 " I'll turn it over in my mind how you're to set about it " 
 
 " You'll turn it over?" — « Yes, to be sure ; we must have no nonsense in this. 
 You show me the premises, and I'll soon hit upon a way of getting in." 
 
 ".Well, then, what would you do, providing there was no way of getting in but by 
 the front door?" — Knock at it, to be sure." 
 
192 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Well ; but that's the very way to bring somebody." — " Of course, to ©pen it. 
 The best way, then, is to lay hold of him, whoever he is, pull him out into the 
 street, and so get rid of one of 'em." 
 
 * What a ancient trump !" said the man who had thrown the quart pot ; ""well, I 
 was reckoned always an ingenious babby from my. cradle, and never thought of that." 
 — " You must first ascertain/' said Beech, " how many men there are in the house ; 
 and I should say you may always get rid of two of them in the way I speak of." 
 
 " It is possible," said Sir Gaskin ; " but what's the time, gentlemen t It's getting 
 late, I think, and the safest time to crack a crib is when the people are in their first 
 sleep. There's a hall porter, a powerful man, they say, who sits up all night for se- 
 curity's sake ; armed, too, he is well, and, they say, not afraid to use his arm. It's 
 out of the question to get in at the back of the house ; we've tried it, and the only 
 thing that struck us as presenting the least chance, was the fact that the next house 
 is to let, and empty, and we might work a way through the party wall." 
 
 (% Humbug," said Beech ; " we're wasting valuable time. Let's see how many 
 are there of you. I'll give you instructions as we go along." — " Boy," said Sir 
 Gaskin, " this is all very well once to laugh at, but you're playing a dangerous game 
 with me. I'm not above a suggestion from anybody, but I command here, recollect." 
 
 " Very good, I'll tell you what to command." — " Harkye, Sir Gaskin," said 
 one of the gang ; " the boy's plan's the only feasible one, and if he'll be the per- 
 son to carry it out, and take the risk, I don't see why it shouldn't be done." 
 
 " And who dare say," cried Adam Beech, " or who dared think I wouldn't take 
 the risk of anything I proposed? Do I look like a sort of fellow to shrink ? I 
 should rather think not ; if you know anything of the habits of the family, which 
 you ought to know, you can tell this much — when do they go to rest ; how many 
 of them are there ; and where do they sleep ?" — " We know all that," said one ; 
 " only, as Sir Gaskin says, he's our captain, and I stand out for him." 
 
 " Never mind," said Sir Gaskin, " let that be the plan. It's fair enough, if the 
 boy'll do it. The family go to rest early ; they all sleep on the second floor ; there 
 are three men and four women ; and the swag we want is in a cupboard, to get at 
 which you must pass through a dressing-room and a bed-room." 
 
 " That's difficult," said Adam Beech, scratching his chin. "What is the swag?" 
 — " A tin box, with gold and notes to a large amount. We know it's true, from 
 private information. In fact, it's brought home from a banking-house at night, and 
 taken back again in the morning. I'm sure we might as well spare them the 
 trouble of such a manoeuvre." 
 
 " Now, hark ye all," said Beech ; " this is my first adventure. It shall be a 
 successful one, er the last. If I fail, the field is open to you, as it was before. 
 Will you, or will you not, do as I want you?" — " We will, we will," cried all but 
 Sir Gaskin, who, when silence was restored, said in a low, deep voice, — 
 
 " Be it so. It isn't for the pleasure of command that ever I took upon myself 
 to tell a comrade what to do. Be it so — I'll make one in the adventure without a 
 scrap of jealousy towards him who tells us best how to set about it. Adam Beech, 
 you are but a boy, but that's no reason why, in this particular case, you should not 
 have thought of something beneficial. Come on, and let's to this adventure in 
 your way." — " Very good," said Adam Beech ; " but, mark me, if I am to do it, 
 I'll do it all. The plan I propose, I know, is the only one that will do, cos 'I've 
 thought over it." 
 
 " What," said Gaskin, " before to-night?" — " Yes, to be sure, and I don't care 
 who knows it. I heard you talking of it last night, and the night before." 
 
 " So, you played the part of spy V — " I did ; but where's the odds, if it's not to 
 betray you ? If I did play the part of spy, what of that, if it does you no harm ? 
 It's not likely I'd have told you, if I meant anything wrong." 
 
 « The boy's right enough," said one; " to tell the truth, the more I think of the 
 plan he has hinted at, the more I like it, and feel a sort of certainty it'll do. It's 
 the very thing — bold, sudden, and to the purpose. There can't be a doubt of it's 
 success, so far as regards it getting us into the house, and that I apprehend is the 
 main point of the business." — " It's everything," said Beech ; " for the family rely 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 193 
 
 upon that porter, most especially to defend them. If anything happens to him 
 they'll give in, and we shall have no farther trouble about the business." 
 
 " Then come at once/' said he, who had so warmly approved of the boy's plan ; 
 " come at once, the night's squally, and the hour close at nand. I should say every- 
 thing's as favorable as it can be for such a job as we purpose." 
 
 rt I'm your man," said Beech, " come on, my boys." 
 
 " Damn his impudence !" said one, " it's better than a play, and if he gets out of 
 this scrape, I'll warrant he won't be twenty-four hours older before he gets into 
 another." 
 
 The little party which, with the addition of Adam Beech, mustered six persons 
 lett the public house and took their way towards Westminster. The night had by 
 no means improved in its outward appearance ; it was extremely tempestuous, sharp 
 gusts oi wind met them at every corner, and careering up the streets from the Strand, 
 down which they passed on their route, there would occasionally come such a storm - 
 ot hail, ram, and sleet, as if heaven and earth were coming together. Nobody who 
 had a home to go to, would, in such a night as that, have willingly been in the 
 streets. 
 
 No clothing of any description was a sufficient defence against the searching 
 
 No. 25. 
 
194 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 hail, mingled with particles of snow, and minute half- frozen rain, that despite any 
 defence set up against them, would insinuate themselves into the eye and mouth, 
 and within the inmost recesses of the clothing of those who, in vain endeavoured to 
 baffle the fury of the storm. 
 
 But this, far from being a state of things which discouraged or gave any 
 uneasiness to the adventurers, it was just what was calculated above all others to in- 
 spire them with the happiest prognostication. 
 
 It was a night on which watchmen crept into their boxes, and pulling their 
 nightcaps over their ears, left the metropolis to take care of itself, having, perhaps, a 
 remote opinion that even robbery was too unpleasant a piece of work to set about, 
 while the wind and the rain were playing such havoc in the street. 
 
 During their progress down the whole of the Strand, from Drury Lane to Charing 
 Cross, the party scarcely met a dozen individuals, and they, with clenched teeth and 
 heads bent down to avoid the fury of the blast, were evidently making their way as 
 fast as they could to some place of shelter. 
 
 "This is a nice night," said Adam Beech, " for we men of metal — the very thing 
 for us of all others. As my old uncle Prent says, ' Providence does more for us 
 than we can do for ourselves.' " 
 
 " I say/' said one of the thieves to his companion, " I say, Joe, that boy's a rum 
 'un, take my word for it if I should live to speak another word ; he'll be a great man 
 in his time., and no mistake, there's lots of famous cribs yet to crack in London that 
 nobody's tried after, and Adam Beech is the fellow to crack them or else I'm a fool." 
 'Well you are that," said the other ; " but still I think you're right for once in away." 
 
 " Do you, stupid, I tell you I've seen enough of human nature to know what's 
 what ; that boy s an out-an-outer, only think now, what a world of pity it would 
 have been if such a regular born genius as I call him, cut out and shaped for our 
 profession, should have been got hold of by a set of people as has'nt no spirit, and 
 made am what they calls a spectable livelihood, which means nothing else but 
 working like blazes, with the privelege of having just enough grub forked into you 
 to keep you up to the mark for so many hours a day." 
 
 " Ah, be blowed ! you may say that, Bill, talk of the slave in the Ingies, what's 
 we in comparison to'um. If we was such sanguinary fools as not to insist upon 
 coming into our property in the way we does." 
 
 " Good again," said Bill, " there's my father as stupid an old pump as ever 
 stepped ; what do you think he's been doing of, all his life ?" 4 Well, I don t 
 know," said Joe. " Guess again, then.'' "Smoking?" 
 
 <* No he hasn't — what a blessed idiot you is to be sure — he's here a sitting in a sort 
 of centi y box, a sawing of big stones into little 'uns to make other people's chimnies, 
 and that's what he wanted me to be arter doing ; * no,' says I, * saw me, if I do, not 
 while there's a friendly cove to say how are you — -not while there's a fogle to be 
 filched — a reader to be grabbed on the sly tack, or the time of day to be got out of 
 other people's watches.' " 
 
 « Ah ! you was a natural genus. Now my father was a reasonable man and 
 didn't ax me to do impossibilities — he was an out and out clever fellow, too, in his 
 way. Lor ! it out run in the family." * 
 
 " None of your nonsense ! I'll just tell you how he sarved me, and guvd me a 
 sort of admiration for the old man, as I shouldn't otherwise have had. When I was 
 about twelve he says to me, * Joe,' says he, * how is yer V — that was one evening 
 just about bed-time. So, says I, 1 Ask my elbow.' So the old man takes the wipe 
 out of his mouth, and he sayp, says he, ' Your're a getting on, Joe/ says he, * in a 
 small way, and bethink/ says he, * as it's true/ says he, * as you thought/ says he, 
 £ a turning/ says he, ' your blessed talons/ says he, « in getting a living.' A very 
 natural suggest ificat ion." 
 
 " I believe yer, Bill ! Well, then, he goes on to say, * I guvd your edication, or 
 leastways the opportunity of taking it, kos everybody doesn't have the advantage of. 
 You've had the run of the streets from morning till night, and no questions axed. 
 You have heard all as has been said in Common Garden on a market day.' Ah ! 
 to be sure." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 195 
 
 " Well, then, the old man gets a little affected, and I seed that his feelings wer e 
 a little overpowering on hmi ; he lays down his pipe, and he lays hold o' me by ihe 
 collar, and he leads me to the door — 'Joe,' says he, ' it's time as you did something 
 for yourself. Go, and get a living/ says he, ' and don't let me see your face again/ 
 With that he gives me a kick as 1 didn't much like ; so, to be nowise uneven with 
 the old man, I turns round and lays hold of his leg. ' Governor/ says I, 'it's all 
 very fine, but where the devil am I to go V * Go to hell/ says he. * Thank ye/ 
 says 1, ' and with that I upsets him, and away I goes/ " 
 
 «* And hav'nt you seen the blessed old bloak since V " Not I, nor I doesn't 
 want — relations is best apart ; but here we is — mum's the word, and there's the 
 blessed house." 
 
 By this time the party had anived at Westminster, and passing by the Treasury, 
 they proceeded on till they came to George Street, and congregated under an arch- 
 way opposite to a house not very many paces from Storey's Gate. 
 
 " Well, here we are," said Adam Beech ; " but we're too soon — there's lights in 
 the house, and if there is to be a row, people are much easier to fight after they get 
 into bed, than they are beforehand. The porter's name's Benjamin Brick." 
 
 " Why, you seem to know all about it r" said Benjamin Gaskin." 
 
 " I've been once on a message to the house from old Prout, and saw him. But 
 we must wait a hit. It won't do to be too soon." 
 
 The archway in which they stood led to some stables, and on such a night as 
 that the inclemency of the weather afforded a good excuse for their standing in 
 order to escape its violence. But there was no one to question them, and the 
 old gentlemen in the shape of watchmen, who were facetiously called the guardians 
 of the night, took their duties just about as lightly and as pleasantly as any set of 
 men could. 
 
 One by one *the lights in the house were put out, until at last all the windows 
 were enveloped in darkness, and the only evidence of any watchfulness on the part 
 of the inhabitants, arose from a dim lustre that was emitted from the fan-light over 
 the street door, bespeaking the fact, that Benjamin Brick had taken up his post, to 
 the terror of all evil doers. 
 
 Even after this quiescent state of things had obtained, they waited nearly half an 
 hour, and then Adam Beech, turning to his companions, said, in a resolute voice — 
 
 " I don't want any of you to come into the door. All I wish you, in the first 
 instance to do, is to take care of Benjamin Brick, and in the next, to secure me a 
 retreat." " Agreed ! agreed I* 
 
 " I'il go up to the door and knock, mind you three are close at hand, or else I 
 shall not know what to do with the boy." " Confound this little fellow's impu- 
 dence," muttered Gaskin, " he talks of the hall-porter as if he really had him in 
 his charge, and had nothing to do but to dispose of him according to his wili and 
 pleasure." 
 
 The thieves looked at each other, and tacitly prepared to obey the lad who had 
 assumed the mastery over them. Never had there been a stronger exemplifica- 
 tion of that power which an active and energetic intel ect acquires over more 
 sluggish ones, than was now shewn, in the way in which these men, one and 
 all, with the exception of Sir Gaskin, as he was called, gave way to Adam Beech 
 
 Tney with he greatest alaciity took up the positions he assigned to them, and, 
 indeed, the captain, or rather as we may call him the former captain, for the mat- 
 ter of that, sufficiently controled his feelings to appear to do with a good will 
 what he was really doing with a bad one. 
 
 But he had his own hopes and expectations on the occasion. No human 
 being believed more fully that another was on thee ve of destruction, than did he> - 
 that Adam Beech would soon find that he had engaged in an enterprize of greater | 
 danger than he imagined it to be. 
 
 The idea that a hoy like that, a m» re stripling, should be aide to overcome a 
 powerful man, such as Benjamin Brick was represented to be was too preposterous, 
 and he fully expected that before ten minute? moie wouid nave tlapseu, Adam 
 Beech would eirher be dead or captured. 
 
196 NEWGATE. 
 
 He cared not which of these two contingencies occurred to the lad, provided 
 one of them them did. The latter would be quite sufficient to destroy any pres - 
 tige that might now be caused to be attached to his name, while the ready man- 
 ner in which he, Gaskin, had given way to the lad, would give him a character of 
 forbearance among his lawless associates which could not be but beneficial to 
 him. 
 
 But Adam Beech evidently possessed none of these fancies or fears. Posting 
 the men immediately at the bottom of the flight of steps that led to the house 
 which was to be the object of attack, he boldly walked up to the street door, and 
 knocked thereat, as pleasantly and genteely as any morning visitor could have 
 done. 
 
 The knock was one calculated to excite the respectful attention of Benjamin 
 Brick ; who, although he had just ensconsed himself in the great leather chair, 
 and meant to make himself comfortable for the remainder of the night, imme- 
 diately rose, with the remark, that there was a visitor, and he wondered very 
 much who it was. 
 
 He flung open the door in the manner customary with all porters, from time 
 immemorial, when they consider that the person applying for admission is one 
 likely to walk in. 
 
 " How do you do Benjamin," said Adam Beech. " Eh/ said Benjamin, with 
 a great stupid look of wonder, " what do you want r" 
 
 " Oh, nothing, I want nothing. But there's some friends of mine that want 
 you, Benjamin Brick. Will you be so kind as to walk out ?" " Damn your 
 impudence/ 1 
 
 " Oh you won't, then don't say 1 didn't ask you. Here goes." 
 
 Adam Beech plumped down to the ground in a moment, at the feet of Benjamin 
 Brick, and then wedging his head between his ancles, as if it had been a cannon 
 shot, away went Benjamin head foremost down the steps, and without waiting 
 for a moment to see what became of him, Adam Beech walked into the hall and 
 shut the door. 
 
 Poor Benjamin Brick fell upon his head, which actually rebounded again from 
 the pavement, and then he became an insensible and easy captive to the thieves, 
 who were lying in wait for him, and who, with the exception of Gaskin, could 
 not conceal their admiration of the adroit manner in which Adam Beech had 
 overcome him. 
 
 They picked him up among them, and carried him over the road to the arch- 
 way, where] they laid him down comfortably, and snugly against the wall, 
 there to recover "or not to recover, according as the nature of his injuries per- 
 mitted. 
 
 And now, Adam Beech felt in his own mind that this feat which had attracted 
 so much the admiration of his friends, was certainly not the most difficult he had 
 to perform that night. 
 
 But, if Adam Beech looked around him inactively for a few moments before 
 proceeding any further, it was not from a feeling of indecision as to what to do, 
 that he had made up bis mind about, although, certainly, to a considerable extent, 
 he knew he should have to be guided by circumstances. 
 
 Yet was it. something of importance to have get into the house, so easily, and 
 without producing any disturbance. It was something to have overcome that 
 gigantic Cerberus, and thus, as it were, to have paraphrased the old story of David 
 and Goliah— seeing, that wit overcomes brute strength, and that those fine and 
 subtle agencies, that hold their being, and have their home within the chambers of 
 the brain, are always more than a match for mere bone and muscle. 
 
 The hall was spacious and elegant — adorned with painting and statuary — saying 
 something for the taste, as well as for the wealth, of the owners of the mansion. 
 And in those days, it was going a long way to have either paintings or sculpture 
 about any one's dwelling, for a cultivation of the Fine Arts was confined but to 
 few persons. 
 
 On a slab, at some distance from the door, was a small hand-lamp, evidently 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 197 
 
 placed there ready to he lighted upon an emergency, which could be done easily 
 from the huge octagon-shaped lantern, which depended by a long massive chain 
 from the ceiling. 
 
 Adam Beech put his hand in his pocket, and just pulled out that ugly looking 
 clasp knife of his, far enough to look at it — then, as he replaced it, he muttered to 
 himself — 
 
 " Well, I don't want to use it — unless they make me ; but, if they will have it — 
 they must. I've come here for a tin box, and a tin box I'll have." 
 
 He lit the night-lamp, and then, without putting on the appearance of the least 
 hurry, or taking the least care to smother the noise of his footsteps, he ascended the 
 staircase until he came to the second floor. 
 
 No less than four doors presented themselves to his observation, when he reached 
 the landing. He paused for a moment to consider, and then he said — 
 
 " The front be.drooms are always the best ; so here goes at one of them — we'll 
 soon see what chance there is." 
 
 Advancing towards a door, which, from the topography of the house, he felt con- 
 vinced opened into — what might be called — the principal bedroom, he tapped at 
 the door rather sharply with his knuckles. He heard a scuffling sound from within, 
 and, then, a voice crying — 
 
 « Who's there ? Who's there V « Adam Beech," was the reply. 
 
 " Adam whoj" " Adam Beech — don't you hear, stupid I* 
 
 " And who tlie devil's Adam Beech 1" he heard the voice say in a lower tone — 
 then there was a scrambling in the room, as if some person was tumbling over 
 several articles of furniture. 
 
 " Don"t be in a hurry," said Beech, " the more haste, you know, the worse 
 luck." 
 
 The door of the bedroom was flung open, and an elderly-looking gentleman, with 
 a dressing-gown hastily flung upon him, and his bare feet sticking out from beneath 
 it, confronted our hero. 
 
 ''How do you do, sir?" said Adam Beech, " sorry to disturb you; I suppose, 
 you were in your first sleep ?" — " Damn me," said the elderly gentleman, " I think 
 I'm in it still. Who the devil are you, and what do you want here 1" 
 
 " Oh ! ah !" said Adam Beech ; and then, spying over the old man's shoulder, 
 a good looking enough female face adorned with a nightcap, peeping through the 
 curtains of the bedstead, he cried, " How do you do, marm ? 1 hope I see you 
 well." 
 
 The lady gave a faint scream, and withdrew her head, while the old man, in a 
 state of bewilderment, scarcely to be described, looked from Adam Beech to the 
 bed, and from the bed to Adam Beech, for several minutes in silence. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," 1 ' said Beeeh, " but delays are dangerous you know." 
 "Good God !" said the old man, " what do you want, and what do you mean ?" 
 
 " A tin box," said Adam Beech, " that you brought from the banking-house. 
 Sir Harry Franklin says, that you're sure to have your house robbed to-night, and 
 Benjamin Brick, tho' he didn't think it at first, is by this time of the same opinion 
 — you're to give me the tin box, and I'm to take it away and lodge it safe — then 
 you're to wait till the officers come, and you may make as much row as you like." 
 
 " What, give you my tin box ! Do you mean Sir Harry Franklin the magistrate 
 that lives round the corner." " Yes, to be sure — Benjamin Brick couldn't leave 
 the hall — besides," he said, { you'd better go up, Adam,' said he, ' because the old 
 governor wont so much mind you're walking into his bed room where his pretty 
 young wife's lying in bed, so much as he would a big chap like me.' " 
 
 " You rascal," said the old man." " I'm sure my dear," said a female voice from 
 the bed, " the lad's civil enough." 
 
 '* Now, now, Maria, Maria, don't you say a word. I wonder you ain't covered 
 with shame and anger to think any body but me should set foot in the bed room." 
 " Oh ! its only a child," said the lady." 
 
 " Oh yes, a pretty baby," said the husband. " But be off with you, you'll get 
 no tin box of mine, and tell Benjamin Brick he's a fool, and I'll discharge him 
 
198 NEWGATE. 
 
 to-morrow morning for letting you up stairs at all." " Well, but Robert," said the 
 wife, "there may be something in it. Do you know something seems actually to 
 come across me that the boy's right, and you know I'm very cautious when you 
 are out of town." 
 
 " Well, well, my dear, I know that, but, but • " Well, Robert, I can assure 
 
 you, that cautious as I am, if you had not been in the way, he just might have done 
 what he'd like. I'd trust him with untold gold." 
 
 " I thank ye, madam," said Beech, " for your good opinion, but its always the 
 way, at least I've always found it so, that where there's such beauty as is enough to 
 dri*e any poor fellow mad, to wake up in the middle of the night and think about 
 it, there's always a tender heart. Bless you marm, and I hope all your children '11 
 take arter you." 
 
 " Robert," said the wiie, " come here, that youcg man's above his station — what 
 judgment he has." " I dont see that," said the old man, "for there is no children 
 to take after you." 
 
 " And whose fault's that," said the wife, with a half shriek and a sob, " I should 
 like to know ?" '« The thieves will soon find," said Adam, "that the box is gone, 
 and then they wont molest you." 
 
 " There, do you hear that," said the wife, " am I to lay here, and all through 
 your obstinacy to be continually molested?" "They're going to get in from the 
 next house that's empty," said Adam Beech, "and your only chance is to send 
 away the box, so that it should not be lost in the scuffle, for between you and I, 
 father thinks, as some of the officers is just as likely to get hold of it as the 
 thieves." 
 
 " Father," said the lady, " then are you the son of Sir Harry Franklin." " Yes 
 marm, at your service bless you — sixteen years old to-day marm — five feet six." 
 
 * A perfect duck," muttered the lady. " I tell you what it is Robert, if you don't 
 give him the box, and tell him to come in the morning and be thanked, and take a 
 dish of chocolate with us, I'll get out of bed instantly and fell into kicking histerics 
 close to his feet." " Good God." 
 
 " I will indeed. I feel myself going now, oh ! oh ! there its a coming on." 
 
 The lady made a great rustling in the bed clothes, and the banker really alarmed 
 that she would put her threat into execution cried out hastily : — 
 
 " Well, well, he shall have ft — Sir Harry Franklin did say to me, as good as a 
 month ago, that I might have the box every night at his house, instead of my own ; 
 but now I think of it, I never heard of Sir Harry Franklin having a son of sixteen, 
 and five feet six inches." "No," said Adam Beech, with a mournful tone, "and per- 
 haps I ought not to have told you ; my poor mother's dead, and it was the voice of 
 the lady in bed, so sweet and beauti r ul, like a hundred nightingales rolled into one, 
 that put me in mind of her and mat'e me let out the secret." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said the lady, " then you are Sir Harry Franklin's natural son, 
 and your mother was" — " dreadfully seduced madam ! 1 can tell you all about it 
 in the morning." 
 
 " Robert, will you give him the box, and an invitation to breakfast." " Confound 
 you," said the banker, as he stumbled his way into the next apartment, " curse me 
 if I dont think you'll like to be seduced you rRelf, that's m*- private o inion." 
 
 The lady heard him, and with a deep sigh, j-he reclined nack upon the bed, fs 
 he uttered the word. In a few moments, the banker returned with a 
 square tin box in his hand. 
 
 " Take it," he said, as he handed it to Adam Beech, "and tell your father that 
 of course I'm much obliged to him, but. that as it's possible the thieves may 
 in their disappointment do something savage and desperate, 1 wish he would !-en<l 
 some officers here directly " "I will you may depend sir. Madam, good night, I 
 hope that angels will go on hovering about you continually." 
 
 " And you will come *' said '.he lady, " and take a dit-h of chocolate with us in 
 the morning, that's a good lad, and then, you know, you can tell me all about your 
 mother. Heigho, its something to hear of such things." 
 
 Adam Beech walked down the stairs as livelv as possible with the bankers tin box' 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 199 
 
 wliiie the old man followed him with his eyes, and when he nearly got to the landing 
 of the first fl ght, he turned round and looked up to h*m, saying — 
 
 " 1 hope you know exactly wr.at's in the box, 'cos it'll be more satisfactory to 
 father and me, you know, if you do." <* Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes." 
 
 " Then good night, old blue mould, — you'd better take your last look at it, for 
 I'm damn'd if you'll ever see it again."' Murder ! murder !" cried the banker, 
 ** I suspected it." 
 
 Adam Beech did not expect that the old man had half the courage in him that 
 exasperation lent him, for he dashed down the statrcase with a desperation that 
 took Adam by surprise. 
 
 " You villain !" he cried, "my box, my box, my securities, my notes, my gold." 
 " You will have it will you," said Adam Beech, as he drew out his knife and opened 
 it with his teeth. 
 
 At the sight of this formidable instrument the banker paused, but he still con- 
 tinued to cry aloud for help ; so Adam Birch made a dart at him and caught hold 
 of the skirt of his dressing-gown, which so terrified him that he made his escape, 
 leaving that as a trophy in the hands of the robber. In another moment, Beech 
 reached the hall — the door was open, and he dashed into the street. 
 
 " Hold hard,'' said a man against whom he rushed, " I've caught you have I." 
 " Yes, yes," said Beech, " and how do you like me?" 
 
 He made a plunge at him with the knife, and the man fell with a groan upon 
 the pavement. To dart over the road then into the narrow entry where his compan- 
 ions were waiting for him, was the work of a moment. 
 
 <c Here's the box," he said, " now let's be off, you know better than I, where to 
 dispose of it." " I should think so," said one of them, " old Isaacson, in Skinner- 
 street, is the man, come on, come on," and away they all sped at a rapid pace, carry- 
 ing the banker's box with them. 
 
 The housebreakers were so thoroughly amazed at the success of Adam Beech, 
 that they instinctively followed him for some time, without making any remark 
 whatever. Then one took the load to the house of the Jew, who they knew would 
 at once enable them to realise the contents of the banker's tin box. 
 
 They all hurried on at a pace which made conversation not at all an easy matter ; 
 but the thief, who had from the first expressed a wild sort of admiration of Adam 
 Beech, came closer to him, and said, in a half whisper, — " My boy, mind the 
 captain, that's all." " What do you mean V said Adam. 
 
 " Mean, mean ; don't speak quite so loud, Captain Gaskin, don't love you quite 
 so well as he does brandy and water, although if he could he would swallow you 
 Jack, and that's all.'" 
 
 " I thank you," said Beech, " for the caution." " Oh, its nothing, I only tell 
 you as J woul l like to be told myself by any other gentleman, there ain't a parcel 
 of lawyer's that don't mind seeing each others throats cut for the fun of the thing. 
 S iy nothing, but when you meet to night do it with one eye, and don't sleep at 
 the Jew's." 
 
 The friendly housebreaker could say no more, for, Sir Gaskin, seeing a whis- 
 pering going on between him an<i Adam Beech, gradually sidled up to him to 
 overhear it, so that it would have been decidedly dangerous to continue this 
 warning. 
 
 You are a clever fellow," said Gaskin, £< Adam you are a very clever fellow ; 
 I'll take you under my care." " Thank you," said Adam, " I'm too old for a baby, 
 I think I was weaned yesterday, and can take care of myself." 
 
 " No offence." " Oh, none in the least ; and not only can I take care of myself 
 but I can give an eye to what, other people are about, I sleep with one eye open, 
 and if I have any doubt about anything, I clear it up with my knife. No offence, 
 I hope." 
 
 " Oh, none in the least," said Gaskin, <c Hike to hear you very much, you are 
 as loving as you like, I haven't met a fellow for this year past I like so well." 
 ". Well, I'm sorry for that," said Adam Beech. 
 
 *' Are you, what makes you sorry for it." " Why, because such an affectionate 
 
200 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 proceeding ought to be mutual, and I must say I have met with a great many 
 fellows, lately, that I like better than I do you." 
 
 " You're candid ; I believe you always were. I like to say my mind, and those 
 who do like it, like it all the better ; while those who don't, may lump it." 
 
 After this it was not very likely the captain would bestow much of his company 
 or conversation upon Adam. He made no further remark to him, but he kept suf- 
 ficiently close to prevent any further communication between him and the friendly 
 housebreaker, who, no doubt, had not given him the warning he had, without feeling 
 that he had ample cause for so doing. 
 
 Nothing further of any importance past between them until they reached the 
 house of the Jew, which was a dismal looking structure, with dingy broken windows, 
 and altogether in such a state of dilapidation that it seemed scarcely fit for the 
 habitation of any human being. 
 
 Moreover, it was to let, but since it was actually the property of Isaacson the Jew, 
 he easily succeeded, under one pretence or another, in putting off any intended oc- 
 cupier of the premises, which he merely announced to be let as a kind of blind, to 
 prevent the real purpose for which he inhabited such extensive premises from being 
 suspected. 
 
 The fact was, that not only did Isaacson keep there, a fence for the reception of 
 all sorts of stolen property, but he did actually and truly sometimes secrete from the 
 officers of the law the most daring offenders ; and most ingeniously contrived were 
 some portions of his premises for that express purpose. 
 
 It was now an hour of the night, when to knock at the door would have been to 
 create some disturbance ; and, indeed, it would have been somewhat hazaidous for 
 such a collection of persons to be seen entering together the house. 
 
 It was briefly explained to Adam Beech how he was to act, and how a few 
 minutes must be let elapse between the entrance of each of the housebreakers to 
 Mr. Isaacson's abode. 
 
 The little party then dispersed itself about the street, and Adam Beech, to his 
 surprise, saw one of them walk up to a spot immediately beneath one of the windows. 
 
 He saw him then stamp with his foot in a peculiar manner three times, after 
 which, as if by magic, he suddenly disappeared beneath the pavement. 
 
 Then another, and another, foil owed his example, until Adam Beech was left alone 
 in the street, with the tin box in his hand. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE JEW'S HOUSE, AND ADAM'S INITIATION. 
 
 Adam Beech only knew fear by name — that instinctive principle which mokes 
 many persons shrink from what is apparently pregnant with danger and difficulty, had 
 no place in his composition. On the contrary, if anything more than another had a 
 claim for him, it consisted in its being impregnated with that ticklish and dangerous 
 character that made its achievement something to look back upon with excitement. 
 
 Grasping the banker's tin box in his hand, he, after, as nearly as he could guess 
 the five minutes had elapsed, walked boldly forwad, and stood upon a square piece 
 of wood, which certainly from the street had none of the appea'a ice of a trap door, 
 immediately under one of the parlor windows of Isaacson's house. 
 
 With his heel he gave three smart raps, and then in an instant, before he could 
 think or utter a word, he found himself precipitated down a considerable depth, and 
 would unquestionably have fallen and hurt himself severely, but there he was seized 
 in the arms of a man, who from the ease with which he had him must have been of 
 Herculean stature and strength. 
 
 ''- Now my dear,'" said a voice, which from its accent evidently belonged to one 
 of the tribe of Israel. "Now my dear what is it? Be qaick for I'm busy — a thou- 
 sand curses, I don't know you, what the devil prompted you to come here? I can't 
 help it, but I must choke you." "Well then I can," said Adam Beech, "and, as the 
 gigantic Jew, for gigantic he was, grappled him by the throat, with his long bony 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 201 
 
 fingers ; Adam Beech lifted up the banker's tin box with both hands, and dealt him 
 such a crack in the face, that he not only made a considerable indention in the 
 bottom of the box,. but induced Mr. Isaacson to let go his hold ; and after several 
 plunging efforts to keep his feet, he fell upon the damp floor, of what seemed a kind 
 of cellar, in one corner of which, a rush-light was dimly burning, shedding a faint 
 and flickering ray upon the miserable walls. 
 
 At the sound of the Jew's fall, a hoarse shout of laughter sounded from the further 
 end of the cavernous place, and in another moment, the whole of Adam Beech's 
 late companions came forward. 
 
 "What's the row, cried one." "Ah," said Sir Gaskin, "that young fellow will 
 never be out <$f trouble." 
 
 " So help fife everything " said the Jew, rubbing his head, " what's it all about V' 
 
 "Why, I'mnot going to be choaked," remarked Adam, "by such a lowly old wretch 
 as that? let me get at him, and I'll soon settle him." 
 
 "Keep him fcff," said the Jew, "he's a young devil, does anybody know him? 
 look at my nos4" "Well then, Isaacson," said one, you shouldn't have such a sharp 
 bridge to it, it looks for all the word like a blackman's shin bone with the skin off ; 
 but come, come, this lad's a friend of ours, we onjy forgot to tell you." 
 
 No. 26. 
 
202 
 
 ".Ah," said the Jew, " and that's what you calls a lark, it had very nearly been a 
 dangerous one, I might have stopped that young fellows breath for him befoie any 
 of you knew anything about it." "Not at all," said Adam Beech, "they might just 
 as well have mentioned I was coming, but it's all one to me, for if you don't care 
 I'm sure I don't." 
 
 The Jew grumbled, and the housebreaker laughed ; for the latter thought it a fine 
 
 ? tactical joke, the allowing Adam Beech to descend into the cellar, without giving 
 saacson any notice of the fact; probably no real mischief could have occurred, as 
 they were too near at hand and would have rescued the boy from the Jew'* clutches, 
 had he not been so able, as he had shewn himself, to take bis own part. 
 
 Feeling now a little better, Isaacson rose to his feet, and picking up the light that 
 was in the corner, he walked up to Adam Beech. 
 
 With his disengaged hand, he lifted the cap frcm the boy's head and threw it down, 
 then as he waved the light to and fro, he took a leng ana minute look at his face : — 
 " Ah," he said, with a short dry cough, " I like him — tho' I think the cord is 
 likely to be already made that will fit his neck' — he'll have a run, as sure as I'm an 
 honest man a^d keep good company. Look ye, me dears, I hav'nt been in the 
 profession so long, as not to know a good trade face when I see it ; this boy will be 
 famous, yet ; I don't know what he's done, and 1 dont know w ho he is, but he's bom 
 for it. He's born to crack cribs, and he'll yet do something before he makes his 
 bow on a fine Monday morning, with a clear stage and no favor, that will astonish 
 some of you." 
 
 '* Thank'ye," said Adam Beech, and he dexterously whipped the candle out of 
 the Jew's hand, and with his other he twirled off ihe wig which the old ruffian wore; 
 then standing on tip-toe, he waved the light, lo and fro, and looked at the Jew's faee 
 as he had done at his : — 
 
 ** Ha," he said, imitating the short cough of the Jew, " I hav'nt lived a long while 
 in the world, but 1 know what 1 do know for all that, and of all the old humbugging, 
 canting, hypocritical, sneaking hounds that ever I came across, this fellow beats them." 
 
 There was a shout of laughter from the thieves, and the Jew looked rather 
 disconcerted. 
 
 " Moreover," said Adam Beech, "when any swng is brought him, instead of taking 
 his proper profit, and giving to the bold hands and open hearts that took it in the face 
 of all difficulties and dangers which they might have, he pockets the most himself 
 and runs no risk." " Bravo, bravo, bravo," cried one of the fellows, w that's as true 
 a°- if I'd said it myself; oh. wont he be a rum'un, a out-an-outer." 
 
 * Now, my man," said Adam, turning round, "ho }0u mean to tell me that there's 
 no better apartment than this for me to be shewn into ; damn you all, what do 
 you take me for ? " 
 
 The Jew lifted up his hands, "a prodigy," he said, " a prodigy, and I was near 
 choking him. I admire him. This way, this way ; come up stairs all of you, and 
 tell me what you've been about to-night — here, Jacob, Jacob." ** Yes, I wash a 
 coming," said a voice. And, from that corner of the place which was now enveloped 
 in gloom, there emerged a small sallow-looking ragged wretch, carrying a stool 
 in his hand. 
 
 " What is it, Master Isaacson 1 " " Jacob, keep watch by the trap ; you've got 
 your knife with you. If a friend comes, you can send him up, if anybody you 
 don't know, stick your knife into him, and when we come down again we'll see 
 who he is." 
 
 Jacob grinned and nodded, and then sat himself down, as. comfortably as possibly, 
 upon the stool, which he carried immediately beneath the trap-door. 
 
 " But do you mean to say," said Adam, " that you let everybody down with a 
 run like that I came with, for if so, I should say every time a visitor comes to you, 
 he runs a peculiar good chance of breaking his neck." " No, my dear, no," said 
 the Jew, but when I'm there, I can save any man a fall, and when I ain't there we 
 shovels them down gently, so that whoever's been here before, and knows the ways 
 
 the thing, need come to no harm ; and those who have not, must take their 
 chance." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 203 
 
 € * Fool," said Adam Beech ; " lead this way — I want to see what I've got in 
 ray tin box." " A prodigy, 1 ' said Isaacson, " a prodigy, so help me, Abraham, 
 a prodigy »" 
 
 He led the way up a circuitous flight of stairs to a large parlour at the back of 
 the house. It was scantily and meanly furnished, and the only article of great 
 stability that appeared to be in it, was a large table in the centre, covered with 
 green cloth. 
 
 There swung from the ceiling a lamp, which at one time might have been hand- 
 some, and graced some lordly hall ; but, as it was, the two molten dips that were 
 fixed in it, cut but a very sorry appearance, although they lent sufficient light to 
 the apartment to enable any business to be transacted in it. 
 
 In point of fact, it was neither more nor less than Mr. Isaacson's office, and 
 that worthy seated himself at the table, while the others grouped themselves 
 about it; and Adam Beech still kept a firm clutch of the banker's box. 
 
 " Now, understand me," said Adam Beech ; " this has been my job alto- 
 gether. None of you have had anything to do with it, so, to speak out ; still, 
 my principle is, share and share alike." " Hear, hear, hurra!" said one. 
 
 " If ycu don't hold your noise," said Beech, " I 1 !! cram something down your 
 throat that shall make you. Answer me, any of you when I speak to you, 
 that'll be sufficient. I must have discipline." "A prodigy!" said Isaacson ; 
 " quite a prodigy \" 
 
 " I was going to say," added Adam Beech, " that the share and share alike 
 is my usual plan. I can't do it. I won't do it, in this case. I want money. I 
 must have it, and I will have it, so I tell you what i mean to do ; and, if you 
 don't like it, go and get a banker's tin box for yourselves." " Very good," said 
 one. 
 
 " Hold your noise; nobody asked you whether it was very good or very bad. 
 Don't insult roe, any of you, by approving of what I say; because, I mean it, 
 whether you like it 07 not." " A prodigy!" said Isaacson, " a blessed prodigy!" 
 
 " I tell you what it is, Master Isaacson ; if you say that again, I'll ba down 
 upon you. Now, hark ye, gentlemen all, you see'this box." 
 
 He dashed his hand upon it as he spoke, and then came a ringing sound from 
 its interior, bringing to the minds of those who heard it bright visions of gold. 
 
 You see this box ; we none of us know what's in it. It's all guess work ; but 
 I'll take my chance, and so shall you. Whatever there is there, shall be divided 
 into two equal portions. I'll take one, and you may divide the other among 
 you.* ; 
 
 " What a piod — ! I begs your pardon ; I didn't say it, my dear," 
 
 The thieves looked rather black, and Sir Gaskin said, — 
 
 " Well, well, see what's in it; and you must recollect, Adam Beech, you 
 havn't paid your footing yet.'' " Not paid my footing," said Adam ; " I not 
 paid, when I probably bring you a richer booty than ever you clapped your 
 avaricious fingers upon. Talk to me of paying, when I walked into a house 
 while you all remained in the streets, and took from a man's very bed chamber 
 the gold which you are to have a share of— footing, indeed I" 
 
 " He's quite a prod — . Ahem, so help me Abraham, I didn't mean it. My 
 dear Mr. Beech, will you let me open the box?" *' Yes," said Adam ; " cheat 
 if you dare.'' 
 
 The Jew took a bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket, and after such a casual 
 glance at the lock, that no one could have supposed it possible for him to have 
 the least idea of its construction, he fitted one of them to it, and then it flew 
 open, for it was acted upon by a spring from within, and closed with a snap, 
 without the trouble of using the key. 
 
 " Notes," said Isaacson, 0 gold, a chain, bills. Ah! one, two, fifty — 110, 3. 
 Ahem ! Mr. Adam Beech. The bills are of no use, for plain paper will make 
 pipe lights quite as well ; the notes, my dear, we give fifteen per cent, for, and, 
 send them to the continent; and as for the gold, why, the gold, we—wo 
 divide that." 
 
204 
 
 NEWGATE- 
 
 "How much gold is there?" said Adam.— " Why," said Isaacson, as his 
 fingers played with the glittering heap, " I should say a matter of two hundred 
 or so." 
 
 The boy's eyes glistened, and he drew his breath short and thick. He had 
 scarcely dreamt of such a sum ; and in some mental calculation he seemed, for the 
 moment, to lose sight completely of the present, or of where he was. 
 
 " It will rescue her," he said, " rescue her from slavery and toil — from a hard 
 task-mistress — from blows. She can look upon the green fields and the sweet 
 flowers she loves so well. No more tears — no more sighs. Oh, how happy, 
 happy 1 can make her now. The golj, the gold, the gold — give me the gold — 
 that is, half, a half of it, a hundred pounds — a whole hundred — count them out 
 to me, Isaacson — stand aside all of you, I will have my gold, my gold — I took it 
 — I hazarded my life, my soul — as you are men, give it me, give it me — now at 
 once give it me — oh, give it me and let me go !" 
 
 " Agreed," said Isaacson, and then, seeing that Adam paid no attention to 
 him, he added, inquiringly, " quite a prodigy ?" 
 
 The thieves looked astonished at this sudden change of manner in Adam Beech ; 
 they could scarcely believe the evidence of their own senses, and as the boy stood 
 with his arms extended towards the gold, and a world of expression upon hi3 
 countenance, such as they had not seen it wear before, they looked from him to 
 each other with amazement. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the Jew, (< is our good friend, Mr. Beech, to have a hundred 
 pounds ?" " Yes," cried one, " give it him — he wants it, and I for one say, let 
 him have it." 
 
 " I thank," said Beech, eagerly fixing his eyes upon the face of the man, who 
 was the same that had warned him of the evil intentions of the captain towards 
 him. " I thank you — I thank you — 1 shall not forget you ; and there may come 
 a time when my remembrance of any man may be of more consequence than it 
 is now, for good or for evil." " Nobody says no," said Isaacson, " I don't care." 
 
 "The gold — the gold," cried Adam Beech ; "let me feel it, let me hold it in 
 my grasp — let me know that I have it — I will listen to the pleasant music it 
 makes — -feast my eyes upon it, feel its weight — I have a great purpose, a very 
 great purpose, one which I cannot, will not tell you, but — but — I will, I must 
 have the gold." " So help me, Abraham," said the Jew, " I suppose you don't 
 mind if there's one or two of them light." 
 
 He winked at Sir Gaskin, and gave a hideous sort of leer round the apaitment, 
 as he counted out from a heap of gold that he had estimated at two hundred, but 
 which amounted at the very least to five, aliundred pieces to Adam Beech. Oh, 
 how the boy's hands trembled as he grasped them — he shook from head to foot 
 as he placed them securely about him. 
 
 " Show me out — show me out," he said. "I must go at once." " To betray 
 us," said Sir Gaskin. 
 
 "Liar!" cried Beech, fiercely, and he turned upon the ruffian, who staggered 
 back to the wall. " I'll pledge myself for him," said the man, who from the first 
 had evidently a strong predilection for the lad ; " I pledge myself for him, let 
 him depart in peace." 
 
 " Hark ye, all of ye !" said Beech, with something of his original manner about 
 . him ; "hark ye ! as the clock strikes twelve to-morrow night, I shall be here ; if 
 I fail, tell yourselves that 1 am dead, and mind that you be all here likewise, for 
 it's not impossible that I may have cut out another piece of work for you. Isaacson, 
 show me out." " What a prodigy ! In a minute, good Master Beech — Abraham 
 look down upon you ! — in a minute — in a minute I" 
 
 " He began slowly collecting all the notes, securities, the remainder of the gold, 
 and finally the box itself on to one portion of the table ; then, to the astonishment 
 of Beech, he gave a stamp with his foot, and down it all disappeared in a moment, 
 through some orifice that suddenly opened and then closed again, so quickly that it 
 would require a most vigilant eye to detect the movement. 
 
 " Yes ; quite a prodigy — quite a prodigy !" said Isaacson, as if nothing had 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 205 
 
 happened. " Come on, my dear, come on; I'll show you the way out. So help 
 my Abraham, a prodigy !" 
 
 The Jew preceded Beech with a small lamp, and conducted him, not out of the 
 same trap door that had admitted him, but by the front and regular entrance to the 
 house. 
 
 As he went, he still kept remarking what a prodigy he considered Adam Beech to 
 be ; but the latter was by far too occupied by his own reflections to pay the least 
 attention to what Isaacson was saying. He made him no answer whatever, and 
 what the Jew intended, no doubt as very complimentary, fell upon a deaf ear. 
 
 The boy's thoughts were evidently very far away from the scene in which he was 
 engaged, and it was not until he heard the door close after him, and he stood alone 
 in the streets, that he drew a long breath, and clasping his head in both his hands, 
 he said, in strange, doubtful tones — 
 
 " Is it all a dream — is it all a dream— -can it be real ! My Mary ! — my own dear 
 Mary ! can I indeed rescue you from that oppression which has cost me so many 
 tears 1" 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MADAM POMPADOUR'S APPRENTICE. 
 
 The stormy night might be said to have passed away, and given place to another 
 of a much calmer and more beautiful complexion. The stars shone forth beautifully 
 in the clear vault of heaven, and the few scudding clouds that occasionally swept 
 across the azure vault, only lent a pleasing variety to what else had been a sameness 
 of universal blue. 
 
 Adam Beech looked up, and for a few moments watched those careering clouds 
 as they dimmed heaven's lustre. He then looked around him up the silent streets, 
 and with a strange sort of shudder he walked rapidly away. 
 
 Thought was evidently busy with the boy ; he made several gestures of im- 
 patience as he walked onwards, and at last he spoke — 
 
 " Never mind — never mind !" he said ; " I care not — a short life they say I shall 
 have — short and merry ; and they say that the rope is already spun that will hang 
 me. Be it so ; what care I, what am I to do ? work, work, work for ever, from 
 morning till night, and for what — just to live, nothing further — to eat and drink of 
 poor fare and have a few hours allowed for sleep — no, I'll not do it, damned if I'll 
 do it." 
 
 He walked on more rapidly than before. The hurry and excitement of his 
 feelings added wonderfully to the speed he made, and finally he reached Drury 
 Lane, up which he went with rapid strides, scarcely pausing to cast a glance at the 
 ' Old Fleece ' public house, where he had first made acquaintance with those who 
 might now be called his companions in crime. 
 
 He pushed onward, through a number of courts, and kept working his way 
 westward until he came to the aristocratic region of Bond Street. 
 
 He heard two o'clock strike from a neighbouring church, as he placed his back 
 against a doorway, and looked long and wistfully against a large house, the upper 
 windows of which were still illuminated by a glare of light. 
 
 Heaven only knows what thoughts were passing through the mind of Adam 
 Beech, as he gazed upon that mansion. His countenance worked strongly, and by 
 the effort he made now and then to swallow, one would think that some odd choking 
 sensation was in his throat. He was silent for nearly a quarter of an hour ; and, 
 when he did speak, it was in a voice of deep emotion, such as you would hardly 
 have thought from his age, and the general tenor of his manner and opinions, he 
 would have been capable of using* 
 
 "Not yet," he said, " not yet ; nothing but work, work, work, eternal for her ! 
 but I'll put an end to that. Is she to go on blinding herself in order that other 
 people may ride in their carriage ! No, I must have it ; I'll put an end to that 
 
206 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 soon. My Mary, ye shall find, that Adam Beech — poor Adam Beech, as you 
 consider him — can, and will do something that shall rescue you from beimr any- 
 body's slave. What an hour of the night — to be working still ! How quiet — how 
 very still is everything ! she'll surely come soon ; they won't — they can't have the 
 heart to keep her !" 
 
 He placed his arms upon his breast, and was silent for nearly another half of an 
 hour; then he made a sudden movement forward, for some of the lights in the 
 house were suddenly extinguished, and he knew that those young beings, who were 
 brought there to work — to toil for a hard task-mistress, were about to be released 
 for that night. 
 
 And now, while the lights, one by one were being extinguished in that house, 
 the reader may well know whose it was, and why Adam Beech spoke of it in such 
 harsh and hard terms. 
 
 It was no other than the millinery establishment of Madam Pompadour Gluctz, 
 a woman, who, from being an offshoot from some of those petty and rapa- 
 cious German families that have so long infested the court of Great Britain, had 
 succeeded in acquiring a good amount of patronage. 
 
 In fact, she was the court milliner, par excellence ; and, as her avaricehad, 
 grown with her success, she became the oppressor of a number of young girls 
 whom she took as apprentices and assistants, and whose very lives she did not 
 scruple, as it were, to turn into gold. 
 
 What to such a woman as that was it that, in the course of twelve months, 
 some half dozen or more young creatures were hurried to a premature grave — 
 by incessant toil, want ot exercise, and the continued breathing of a bad atmo- 
 sphere. 
 
 What to her, was the sacrifice of some of the finest and most beautiful of 
 heaven's creatures ! It required delicate and tape fingers to execute Madam 
 Pompadour's work, and, therefore, she searched for recruits among that sad and 
 mournful class, who may be described as having once known better days. 
 
 Among young girls she found her victims, who in early life had been nurtered 
 in the lap of luxury ; who had been so tenderly cared for, that the vary winds of 
 heaven had not been permitted to visit their cheeks too roughly. These were 
 the description of persons, who, having fallen by unmerited misfortune from their 
 nigh and palmy state, were compelled to drudge for that subsistence which before 
 had been meeted out to them by the liberal hand of affection. 
 
 And these, and such like these, were more easily imposed upon than meaner 
 spirits ; they shrunk from contact with such a woman as Madam Pompadour, 
 about shillings and pence, although shillings and pence were to them of such 
 vital importance. 
 
 Against them she would carry out all the petty meannesses of her disposition, 
 and if they survived beyond a year or two in such a state of slavery and 
 dependence, it was indeed a marvel. 
 
 We do not exactly mean to assert, that the Mary of Adam Beech could rank 
 precisely in this category. She, on the contrary, was one of those few choice 
 spirits, who seem fashioned by nature above the station destiny obliges them to 
 occupy. 
 
 Her parents were poor, although respectable enough, and decent pecp'e; but a 
 certain delicacy of structure, both mentally and physically, had unfitted her for 
 those pursuits in life to which her position might have actually condemned her ; 
 and so, forsooth, the poor girl — because she was the lady of the family—she 
 was sacrificed to Madam Pompadour, when she had much better have been a 
 housemaid. 
 
 Her age did not exceed sixteen, she was delicate, fair, gentle spoken girl, one of 
 those beautiful and quiet beings, who glide through existence, acquiring the af- 
 fection of every one, and showing by every movement, a total want of those 
 sturner attributes of humanity, which, as frequently will for evil, as for good. 
 
 It is an old doctrine, that we love our opposites, and so it would seem in this 
 instance to be the case, for no one human being could present a more marked 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 207 
 
 contrast to another, than did this beautiful, retiring, shrinking, timid girl, to the 
 bold recklessness of him who loved her. 
 
 And he did love her, as the reader, from what he has already seen, and already 
 knows of Adam Beech, is no doubt fully prepared to believe, he did love her with 
 his whole heart and soul ; and in Ihis instance, it was grievous to think that the 
 love of such a creature, as Mary, instead of inciting Adam Beech to noble and 
 lofcy deeds, should only have induced the commission of crime against which the 
 whole of society shut its face. 
 
 Not, that we" positively assert, that it was in consequence of his affection for 
 Mary, that he became a housebreaker, but the hope of rescuing her from her de- 
 pendant station, was certainly one among other causes contributing to make him 
 what he was. 
 
 And now having explained the position of this young creature, for whom 
 Adam Beech felt all the affection which his nature was susceptible, if we will 
 watch him, as he watches her slowly, and with languid steps emerging from the 
 door of Madam Pompadour. 
 
 '* Yes," he said, with eagerness, then she is there, is she ? my Mary ! Oh, I 
 should know her among a thousand—how tired, she is — I can see it, by the 
 manner in which she walks. Curse on Madam Pompadour. I will be even 
 with her yet, for by the heaven above me, no one shall run up a reckoning 
 with me, without paying it off in full." 
 
 He darted across the road, as he spoke, and pursued the girl ; who, really, with 
 tottering steps, and a bent , frame, for she was fatigued almost past indurance, 
 was making her way pensively towards her home. 
 
 Perhaps she was thinking how cruel and hard was her fate in life ; perhaps, of 
 Adam Beech, but be this, as it may, all other thoughts, but those of him were 
 soon chased from her mind, and 
 
 " Mary," he cried, as he suddenly came up behind her, and caught her in his 
 arms. 
 
 She turned and looked smilingly in his face, but it was a care-worn, sickly sort 
 of smile. The mind was struggling with the body's feebleness, and extending 
 both her hands to him, she said, in a voice that sounded so sweetly sad, as to go 
 direct to his heart, and from thence apparently to travel to his throat, causing a 
 choking sensation that prevented him irom speaking, although he mentally 
 breathed a tremendous oath against Madam Pompadour. 
 
 " Oh, Adam ! dear Adam ! is it you ? I did not think to see you here to-night, 
 so late, or rather so early, for I see the night stars are waning. Oh, I am very 
 weary." ' { Dam V* begun Adam. 
 
 " Hush, hush, I knew what you would say, you are no friend of Madam 
 Pompadour, and — and, I think she is cruel. I told her I was sick, and weary, 
 two hours ago, but I get no kind answer, but was compelled to work, although 
 my eyes seemed bursting from their sockets." ''Mary," said Adam, " I must 
 speak ; that Madam Pompadour, confusion, light upon her, as it shall some 
 day, and be damned to her." 
 
 " Now, Adam, Adam." "Well, well, I — I didn't me to say that before you 
 Mary, but I should like to wring her neck for her. I tell you it drives me mad 
 Mary, to think of her — quite mad — stark staring mad — but its all over now ; yes, 
 its all over — you shall never look upon her face again." 
 
 u What do you mem, Adam ?" . "What do I mean, ha, ha ! I mean what I 
 say, Mary — a glorious meaning — a meaning that shall rescue you — you shall 
 see again the green fields, the pleasant trees ; you shall have nothing to do- 
 literally nothing, but to look happy from morning to night, and retire to rest 
 without the fear of any task mistress to rouse you — no one shall dare to say to 
 you, do this or do that — threaten them if they do with Adam Beech, and tell 
 them that he has a friend who will stand between you and all harm." 
 
 " Adam, you alarm me ; a friend — what friend have you F " The best on earth, 
 'the very best on earth ; the only really powerful friend, Mary, whom no one 
 will gainsay — come along, damn Madam Pompadour ; she and I'll meet one 
 
208 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 night when she least expects it — she's run up an account with me, and shall 
 pay it." 
 
 " Adam, Adam, you alarm me ; I know not what you mean. How incohe- 
 rently you speak." " Sister, do you know this sound ?" 
 
 Adam Beech struck his pocket and the gold made a pleasant jingling. 
 
 " Is it money, Adam ?" " Yes, Mary, well guessed, and all for you. Hold 
 your hand — there both hands ; then see how they shine, gold, Mary. Why, why, 
 there's the price of year's of servitude with Madam Pompadour. For what amount 
 of toil would ever she present you with such a glittering heap as that. It is all 
 your's, all your's, Mary, do not look surprised ; go home—take it all with you, 
 do no work — surround yourself with all the things you love — books and birds, 
 and flowers, and music, and buy before this little shining heap of gold is gone. 
 I will add more to it, my Mary, so that you shall feel and know yourself a lady 
 as you ought to be." 
 
 The youg girl stood like a statue, her two small, child-like looking hands, were 
 outspread before her, into which Adam Beech had placed the gold ; and so 
 vehemently and so joyously had he spoken, that she could but cast her eyes 
 from the glittering treasure he had given her, to his countenance ; and then, with a 
 bewildered look, back again to the wealth which exceeded all her dreams, and 
 which she felt, indeed to use his own words, was more than the purchase money 
 of all the slaves that surrounded the greedy and the crafty Madam Pompadour. 
 
 (i You are surprised, Mary, look at it again, it is gold, real, glittering 
 gold. You cannot doubt ; look my Mary, hear the pleasant music it makes 
 in your ears." " Music, Adam ?" 
 
 ** Yes, yes, Mary, you will be happy now — very happy, will you not; no work, 
 none of those things to do which have so long exercised your gentle spirit ; no 
 oppression ; rise when you like, sing, dance, sleep, read ; do which you please, 
 my Mary, and if any one question your right to do so, slow them the gold, the 
 bright and beautiful gold, that is all your own." " My own V 
 
 " Yes, all your own ; are you not happy, Mary ; are you not happy :" 
 " Happy, Adam?" 
 
 " Nay, have you nothing to say but to repeat my words ? But do not mistake 
 me, I want no thanks. I want nothing but the consciousness that 1 have in 
 some way contributed to rescue you from the cruel thraldom in which you were 
 placed ; that alone, my Mary, is an ample reward for me." " Adam, you 
 terrify me." 
 
 "Terrify you?" "Yes, your manner so strange, so altered — this gold — oh! 
 Adam, tell me, tell me, how came you by it?" 
 
 " Nay, my Mary, that is scarce worth the inquiry ; you have it, it is freely 
 and entirely your's. I give it you ; I, Adam Beech ; surely I may give gold to 
 one I love, if it so please me." 
 
 " The girl trembled — alarm showed itself upon every feature of her countenance, 
 and her hands shook so that some of the bright pieces fell upon the pavement, 
 with a jingling sound. 
 
 She looked with such a distressful expression in the face of Adam Beech, that 
 he became in his turn alarmed, and throwing his arm round her waist, he said 
 in imploring accents— 
 
 "Mary, Mary, you are not well, speak to me, what is it ails you?" "Adam 
 Beech," she said solemnly, " Adam Beech, I know that you love me." 
 
 " Yes Mary, I do, I do, as there is a God in heaven, I do. And do you not love 
 me Mary. Can you not spare me one tender thought, or beautiful emotion." 
 
 She scarcely seemed to hear him, hut continued what she herself had been 
 saying : — 
 
 " Yes, I belive I may say I know you love me — you have convinced me of it 
 most abundantly from time to time, so that I dare not, will not doubt ; and, there- 
 fore, Adam, dear Adam, 1 will say if the phrase will please you better, therefore, 
 dear Adam, by that love which I am very sure you feel for me, I ask you, and I 
 implore you to tell me truly and faithfully, where did you get this gold ?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 209 
 
 She held it out before his eyes, and a guilty spasm crossed his heart. It had not 
 previously occurred to him that the young und beautiful girl, whom, in all the wild 
 enthusiasm of his affections could ask him such a question, or if she did, he little 
 suspected that she would press it with so much determination and pertinacity. 
 
 Where Adam - she said « where did y ou get the gold." « Where did I get it 
 Mary ? I— I got for you, all for you." 6 
 
 gouT" 3 Adam ' yes ' 1 know you have given h t0 me ' Lut 1 ask you where y° u 
 
 There was no avoiding this home question. He struggled for a moment with 
 himself to know if he should coin some lie with which to impose upon the guileless 
 nature of the young girl, or tell her truly and distinctly the truth. 
 
 She marked, with a tact that one could not have expected from her years, the 
 mental struggle, and she spoke to him again. 
 
 " Adam, Adam, let me believe and really feel that you love me, let me know 
 beyond a doubt that you do so, by your now telling me the truth — the simple, 
 honest truth, Adam — deceive me but this once and my faith and trust in you is gone 
 for ever. Tell me, I implore you Adam Beech, where did you get that gold ?" 
 
 No. 27. 
 
210 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Still he hesitated— still he trembled to communicate to that young, and beautiful, . 
 and trusting being, a secret which to make her the depository of, would be probably 
 not only to inflict upon her the severest heart pangs she was capable of feeling, but 
 possibly some attendant danger. 
 
 And probably this latter consideration weighed more with him, because he under- 
 stood it better than the former. 
 
 He might have removed with her — he might possibly have succeeded in instilling 
 into her some portion of the wild and bad philosophy he had himself imbibed, that 
 the crime was but venial, on the part of the poor, to help themselves out of the 
 abundance of the rich. 
 
 This he might have succeeded in doing, and this he might have hazarded the 
 attempt to do ; but he was too acute to conceal from himself that there must be 
 some amount of danger to any person possessing the secret of a crime such as that 
 he had committed. 
 
 " Do not ask me Mary," he said, u do not ask me. It is mine, and I give it you 
 freely, what need you know more." 
 
 <c This gold yours Adam, when, from the first moment that I have known you, 
 your lament has been that you could not procure money wherewith to place me and 
 yourself above the recal of circumstances so depressing, as those which have 
 gathered round us." 
 
 ie Mary, Mary, why are you so suspicious? Why will you reject a proffered good, 
 merely on the ground that you do not understand how it came into existence. 
 Take the money and fear nothing?" 
 
 " No, no, Adam, t cannot, I dare not — you said you loved me, and I believe 
 you — refuse to tell me how you got this gold, and I will tell you no more." 
 
 He was evidently shaken, and he walked for some distance forward so quickly, 
 that the young girl had almost to run to keep up with him. 
 
 His mind was much disturbed, there was a strange and fearful expression upon 
 his countenance, but there was no repentance for the crime he had committed, no 
 yearnings to get back again to the paths of virtue he had left ; no, all he felt was a 
 deep sense of aggravation, of positive anger, that after all his trouble, after all the 
 pains he had taken to procure that bright and glittering heap of gold, it should be 
 looked upon wkh eyes of distrust ; and be the means of providing for the first time, 
 a disagreement between him and the beautiful girl whose affections he had been so 
 fortunate as to win . 
 
 Alas, alas, Adam Beech, you are not yet old enough to have made the discovery, 
 that that very bright gold you made such exertions to call your own by the right of 
 possession, is the prolific source of all contentions. 
 
 It has severed the noblest hearts that ever beat in unison together. It has made 
 love which seemed as refulgent as an everlasting flame from heaven, grow dim and cold, 
 
 It has parted friend — it has armed the parent against the child — the child against 
 the parent — it has dismembered communities — it has placed the knife in the hand of 
 the assassin. Is it surprising then, that it should commence exerting its full influ- 
 ence upon the happiness of Adam Beech, before it had been four hours in his 
 possession. 
 
 He turned abruptly towards the beautiful girl who with difficulty had kept up to 
 him, and with a horrid expression, and a gesture of impatience, to call it by its 
 mildest term, which she before had not seen him wear, he said — 
 
 " Mary, is this kind, when I bring you gold which will remove you from the very 
 circumstances of which you complain, you find fault, and look upon it as if it were 
 a curse instead of a blessing." 
 
 " Adam !" she said, " it is because I know not whether it be a blessing or not, 
 that I pause." 
 
 " Indeed 1" 
 
 e< Yes, Adam, yes ! you did not work for it." 
 
 "Work, work for that amount you have now within your trembling grasp \ What, 
 work, and how long a continuance of toil do you. think would have placed so much 
 at my disposal ?— no, you are right then, I did not work for it." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 211 
 
 H Then some one gave it you ! " 
 He laughed bitterly, as he replied. 
 
 ?f Why yes, certainly, some one gave it me, but I cannot say it was a free 
 gift, although I make it one to you/" 
 
 " Oh, my heart misgives me— a thousand fears rush across my brain, Adam, 
 Adam, you did not, you did not—" 
 
 « What?" 
 
 She was silent, she would not pronounce the word that hung upon her lips. 
 
 " Mary," he said, sneeringly, after a short pause, " you might have taken that 
 gold, and you should have taken it without a question — it would have been happier 
 for you to have done so, much happier. But since you have pressed me thus far, 
 and I see that I mast tell you, be it so, — I took the gold." 
 
 ** Is — is that, but another word for steal V 
 
 <e There's two ways of telling a story, I took it — that's enough, I took it from one 
 who can very well spare it — one who will miss no comfort for the loss of it, while 
 it will surround you with all that your wants and wishes require. Here I'll wrap 
 it up for you in a handkerchief, and you'll have it safe — shew the bright pieces 
 to no one — speak to one of such a store but to me, and long before it has 
 sufficiently diminished to make you feel that it is going from you, I will bring 
 you more." 
 
 As he spoke, he took from the hands of the young girl, the gold and wrapped it 
 securely in the corner of a handkerchief, so tightly, too, that it became a compact 
 mass, making no jingling sound, and then he gave it to her back again, fancying 
 from her silence that she had made up her mind to receive the gift, notwithstanding 
 the equivocal manner in which it had been obtained. 
 
 " You see Mary," he continued, " being gold there is no danger, no one can 
 swear to gold pieces, and you may spend them freely ; do not be under the slightest 
 apprehension, and always remember that I will stand between you and harm, and 
 mark me — above all things, answer no questions." 
 
 They had walked on as he was speaking, and now as they paused beneath a lamp., 
 he caught a glance of the young girl's face ; its expression almost terrified him, so 
 waa, so desolate, so full of despair, did she look, that any one who had seen her, 
 even with that^ pale and anxious look, which of late had grown upon her, would 
 scarce have known her now to be the same being, 
 
 He expected, that when she sufficiently recovered herself to speak, she would 
 burst upon him with such a torrent of remonstrances as would be terrifying to him, 
 but he was wonderfully disappointed and surprised, when she said, with a strange 
 sort of calmness, — 
 
 " Adam, from whom took you the gold V 
 
 "From old Lamont, the banker, in George Street, Westminster — how your 
 scruples are at work, Mary ! You know well, from common repute, that he can 
 spare it. What is ten times such an amount to him ? " 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " Come now, that's sensible ; you see the thing, Mary, in its right light, you will 
 go home and be happy." 
 " Yes, very happy, Adam!" 
 « Well, Mary!" 
 
 " "Where shall we meet to-morrow '{ I must see you to-morrow, and, somewhere 
 for certain ; you must name some place, some hour, when I can count upon coming 
 to you, for I shall have much to tell you." 
 
 " Have much to tell me ? Oh, ah, I know now, you will have much to tell me ; 
 you'll have to tell me what you did with the gold — how youv'e disposed of it." 
 
 f< Yes, Adam, that is just'what I shall have to tell you, you have guessed it." 
 
 " Well, Mary, well, we may meet where you please, all places are alike to me ; 
 shall it be in day-light or in dark, for no more work you know, for you will be your 
 own mistress." 
 
 " No ! no more work," she said, hysterically, « no more work, I shall be my 
 own mistress— very much my own mistress. It must be, Adam, between nine and 
 
212 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 ten ; and for the place, what say you to the terrace, hy the Adelphi, where we have 
 met before, and exchanged many gentle words.'' 
 
 " Be it so, I shall be punctual at nine, and shall expect you, Mary, shortly after- 
 wards, as you can come. Come now, you see this thing more rationally." 
 
 '* Yes — yes, I do, indeed." 
 
 " Now you know what to think, and what to do, you have made up your mind to it." 
 
 " Quite, quite ; as God is a merciful judge, quite. I must go home now, 
 Adam, see here, you have brought me nearly to my door, and I can come to no 
 danger ; leave me now, and I shall do well ; good night, Adam, good night, 
 remember to-morrow, and rely upon the trusting constancy of one, who truly loves, 
 that she considers no sacrifice too great, no effort too laborious, to save him, upon 
 
 whom her affections are fixed, from such horror as What am I saying <— 
 
 what am I saying. It is nothing, Adam, nothing ; I am confused and bewildered." 
 
 "Jn truth, you seem so, dear Mary." 
 
 " Leave me now, you see I'm close at home ; to-morrow — to-morrow." 
 
 Adam Beech looked up the street and down the street, and seeing no one visible, 
 he took a parting kiss of the fair young creature, who, evidently, had something 
 more upon her mind than she chose at that moment to make him acquainted with. 
 
 As he pressed his lips to her cheek, her long silken eye lashes touched his face, 
 and reminded him, that although she did not sob, she had been weeping, for they 
 left the trace of tears behind them. 
 
 *f Good night, my Mary — good night, you are agitated, this unexpected stroke of 
 good fortune, has been too much for you, but well I know, there's not a lady in the 
 land can grace a loftier station equal to you; you must attire yourself in silks and 
 satins, an d I shall soon see again that sweet, calm, rosy cheek, which was once so 
 beautiful* Good night, dear Mary, — goodnight — goodnight." 
 
 Again he heard and felt that a shudder ran through her frame as he did so, he 
 knew that all was not well with her, there was a strange and cold reserve about her 
 manner, she rather submitted to his caress like some exquisite statue, then even 
 faintly returned it with the gentle warmth of a young and affectionate girl. 
 
 And so she went from him and passed into the humble abode of her parents, 
 leaving him gazing upon the spot she had last occupied, as if it contained some po- 
 ten t spell to rivit his gaze. 
 
 " She has taken the money," he said, " but taken it strangely, I know not what 
 to think, and yet she has it. It was very strange that her great reluctance should 
 seem to arise from a dread of that, which when she actually knew, beyond all dispute 
 seemed at once to crush all scruples — and yet she took the money ; well, well, I know 
 her heart, a better never beat in human bosom." 
 
 He took another glance up at the house, a slight smile played upon his lips, some 
 whispered blessing arose from his heart upon the very structure that contained its 
 dol, and then with a hasty step he walked away. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE GIRL IN HER CHAMBER. 
 
 Mary Phillips had the means of letting herself into the house, without disturbing 
 her parents, for she was too often and unexpectedly detained at Madam Pompadour's 
 to make her return a matter that could be calculated upon with any certainty. 
 
 With a facility which long habit had given her, she ascended the narrow staircase 
 which led to her own chamber. 
 
 Her thoughts were elsewhere, instinct alone guided her ; she reaches that little 
 room, sacred to one of the most beautiful and sinless beings God ever sent upon the 
 green earth to show it what were the real attributes of beauty and gentleness. 
 
 And now she has reached the room ; in a few moments she procures a light ; she 
 has not yet spoken, and her next effort is to close the door and fasten it, then 
 indeed she feels that she is alone — no human eye is upon her — there are none to 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 213 
 
 note the alternations of feeling that sweep across her — no eye to see the rolling 
 tears, no ears to drink in the deep sighs that came from her laboring bosom. 
 
 She is alone — alone with no eye but that of heaven to look down upon her. 
 
 She tottered to her little bed which from a child she had occupied, she flung her- 
 self upon it in a despairing agony, and then she wept. 
 
 Gushing, as if from a thousand fonts, came those tears too long pent up; she wept 
 like a child who feels all the bitterness of some childish grief dimming the sunshine 
 of its joy. 
 
 Long, long, and bitterly did she weep ; until at last, with heaves and throbs, the 
 tears ceased to flow, and she arose calmer and more capable of reflection. 
 
 "It is over now," she said, " that gush of feeling I knew that it must come, I should 
 have died else. Oh! Adam Beech, Adam Beech ! why have you inflicted upon me 
 so much misery? I, who have loved you so ; I, whom I will believe, too, you so fondly 
 loved. Heaven grant me strength of mind and purpose, to accomplish that great 
 object which suggests itself to me, even at a moment, and which surely must have 
 been whispered by some good angel to my heart." 
 
 She went to the latticed window and looked out upon the night, there was unequi - 
 vocal evidence of the approach of morning, and it gave her some satisfaction to see 
 the faint gray light spreading over the world of houses that surrounded her, lending 
 even to the most unromantic and common-place looking objects a great and abounding 
 charm. 
 
 " It will soon be time," she said, " soon time when I can stir abroad, to make the 
 effort to save him — this gold, this hateful gold, for which he has sinned so deeply, 
 it shall go back to its owner, and if there be but one spark of generous, or of 
 genuine feeling which the eloquence of love can awaken in the heart of him from 
 whom this dross was taken, I will awaken it. 
 
 She closed the casement, and then with trembling fingers she untied the hand- 
 kerchief which held the precious hoard. 
 
 Piece by piece she counted the money, and when she had concluded she tied it up 
 again in the same place from whence she had taken it. 
 
 *• A hundred pieces," she said, " an exact hundred — thank heaven there is not 
 one missing — they shall all return— all, all, and I will save you, Adam Beech, yet — 
 yet, I will save you." 
 
 The hurry and pertubation of her spirits would not allow her to retire to rest, she 
 sat up until the candle had expired ; and when it did so, she found she had a 
 better and a more diffused light from the early dawn that came sweeping into the 
 chamber. 
 
 She laid down upon her couch to rest as she thought, but not to sleep. 
 
 " In another hour," she said — " in another hour I will go to Lamont's, the 
 bankers. He shall have back his money, and Adam Beech will be saved ; in another 
 hour — yes, in about another hour." 
 
 There is surely some soothing and somniferous influence in the early dawn ; for, 
 those who have tossed the livelong night in feverish fretfulness, will, as the first 
 faint streak of coming day illumines the east, sink into a sweet and gentle slumber, 
 dreamless and beautiful as some happy child who knows no care, who has not yet 
 entered that gladatorial arena of native life, where the great struggle to live com- 
 mences with the supleness of youth, and ends but in the tomb. 
 
 Insensibly, slumber stole over the senses of Mary Phillips, who strove to shake it 
 off, but it was so delicious an inclination, that mind and body alike yielded to the 
 influence. 
 
 "In an hour," she muttered, gently, " in an hour, to save Adam Beech—to save 
 him — the gold — Lamont, the banker ; yes, an hour ; the morning comes beautiful 
 and bright ; I must not sleep — sleep — -sleep." 
 
 Mary Phillips was in the land of dreams. 
 
 * * * * * * *** 
 
 Heaven knows when Mary Phillips would have awakened, had not a violent 
 knocking at her door aroused her partially, and a bright gleam of sunshine upon 
 her face completed her disturbance. 
 
214 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 She sprung to her feet ; and, for a moment or two, reflection did not come 
 sufficiently to her aid to enable her to know what had occurred, or where she was. 
 
 But then, as memory resumed her reign, the events of the night flashed across her 
 mind, and with a pang of bitter regret she felt that she had negleeted something 
 which it was now the greatest object of her life to achieve. 
 
 " The gold, the gold," she said, " I had forgotten. Oh, heaven ! then I have 
 slept, when I should have been after stirring with the lark — who knocks, who 
 I knocks." 
 
 Her mother's voice now came upon her ear, warning her that it was beyond the 
 j hour when it behoved her to get ready to go to Madam Pompadour's. 
 
 She flew to the door, and undoing the fastening, she admitted that mother, whose 
 I greatest grief it was to consider that one whom she loved so well was compelled to 
 I work so hardly. 
 
 j "You see I am dressed mother," said Mary, " and, therefore, have not been 
 1 altogether a sluggard." 
 
 ; " Oh, my dear," said" the mother, shaking her head, " you were late last night, but 
 you must leave that Madam Pompadour's, this will never do, she's killing you by 
 inches. It is cruel, too cruel, and it must not be." 
 
 " Nay, mother, nay, it is nothing you know, we must all work, it is the common 
 i lot of humanity ; so I should not complain more than another that I have my por- 
 j tion of daily labour to perform." 
 
 " Yes, but my darling, it is too heavy a portion ; but bless the child, how red 
 [ your eyes are, have you been weeping?" 
 
 " Weeping, mother, what should I have to weep at, that am blessed with you 
 , who loves me so well." 
 
 " Ah!" said Mrs. Phillips, with a sigh, "you cannot deceive me, something has 
 gone amiss. Your father and I were talking it over only last night, and we can 
 neither of us bear to go to bed, and know that you are staying out of doors, and 
 for what? all for the profit of a woman who has no bowels of compassion, and 
 who no more thinks of any body but herself than I do." 
 
 It was one of poor Mrs. Phillips's peculiarities, that she always made a com- 
 parison of every thing and every body with herself ; and most unjustly, in the 
 majority of instances did she do so. But Mary quite understood her, and there- 
 fore made no remark upon the discrepancy, only saying : — 
 
 " I, certainly, mother, cannot accuse Madam Pompadour of much considera- 
 tion for any body but herself ; but, you know, we must not repine at the lot 
 j which it is the will of heaven we should endure. I am ready now to go." 
 " But not without your, breakfast, child, not without your breakfast." 
 Mary would gladly have been off without refreshment at all, but she knew her 
 mother would not permit that, and the contest to decline it would have taken far 
 more time, than remaining and partaking of the simple fare which it was in the 
 power of Mrs. Phillips to place before her. 
 
 She just remained long enough to partake of something which bore the sem- 
 blance of a breakfast, rather than the reality ; and then, with that bright gold, 
 which had done, heaven knows, mischief enough, she sallied forth with a fixed 
 determination of making a great effort to save Adam Beech from the consequences 
 of a crime, she believed, solely for her sake, he had committed. 
 
 . It would be a vain task to attempt to analyse the feelings of Mary Phillips, as 
 she took her way towards Westminster, instead of to the work-room of Madam 
 Pompadour, whither it certainly was her duty to go, if far higher feelings had not 
 taken her in another direction. 
 
 At any other time she would have shrunk aghast from thus disappointing her 
 task-mistress, but now, with a differerent feeling, and a fixed idea that made her 
 believe she was obeying the behests of heaven, and accomplishing one of the 
 highest and the holiest of human purposes, she went her way towards the bankers, 
 not even pausing to speculate upon the possible or probable consequences of ne- 
 glecting those duties, which, for nearly a year, now, had been daily ones with 
 : her. 
 
NEWGATE. 215 j 
 
 And thus it is, that great events, events which, evidently in themselves are 
 calculated to produce important results, completely ingulph as it were, and swal- 
 low up all our impulses. 
 
 The whole thoughts of Mary Phillips were bent upon what she* should say to 
 the banker, and it was with a beautiful and abounding faith in human nature, 
 such -as alas, time and circumstances were not likely to verify, that she pursued 
 her fixed, and what we may truly call, holy purpose. 
 
 The distance was traversed, and she stood opposite to the house in which that 
 most daring burglary had been committed, and which Adam Beech, the object of 
 her fondest solicitude, had looked upon a short time before with such widely 
 different feelings. 
 
 Mary Phillips now trembled, not from any doubts of the greatness, the justice, 
 or the goodness of the cause in which she was embarked, but youth, — maidenly 
 fear, kept her back ; and she shrunk, not so much from what she had to say, and 
 what she had to do, as because she had to say it, and to do -it, to people of whom 
 she knew nothing ; people, who, perhaps — and that was a cruel supposition — 
 might not appreciate her motives of action; people who might misconstrue that 
 which she said, torturing it into a different meaning, and scarce crediting the 
 real, fervent, and beautiful feelings which actuated her. 
 
 But yet she would not pause in her enterprise, because there was a doubt of 
 its success ; for well and truly did she tell herself— that there was nothing 
 human which could be divested entirely of such a possibility. 
 
 " I will make the effort/' she said, " to save him ; and, with a faith in those 
 qualities which heaven has given in a greater or a less degree, to all its creatures — ! 
 qualities of mercy and goodness — I will hope for success. If I find intense aggra- j 
 vation, because money has been taken, that shall surely vanish when the money is j 
 returned. If I find that there is a deep sense of injury in consequence of this j 
 dreadful theft, I will ask them to be merciful ; I will tell them, that he who has i 
 done them so much wrong is young, and if now crushed by the stern hand of I 
 justice, may know no hope — indulge in no wish of reformation — but casting 
 aside all desire to oe other than he is, will become all that they imagine him— as ; 
 bold in his badness as this act would seem to picture him, and without a shadow 
 of better feeling." 
 
 The morning was advancing, and further hesitation might beget danger ; but 
 still, with all her noble self-confidence — and with all her confidence in the cause 
 she went to advocate — Mary Phillips did shrink a little as she raised the pon- 
 derous knocker in her hand, and claimed admission to the banker's house. 
 
 The door was not opened with the celerity that Benjamin Brick was accus- 
 tomed to use ; and, indeed, she was upon the point of repeating her summons 
 for admission, when, at length, the portal gave way, and she looked into that 
 hall where Adam Beech on the preceding night had stood gazing around him for 
 a few moments before — as we have duly recorded — he proceeded to the banker's 
 bedroom. 
 
 Oh, with what different feelings did this young and beautiful girl look around 
 her upon these beautiful and costly works of art of virtu — with which the 
 place abounded ; and it was some moments before she observed the most promi- 
 nent object in the hail, nor probably would she then have observed it, had not a 
 decided gruff voice said— 
 
 " Well, what is it ? Is your errand here just to stare about you ?" 
 
 The door had been opened to her by a female, so that Mary Phillips, as well 
 she might, looked about a little for the owner of the voice that now addressed 
 her. 
 
 Seated in his huge leathern chair, with the vaulted back to it, was the re- 
 doubted Benjamin Brick— but he was not the Benjamin Brick of the day before ! 
 Alas I no ; the glory of his existence had departed for ever. 
 
 His head was bound round by a linen bandage, and a huge strip of sticking 
 plaister came diagonially across his nose, as if by its sole agency this important 
 feature of his countenance was kept in its proper place. His face, except where 
 
216 NEWGATE. 
 
 sprinkled here and there with ruddy spots, was very pale, and there was a lurid 
 light in his eyes which spoke of desperate passion with difficulty subdued. 
 
 "What are you staring at?" he inquired, "Damn it, is the girl dumb — can't 
 you speak?'' 
 
 " I want to see Mr. Lamont," said Mary, shrinking back from the coarse and 
 ungainly looking figure that Benjamin presented. 
 
 " Oh, you do — do you ? And who may you be, pray, that wants to sea Mr. 
 Lamont — and what do you want with him?" 
 
 " I've already told you," said Mary, *' that my business is with Mr. Lamont. 
 It is not likely, therefore, that I should first communicate it to his hall-porter V* 
 
 Benjamin Brick glared at her for a few moments in silence. He was debating 
 in his own mind whether it would be quite safe to be insolent to her or not ; 
 and the result of his cogitations appeared to be, that his fears triumphed over 
 his ill-humour. 
 
 Like most bullies, he shrunk from before any one who showed a disposition 
 to offer resistance ; so that, even that young girl, in all her feminine weakness 
 and gentleness, might be said to have achieved as great a moral victory over 
 Benjamin Brick, as Adam Beech had, a purely physical one. 
 
 But if the redoubted Benjamin had but thought for a moment that she was in 
 any way connected with the affair of the past night, he would not have spoken 
 so civilly, or so humbly, as he now did to the young girl ; who, for aught he 
 knew to the contrary, might be some personage of considerable importance, 
 although her attire bespoke no such fact. 
 
 " Well, miss," he growled, " if you must see Mr. Lamont, of course you must, 
 and there's an end to that. I can't move out of this chair myself. A gang of 
 thieves broke into the house last night, I killed two of 'em, and they carried away 
 the dead bodies ; but what can a man do, let him fight ever so well, against at 
 least twenty fellows armed to the teeth ? Look at me, miss ; do I look at all like 
 an engaging sort of man now'?" 
 
 " You certainly do not." 
 
 " And yet I was yesterday, miss ; although I am but a hall-porter, and plain 
 Benjamin Brick." 
 
 " Yes," said the servant girl, who. had opened the door, in consequence of 
 Benjamin's inability to get out of his chair, " we all know you're plain Benjamin 
 Brick." 
 
 (i Get out with you — get out !" • 
 
 " And as for the twenty men all armed, that robbed the house last night, I heard 
 missus say this morning, that it was as genteel a youth as ever she sat eyes upon, 
 aye, and as well spoken a one too." 
 
 " A youth !" cried Benjamin Brick. " I think T see a youth, or a hundred and 
 fifty youths, getting the better of me." 
 
 " Well, 1 don't know, but that's what missus said ; and more than that, she said 
 she forgave him, too, with all her heart, for she knew he wasn't a common thief." 
 
 " Oh ! did she say that ! did she indeed say that t" exclaimed Mary. 
 
 " Why, yes, she did." 
 
 " Yjpu're sure of it, quite sure of it V 
 
 " Aye, certainly ; I heard it with my own ears." 
 
 " Blessings on her for a kind, considerate, noble -hearted lady. Oh 1 this is 
 more than I expected — this is great joy !" 
 
 " But what is it to you, you seem quite interested ?* 
 
 " No, I — 1 — it is nothing to me of course. I wish to see Mr. Lamont." 
 
 " My mind misgives me," said Benjamin Brick, and he rolled his eyes fiercely ; 
 " my mind misgives me — there's something a going on. Give me my blunderbuss, 
 my mind misgives me again." 
 
 Mary shrank back, and took hold of the servant's arm, as if for protection ; 
 but the girl soon showed her how little they cared there for Benjamin Brick. 
 * " Hoity-toity !" she said ; " your mind misgives you indeed, you've got no mind 
 to do any such thing with, Benjamin Brick, you great stupid oaf ! much good yon 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 217 
 
 are to sit there, puffing and blowing like an old grampus, and let the house be 
 robbed last night. We might have all been murdered in our beds for all you could 
 have hindered it." 
 
 " Come, come, Maria/' said Benjamin, " you don't know what I went through 
 last night." 
 
 " Oh ! take me to see Mr. Lamont said Mary, " time is very precious with 
 me, I have something of the greatest importance to communicate to him, and each 
 moment of delay to me is quite an age of pain.'* 
 
 " Then come this way, he'll be down to breakfast in a few minutes, and I'll tell 
 him. Who shall I say wants to see him V 
 
 " I'm quite a stranger to him," said Mary ; <{ but my name is Mary Phillips." 
 
 The servant took Mary into a room adjoining the breakfast-parlour, to which the 
 banker and his lady were about to descend, and left her there, assuring her she 
 would do all in her power to procure for her an interview with the banker. 
 
 About ten minutes elapsed, which were to Mary almost equal to as many hours, 
 so extremely anxious was she to complete her mission. She heard the sound of 
 voices in the next apartment, and she guessed that Mr. and Mrs. Lamont had come 
 down stairs. 
 
 No. 28. 
 
218 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 From the tone in which she heard them conversing, she could have very little 
 difficulty in believing, that they were a couple who did not live together upon the 
 most amicable of terms. There was sarcasm, and there was ridicule in the tones of 
 the lady, while downright anger predominated in those of the gentleman. 
 
 It was not a very promising state of things for poor Mary's mission, more 
 especially, when she thought that it was just possible the robbery of the preceding 
 night might be the cause of this disputation ; and this idea gathered confirmation in 
 her mind, when she remembered what she had been told by the servant girl, of the 
 kind and generous feeling entertained by Madam Lamont towards the young 
 housebreaker, a feeling which was not at all likely to be shared in by her husband. 
 
 For a few minutes this thought was an extremely depressing one ; but then, 
 when she came to consider that she had it in her power to produce an argument 
 for mercy, to the banker, in the shape of a restitution of his money, she gathered a 
 better hope upon the occasion, and became inspired with more courage. 
 
 And now she heard a little conversation go on in the breakfast room, which 
 related to herself. It appeared, as if the servant had made an announcement of 
 Mary's presence, for the banker suddenly exclaimed : — 
 
 " A girl — want to see me ! What girl? Mary — Who ? Phillips 1 — Phillips ! 
 — I don't know her — tell her to go away." 
 
 " But she says, sir, she wishes to see you on business of the first importance." 
 
 " First fiddlestick, some tale of distress I suppose — family affliction — dozen 
 orphans, or something of the kind. I'm in no mood to give anything away — been 
 robbed quite enough. Go and tell her that people should take care of themselves, 
 and not get into distress. Nobody need be distressed if they would mind what 
 they are about — look at me." 
 
 " Well, but, sir, she don't seem a beggar at all." 
 
 " Oh ! pho, pho ! I know better, they're as artful as the very devil. Tell her 
 she must send in what her business is, or else 1 wont see her." 
 
 This was decisive, and Mary felt, that unless she made an effort, which under 
 any other circumstances, she would have particularly shrunk from, she must fail in 
 accomplishing the great object that had brought her to the banker's house. 
 
 Nerved almost to desperation by the very idea of failure, and warmed into that 
 species of courage, which a noble mind acquires from a contemplation of a valuable 
 act, she at once stepped forward, and opening the door of communication between 
 the two apartments, she presented herself before the astonished eyes of the banker 
 and his wife. 
 
 There is such an irresistible charm in youth and beauty, that cold, selfish, and 
 arrogant, as was Lamont, the banker, he found it impossible to say a rude thing to 
 that young girl, who bad thus most certainly intruded upon him, unjustifiably, unless 
 she had some good excuse to offer for so doing. 
 
 He mechanically rose from his seat, and bowed, for the banker was not deficient 
 in good manners in so far, as in the conducting of his business he frequently came 
 across persons of a superior grade in life. 
 
 Even Mrs. Lamont, although at first she was rather startled at the sudden 
 apparition of so young and so beautiful a creature, stepping uninvited into the break- 
 fast parlour, was civil enough to incline her head, and murmur something about 
 taking a seat. 
 
 Thus, we perceive, that Mary Phillips, from Benjamin Brick, upwards, enforced a 
 sort of involuntary respeet from the banker and his household, which was entirely 
 owing to a charm of manner that no education could bestow. 
 
 But Mary shrunk from the courtesies which were offered to her ; she felt that she 
 came as a suppliant, and that it might be considered arrogant on her part, if, being 
 such, she were to accept of civilities, which might, for all she knew, be regretted 
 when those who offered them came to understand her real position. 
 
 And now, indeed, came the most difficult portion of the task she had carved 
 out for herself. How was she able to commence % How was she to tell the banker 
 that she came as a suppliant for the man who had thrown him and his family into 
 confusion, by probably one of the boldest, and most barefaced robberies that had 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 219 
 
 ever been committed % For she knew enough of Adam Beech to feel assured, that 
 what he had done, he had done boldly and energetically. 
 
 Indeed, the state of Benjamin Brick sufficiently proclaimed the fact, that not 
 without violence had that robbery been committed, and the ascerbit.y of the banker's 
 temper in the short conversation she had heard take place between him and his 
 lady, further assured her, that, whenever she came to mention the robbery, she 
 would be treading upon dangerous ground indeed. 
 
 There was rather an awkward pause, for Mary had not commenced an explana- 
 tion of the cause of her visit, nor did either the banker or his lady exactly like to 
 say to her — pray, what do you want ? 
 
 They saw that she was flushed and timid and agitated ; but then, appearances 
 only stimulated their curiosity without giving them the slightest date in which to 
 find a conjecture. At length she spoke, timidly at first, but as she warmed with 
 her subject, a natural and forcible eloquence came to her, that might well have 
 surprised a more practised pleader. 
 
 It was the eloquence of nature, too, not that of the schools ; it was that eloquence, 
 which a deep interest, in the cause can only awaken in the mind of any one who 
 appeals. 
 
 " Sir/" 1 she said, "and to you, madam, I likewise address myself, because in you, 
 from what I have heard, I hope to find one who wilVaid me in the object of this 
 visit ; I have come to — to speak of the robbery that was committed here last night." 
 
 The banker sat down in his chair and gasped again, while amazement sat upon 
 the countenance of Mrs. Lamont. 
 
 The ice was now broken, and Mary Phillips could speak better than before ; by 
 the mere mention of the subject of her errand, she felt that she had made the worst 
 impression that she could, and it remained for her to convert that into a better 
 feeling by explaining the precise object of her errand, and saying what, probably, 
 could be the greatest argument of all, namely, that she brought back the money 
 that had been the produce of the daring act whichno doubtrankled in the banker's heart. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I have come to speak of the robbery ; I have come, because 
 that robbery was the first offence of one that is dear to me ; one who is capable of 
 better purposes ; one, who if rescued, and he may be so, sir, by you, from the conse- 
 quences of this, his first and only crime, may live to bless you as the saviour of 
 his life, his Happiness, and the lives and happiness of all who are dear to him. I do 
 not, sir, I cannot for a moment extenuate the act itself ; call it by what epithet, you 
 will, I must go with you ; but if, sir, it be true, and I have been told that it is, and 
 read that it is, that the reformation of one erring mortal is more gracious in the 
 sight of heaven, than the punishment of thousands of the guilty, let me implore, 
 you, sir, to look with mercy and commiseration upon him who has done the deed of 
 which, doubtless, you justly complain. 
 
 "What, you come to ask me to forgive a barefaced robbery?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, it was a bad act — as bad an act as may be, but how great will be 
 your reward, when , upon reflection, you tell yourself that, banishing t il vindictive 
 feeling from your mind, you forgave rather than punished." 
 
 " Its all very well to talk of forgiving, but where's my money ? " 
 
 "Here, here, I anticipated that object, it is here!" 
 
 "Here, say you so," cried the banker, springing from his seat ?" 
 
 "Yes, it is restored to you, 1 have brought it with me; you are asked but to 
 forgive the deed, now that the consequences are abolished. Let me implore you, 
 sir, to do so, he is young ; his motive, although, a frightfully mistaken one, was still 
 such as might and would be looked upon by heaven itself with indulgent eyes." 
 
 " Give me the money, that alters the affair materially ; in good truth, I little 
 thought to see the contents of my tin box again. You're the most welcome visitor 
 my girl, that I have had for many a day. We shall see, we shall see what can be 
 done, — quick, quick, give it to me." 
 
 With trembling fingers— Mary Phillips undid the handkerchief which contained 
 the hundred pounds in gold. 
 
 " There," she said, " there," as she laid down the little shining mass before him 
 
220 NEWGATE. 
 
 "there, thank heaven, there, I see the last of that glittering temptation. Take the 
 gold, sir, and now feeling that restitution has been made to you, you will be merciful." 
 
 The elated aspect, of the banker's countenance subsided, chagrin and disappoint- 
 ment took its place. 
 
 " Why, how much is here V\ he said " do you come to mock me ?" 
 
 " No, sir, no— you will find the hundred pounds." 
 
 " The hundred pounds ! Are you mad, or I ? In gold, and in notes about twelve 
 times the amount had been taken from me last night, by him whom you are so very 
 anxious to screen from punishment, and think to do so by the return of an instal- 
 ment of the robbery." 
 
 This was a frightful piece of intelligence to poor Mary. She clasped her hands 
 in speechless awe, and a faint shriek came from her lips, had a thunderbolt fallen at 
 her feet she could not have been mere petrified ; not for one moment had it occurred 
 to her that the sum which Adam Beech had placed in her hands was only a portion 
 of the robbery, and now the news came upon her with bewildering and stunning 
 force. 
 
 She had rested all her hopes upon this restitution of the plunder ; she had stood 
 upon that, as upon an argument strong as a rock ; but now that was taken from 
 her — coming with such a mockery as a twelfth part only of the amount that had 
 been stolen, from the man who had suffered so considerably — hope deserted her, and 
 she appeared, as she really felt, despairing. 
 
 Indeed, at that moment, the attitudes of the whole four persons who were in that 
 apartment, for the servants had lingered near the door from curiosity, would have 
 formed an admirable subject for some painter who, truthfully, could have delineated 
 the feelings that actuated each of them. 
 
 The banker's hand was stretched forward towards the gold, while his face was 
 almost distorted with passion. Madam Lamont, herself, rose from a couch on 
 which she had been sitting, with curiosity and interest strongly developed upon her 
 countenance. 
 
 She had no sympathy whatever with her husband's pecuniary loss. 
 
 And there stood poor Mary, her hands clasped— her face as pale as marble — the 
 handkerchief from which she had taken the unhallowed gold, lying at her feet, and 
 the pulsation of her heart painfully visible, even through the covering that shrouded 
 her fair breast. * 
 
 " Now, by God," cried the banker. 
 
 " Mercy ! mercy ! shrieked Mary,* and she flung herself at his feet. 
 Madam Lamont sprang forward, and confronted her husband as she tried to raise 
 the prostrate girl. 
 
 " Then dare you," she said, " look or speak, for a moment to such a creature as 
 this, in that manner ; are you not ashamed of yourself— you call yourself a man, 
 and I have heard you make the rash assertion that you were a gentleman, and yet 
 you would foul your tongue by an oath, and raise your arm. I saw you raise it, 
 you dare not deny it — against this child. For shame, sir, for shame. You may well 
 tremble and tarn your eyes away." 
 
 " Oh ! you old wretch," chimed in the servants. " I hate you, and always did. 
 You're an odious monster. If it wasn't for mistress, who is a Christian, I'd give 
 you a month, and have done with you." 
 
 The poor banker, if had he been ever so much in the right could hardly have 
 withstood the attack of the combined forces ; he staggered back perfectly aghast 
 as his lady confronted him so furiously. 
 
 "Oh, no, no," cried Mary, " he does not mean to be unkind ; he will forgive all ; 
 he will yet speak to me some words of comfort in my affliction — a hasty expression 
 shall go for nothing." 
 
 " Rise, rise," said Mrs. Lamont, "fear nothing. Now, sir, what ha^you to 
 say to this young girl's appeal?" 
 
 f* Say — good God, what should I say? I am first of all to be robbed of twelve 
 hundred pounds, and then, because I am not thankful that one hundred is 
 restored to me, I am to be abused, and called all the monsters in creation." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 221 
 
 *.* On my life, on my soul," cried Mary, " as I have a hope of peace here, or 
 of joy hereafter, I thought, that this I brought to you, was the whole amount of 
 your loss." 
 
 " It may be," said he ; " that don't decrease my loss at all." 
 " I should not have ventured had 1 known of more ; this sum, and this sum, 
 only, was placed in my hands by Adam Beech." 
 " Hem ! Adam Beech," said the banker, to himself. 
 
 " I have brought it to you whole and entire as I received it — dare I yet ask you 
 to spare him ? Think, sir, that you may earn some blessings that may stand you 
 in great stead, by an exercise of mercy, although you may demand justice of those 
 who have wronged you, and incur no censure. You have a right, sir, to feel 
 deeply and grievously injured, but it is much nobler to forego a right of such a 
 nature than to exact it. I will speak to him, and you shall have it all back. I 
 know that he is reserving it for me." 
 
 " Is he indeed V 
 
 " Yes, he told me so— and I, so foolish as not to reflect upon those words — he 
 told me to surround myself with luxuries ; to use the money freely and un- 
 hesitatingly for that, ere I saw the little glittering heap diminish, he would 
 add to it." ' 
 
 " How generous 
 
 " He meant it such, and so you see he has it all, and you shall have 
 it all again." 
 
 " I devoutly wish," said the banker, and he made a most diabolical face, " that 
 I may get it. Is he your brother?" 
 
 " Brother, no," said Mrs. Lamont, " pshaw ! he is your lover, girl. Is 
 it not so V 
 
 " He — he does love me." 
 
 " Well, well, fear nothing." 
 
 u Fear nothing, Madam Lamont % That's all very easily said," cried the 
 banker, "but as a member of society at large, and a public man, I cannot help 
 remarking — ' 
 
 *' Nonsense as usual — you hear that you will have your money again, what 
 more do you require ? Come, now, say that upon that condition, or upon con- 
 dition that you get the greater part of it, you will forgive the lad — you cannot 
 but say that he was civil." 
 
 " Blessings on you I" exclaimed Mary. 
 
 " A damned deal too civil," muttered the banker. 
 
 ** You will consent, sir, I shall see him to-night, 1 am to meet him in the 
 Adelphi-terrace, between nine and ten, and then I will speak to him, and abjure 
 him, by all his hopes of happiness, to pause upon the dangerous path he has 
 chosen ; to turn back, while yet there is time — while yet the gates of mercy are 
 not closed against him, and you will have, sir, the consolation of knowing that 
 you have recovered a fellow creature from continuing a career, the end of which, 
 we can only shudder to reflect upon." 
 
 " Adam Beech," muttered the banker, "between nine and ten, in the Adelphi- 
 terrace — hum, very good !" 
 
 " Yes, listen to me, sir ; you relent — discarding all vindictive feeling, you will 
 look with an eye of mercy upon him. To-morrow morning at this hour, I will 
 come to you again, and then I shall have the joy of restoring all to you, and the 
 greater joy will be your's, of having done an action that will bear reflecting upon 
 as a thing of congratulation in your saddest moments." 
 
 " Well, be it so," said the banker, suddenly, " I consent." 
 
 A bright smile broke on the countenance of the girl. " Joy, joy," she cried, 
 " all will be well again. I shall go with a better and more cheerful heart to the 
 toil that awaits me. All will be well now, and Adam Beech, instead of the ex- 
 ultation which he has felt at the idea of placing in my hands the wealth, which, 
 if honestly procured, 1 will not say would have been otherwise than welcome, 
 will feel the dearer exultation of virtue." 
 
222 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 "No doubt," said the banker, "no doubt, make yourself easy ; all will be 
 well, depend upon me." 
 
 " There you hear," said Mrs. Lainont, " you have conquered ; I wish to speak 
 to you before you go — alone." 
 
 " Now really, Mrs. Lamont," said the banker, (< what can you have to say?" 
 
 "Really, Mr. Lamont, what can you have to object ; surely, you're not jealous 
 of this young girl. An interview with her, alone, must be sufficiently harmless to 
 cause you no uneasiness. Come, my dear, come up to my room — I want to 
 speak to you." 
 
 " Meddling fool," he muttered to himself, as he snatched up his hat, and went 
 from the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 Mrs. Lamont led Mary Phillips to her own bed-room, and then sitting down, 
 she took both the hands of the girl in her own, and looked her steadily in the 
 face. 
 
 (( And so you love this wild young fellow," she said, " who has so tormented 
 my husband : and you really think he can, and will restore the greater part of 
 the money stolen. Now, mark me, if he cannot, then beware ! for as sure as he 
 lives, he will not be forgiven. If he can, I will make Lamont keep his word, I 
 say this, advisedly, for he has a wholesome dread of me." 
 
 " Oh yes, he surely will return it." 
 
 " Well, vrell, you're the better judge, but be warned ! — do not meet him to- 
 night, at the place you have mentioned." 
 
 " Not meet him, madam ! — can it be possible, that Mr. Lamont would .be so 
 treacherous." 
 
 ** Its quite possible, my dear, there's no saying what men will do, when money's 
 in the case. Don't trust Mr. Lamont further than you can possibly avoid, I know 
 him better than you do, there is something suspicious about his manner that makes 
 me think he means mischief ; I may be wrong, I do not mean to assert that I am 
 otherwise ; be warned, and endeavour to see this young lover of yours earlier than 
 the time you have specified." 
 
 "I will, madam, and believe me, I am most thankful for this kindly interposition, 
 it is more than I ought to have expected from you, and more even then I dared to 
 hope for." 
 
 " Well, well, never mind that, this Adam Beech, in whom you are so largely 
 interested, has courage ; for he must have overcome that big brute, Benjamin Brick, 
 in whom my husband has placed such confidence, and after all been robbed, in 
 spite of him. For your sake, my dear, I should like to see him adopt a better 
 course of life than the one he has chosen ; I will do my best to secure to you the 
 promise that Mr. Lamont has made to you, and for the sake of peace, he may 
 do what principle would by no means dictate to him." 
 
 " Indeed, madam." . 
 
 " Oh yes, you don't understand these things, but the fact is, and it is a misalliance, 
 I was foolish enough to believe that money would procure me happiness, even with 
 a man whom I disliked ; and I hate Mr. Lamont, he was foolish enough to think 
 that he could purchase a woman's heart in the market, as he would buy foreign 
 lands, or Exchequer bills; and that's how we came together, and have hated each 
 other ever since, most mortally ; and now, that he has gone out, you shall have 
 some refreshment with me before you go, and remember that my last words are, be 
 careful — don't trust Mr. Lamont." 
 
 This communication gave great pain to Mary Phillips. It again disturbed her 
 with the thoughts of great danger to Adam Beech. She longed to go in search of 
 him, and yet she thought it would be ungenerous to refuse the proffered hospitality 
 . of Mrs. Lamont, so, she partook slightly of some rich viands that were placed be- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 223 
 
 fore her ; and then reiterating 'a thousand thanks for the great kindness with which 
 she had been treated, she hurried from the place, full of anxiety, for the issue of 
 that which she had still to do. 
 
 Mary Phillips, like all young persons who had not seen a great deal of the 
 world, was trustful of human nature ; and, although the warning that had been 
 given her by the banker's lady was certainly such as ought to have made her a 
 little suspicious, she could scarcely believe it possible that any one could be so 
 gratuitous y wicked as to deceive her, in such a matter of vital importance to the 
 well-being of another. 
 
 She kne v not the value of money, and still less did she know of that ex-intrinsic 
 value that was set upon it, by what are called men of the world. It did not 
 enter into her philosophy to conceive it possible that even pounds, shillings, 
 and pence, could or could not be set up against the redemption of any human 
 soul. 
 
 No, no, she said, it cannot be ; Mr. Lamont would not — he could not — so 
 deceive me. He means well, I'm certain of it, and Adam Beech will be saved. 
 He could not think of so covering himself with odium and contempt, as to make 
 a promise of merciful consideration and then break it. 
 
 But although she thus expressed herself, her faith wavered. If not probable, 
 it was just possible that Mrs. Lamont might be right ; and that possibility was 
 dreadful to think of. 
 
 Already, she said, am I far beyond my time at Madam Pompadour's, wherefore 
 then, should I hesitate at once to go in search of Adam Beech, and without 
 waiting until night shall bring us together, get from him at once the remainder 
 of the banker's money, and so settle this frightful piece of business. 
 
 There is nothing in the world equal to the strong faith which a young and 
 artless girl has in the power of affection. Mary Phillips knew that if she was 
 pursuing any course from which she was strongly dissauded by Adam Beech, that 
 her affection for him would induce her to yield to his remonstrances. How then 
 could she doubt that he, loving her so well and truly as he did, would yield to 
 her wishes, and restore the stolen gold ? 
 
 But how was she to find him — that was the great difficulty ; for, although 
 Adam Beech always made his punctual appearance to meet her upon the occasion 
 of making any appointment, his movements otherwise were rather erratic, and it 
 would have puae'led his best friends to say what became of him for the greater 
 number of the four-and-tweuty hours. 
 
 And besides, Mary Phillips could not very well go hunting from public -house 
 to public house in search of him, so that if she found him not at home or at his 
 uncle's, it was not at all likely she would hit upon his whereabouts at all. 
 
 But the effort was to be made, and she proceeded at once to his house. 
 
 A brief question and answer at once supplied the information, that not only 
 was he not there, but that no one there knew anything of his proceedings for 
 the last eight-and-forty> hours. 
 
 She then hurried to his uncle's, in Long-acre, but the moment she mentioned 
 Adam Beech's name the old man became furious, and launched out in such a 
 torrent of invective against him, that Mary Phillips was glad to make her escape. 
 
 The fact was, that the old uncle had found out some of that proceeding which 
 Adam Beech facetiously called, shelling the old pea ; and, as people, when they 
 discover defalcations of any descriptions, of which they do not know the precise 
 amount, are ap't to think themselves much more ill-used than they really are, the 
 old man was in a state of alarm and rage of the most excessive character. 
 
 And now, after this, Mary had not the least idea of where to look for Adam 
 Beech ; or if she had an indistinct notion that he might possibly be found at 
 some public-house about Drury-lane, it was not at all likely that she would go 
 there in search of him, so, per force, she was compelled to give up all hope of 
 effecting a discovery of the place of his retreat. 
 
 She stood for some moments in the streets, considering what to do — whether 
 to give up all idea of proceeding to Madam Pompadour's that day, or go home 
 
224 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 at once, or take her chance of the anger of that lady, and late as it was, proceed 
 to her work. 
 
 She decided on the latter alternative as the one least likely to produce any 
 thing like discomfort to her parents ; and besides, if she went home, she would 
 have to explain why she did so, and how it was that Adam Beech had got himself 
 into trouble, and how it was that she was making, perhaps after all, fruitless 
 efforts to rescue him, so she bent her steps towards the milliner's, and with a 
 heavy heart stood upon the threshold of the door, which opened upon that place 
 of slavery. 
 
 That a W3rld of abuse would be levelled against her, she fully expected — that 
 she would be held up to reprobation as a perfect monster, as if the greatest 
 crime that any human being could possibly commit, was to come too late to 
 Madam Pompadour's to work, she well knew ; but she certainly was unprepared 
 for the violent anger which her task-mistress exhibited. 
 
 The fact was, that poor Mary Phillips performed a certain portion of the employ- 
 ment which was allotted to her, with so much neatness and skill, that Madam 
 Pompadour could not do very well without her ; and having several orders of that 
 description upon hand, she had waited Mary's arrival in the most frightful state of 
 impatience, that ever any of the official personages connected with her establish- 
 ment had seen her exhibit. 
 
 Her fears had taken a thousand different turns ; she dreaded, lest the beautiful 
 girl's health had sank beneath the incessant toil to which she had been subjected. 
 She thought, even, that such a delicate and fragile creature might have died sud- 
 denly, for that was not altogether an extremely rare occurrence with regard to 
 some of the poor white slaves who worked for Madam Pompadour. 
 
 Then, again, upon inquiry, she learnt that Mary Phillips had an admirer — a beau, 
 as the girls called him; and. her anger at the bare possibility that the desperate 
 Adam Bee*ch might actually have married Mary, and taken her away from Madam 
 Pompadour for ever, put that exalted lady into a cold perspiration. 
 
 The sudden revulsion of feeling then, when she saw Mary glide in— when she 
 felt convinced that she was neither ill, dead, nor married, was too much for the 
 sensibility of Madam Pompadour ; and for several moments she could not suffi- 
 ciently command her feelings to speak. 
 
 This, however, was the deceitful lull which precedes a terrible storm. The idea 
 that Mary should have nothing the matter with her, but should walk in — looking 
 literally well, and improved — two hours and a-half beyond the time which was 
 understood and specified to be that at which the labours of the day were to com- 
 mence, was really too much for human endurance ; and, besides, what, a dreadful 
 example was it to set to the whole establishment ! If Mary were permitted to do 
 anything so desperate without some proper remarks being made thereupon, might 
 not some one else on the next day do so likewise, and in the end, Madam Pom- 
 padour could never know at what time'exactly, she would succeed in collecting 
 together her troop of pale-faced victims to fashion and avarice. 
 
 " You abominable monster I" she exclaimed, as she advanced across the room, in 
 a threatening attitude, towards Mary Phillips, " you wretch, I'll let you see that 
 I'm not to be treated in this way — take that !" 
 
 Madam Pompadour had rather a heavy hand, and as she struck heavy upon the 
 face, the young girl reeled again with the force of the blow ; her eyes flashed for an 
 instant, and she seemed about to resent this gross insult, but she turned instantly, 
 and being close to the door, she walked out again, and was gone. 
 
 Now, this was just what Madam Pompadour did not want : she had not thought 
 for a moment, that the effect of the blow she had given to Mary Phillips, would 
 have been to induce her to leave the place, she would rather have given it to herself 
 than have inflicted it upon her. 
 
 In fact, it was not a premeditated blow, but the pafsion of the lady had over- 
 come her prudence, and induced her to use her hands, where she only intended to 
 have used her tongue ; but if Mary had put up with it, it would have been a 
 very suitable example indeed to have shewn to the rest of the young girls who were 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 225 
 
 there, and without at all intending a pun, we may say, that it would have been a 
 very heavy blow and a great discouragement to coming late. 
 
 * Come back," cried Madame Pompadour, " you hussey, come back. Is it not 
 enough that you come late, but you must dare to pass out again when you do 
 come ? Sit down to your work directly." 
 
 There was no answer ; and Madame Pompadour rushed to the door. Mary was 
 not visible, she flew down the staircase thinking to catch her before she reached 
 the street, but she was foiled again. She stood upon the steps and looked to the 
 
 right and to the left, but no Mary was to be seen — and there we shall leave 
 Madame Pompadour, feeling , but little sympathy with her cr her losses, which were 
 destined on that day to be considerable', for so transfixed with astonishment were 
 all the girls at the scene which had taken place, that they did not get through one- 
 half of their ordinary work. 
 
 Now, Madame Pompadour ill-used everybody that came within the sphere of 
 her influence, and, of course, Mary Phillips had not escaped, although hitherto 
 the milliner had never dared to lift her hand against her ; that was a climax 
 
 No. 29. 
 
226 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 which Mary could not and would not endure, it was the last drop in the cup of 
 affliction which made it run over. 
 
 As she passed the threshold Mary said to herself in a calm determined voice : 
 — I leave this place for ever ; no earthly power shall ever tempt me to return to 
 it : let the consequences be what they may, I never again will toil for this 
 woman. Surely, surely, for those who seek it, and seek it willingly, there is 
 in this great metropolis some occupation, however humble and lonely, which will 
 provide me with the means whereby to live; but, be this as it may, Madame 
 Pompadour and I have parted for ever!" 
 
 The whole preceding history ot Mary Phillips had not contained so many and 
 startling instances as had been crammed into the last twenty-four hours of her 
 life. She felt as she went homeward a bewildered sense of heavy responsibility 
 resting upon her, which was new and strange to her, and it required all her 
 striving to pluck up heart sufficient to meet the new emergencies of her 
 situation. 
 
 An untruth was what Mary had never uttered in her life, nor could bring 
 herself to utter, and she now asked herself as she proceeded homeward what she 
 should say to her mother in explanation of what had occurred. 
 
 This was an awkward predicament for poor Mary to be placed in ; : she could 
 not think of betraying Adam Beech to the animadversions of her parents, for 
 she knew already that he was no favourite in that quarter, and so she frequently 
 had occasion to defend him, and to declare that he was not so bad as people 
 would make him out to be ; it would certainly be an awkward thing for her to 
 come forward with evidence of his having committed a capital offence. But 
 what was she to ■do? And thus perplexed between her affection and her duty — 
 pulled this way and that by contrary feelings and emotions — she at length 
 arrived at her mother's door, still as undecided as she had been when first the 
 question arose in her mind. And so she entered the house, and w 7 as met by her 
 astonished mother, who eagerly asked how it was that she had come away at 
 such an hour from Madame Pompadour's ? 
 
 "She struck me, mother," said Mary ; and sinking into a chair she burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Then, my dear," said Mrs. Phillips, <c you did quite right to come away, and 
 you shall not go back any more if 1 have to work my fingers down to the very 
 hone to support you. Say no more about it, I hate to hear her name mentioned 
 — she's a brute, and I'm glad you've had the spirit to come away from her." 
 
 This was more than Mary expected; but as regards the kindness of her 
 mother's reception of her, and her feeling of indignation that she should have 
 been struck, it was quife an unexpected stroke of good fortune that Mrs. 
 Phillips's indignation should have taken the turn it did, and induced her not to 
 ask any questions concerning the reason why Madame Pompadour had been so 
 unusually violent. 
 
 "Thank lieaven," said Mary to herself, " this is a great reiea 1 e ; all may be 
 well yet. 1 may save Adam Beech, and not have the necessity of explaining, even 
 to my parents, one word of the adventure in which he has been engaged. It shall 
 be a secret between ourselves completely, and no one that would reproach him with 
 it need ever know of it, so he can stand up fearlessly without the least danger of 
 having anything unpleasant ever hinted at." 
 
 And now the day passed laggingly, for Mary was jextremely anxious that the 
 time should arrive for her to explain to Adam Beech all that she had done— to point 
 to him how much it was to his advantage that she had done so^-to talk to him 
 feelingly of the future, and to show him what an opportunity he had for redeeming 
 that first error of his life, and perchance making a friend at the same time, for 
 Mrs. L^mont had expressed herself interested in his fate. 
 
 " Who knows?" said Mary, growing sanguine, as it is the habit for youth to do, 
 "who knows but she may find for him some good and honest employment which 
 may give him an opportunity of advancing himself in life, and of shaking off every 
 bad association ; he may have a friend ; and so after all, from all these circum- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 22/ 
 
 stances which at first bore so portentous and bad an aspect, there may arise 
 very great good indeed, and both I and Adam Beech will look back to the pro- 
 ceedings of this period of our life with more of pleasure than of pain.'* 
 
 Sanguine, ill-judging Mary Phillips! Oh, that we could realise your dreams of 
 happiness and joy ; oh, that the anticipations of your beautiful and trusiing heart 
 were but prophetic ; but alas, it it is not so ; you have a paiaful part to play in 
 the drama of existence — a part which, for all we know, may perchance better fit 
 you eventually for your abode in heaven, but which is Ml of misery and sadness 
 while yet you linger a denizen of this earth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE MEETING ON THE TERRACE. 
 
 The day declined.- The soft shadows of evening crept over the great city. 
 Night crept on apace, and Mary, with a beating heart and hurried footsteps, left 
 her home to keep her tryst with Adam Beech on the Adelphi-terrace. 
 
 After eight o'clock her nervousness and impatience had been great ; she had 
 heen perplexed and terrified by a thousand fears ; at one moment the warning of 
 Mrs. Lamont would so,und in her ears like the death-knell of every hope, while at 
 another she would remember the banker's promise, and scarce believe it possible 
 that human nature could produce any monster in the likeness of man who would 
 break such a promise. But, be the case bow it might, what reasource had she — 
 she must meet Adam Beech ; and so at a quarter before nine she hurried on her 
 cloak and bonnet, and repaired to the appointed spot of meeting. 
 
 It was the season :>f the year when the wind blew chill and cold, after sunset, 
 and this night seemed to Mary Phillips more chill and uncomfortable than any 
 that had preceded it ; a feeling of hers, which, probably, arose from the vicinity 
 of the place of assignation to the river, from whence a keen wind blew, bringing 
 with it aqueous vapours, and making the young girl shiver as she drew her cloak 
 closer around her, to keep out the inclemency of the Wast. No one was on the 
 terrace but nerself — she walked to and fro a number of times, but saw no human 
 creature ; and, but for the distant hum of life from the Strand that met her ears, 
 stfi might have been in some city of the dead — so little of the feeling of the proximity 
 of human beings to that place had she. She looked upon the river, and sue saw 
 the boats gliding slowly past ; while, by the dim light which enabled ber to 
 observe them, they assumed a strange spectral appearance, which was much aided 
 by the noiseless manner in which thev dropped leisurely down with the ebbing 
 tide. And now, several dock, in the immediate vicinity struck the hmr of nine, 
 and Mary fell; that the time had come, when, in a few momen s, she would be 
 sure to meet him whom she so much wished to see. Yes, she knew Adam Bseeh 
 would be punctua' — aye, more than punctual, for if he named a time as that at 
 which he was tr have the joy of meeting her, he was certain to be there before 
 the tine arrivea ; and, therefore, it was that she had so early betaken herself to 
 the place of assignation. She gradually bent her steps towards Adam-street, the 
 point from whence she knew he would come; and now; she did not walk again 
 to the further end of thi terrace, but waited with her eyes bent upon the nearest 
 point from whence she could possibly perceive him approaching, with the 
 momentary hope of beholding him. Five minutes elapsed, and then another five, 
 and he came not. Mary began to be fearfuily anxious that she should not see 
 him — that something might prevent him reaching her — and so that she should 
 fail in keeping her promise with the banker. A dreadful thought that was to her, 
 and she felt faint and sick at heart at the very idea of it. She held by the iron 
 rail, which is on the river side of the terrace, and with an expression of bitter 
 feeling, she said : — 
 
 '* On ! Adam, Adam ! why do you not come ?— why do you not come to me 
 
228 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 when your presence is of such vital importance ? What would I not give to look 
 upon you now ? Adam Beech, Adam Beech ! you should be here — the time has 
 come, and I do not see you — such another day as this would surely kill me." 
 
 She heard a footstep — it came nearer— nearer still. Is it he ? — yes, it must 
 be — she cannot be deceived — she knew the very sound of his foot upon the 
 pavement. 
 
 "He comes, he comes, at last !" she cried, " and all is well. "Tis he, 'tis he ! 
 I know 'tis he ! — joy, joy — Adam — Adam — Adam Beech !" 
 In another moment, he had clasped her in his arms. 
 
 " Why, my Mary," he said, " what has happened to you? You tremble, and 
 are so agitated, that you cannot speak. Come, ceme, be calm, be calm. I am 
 not late — recollect, Mary, I gave myself a whole hour's latitude, "between nine 
 and ten I said, not that I meant you to wait for me, no, far from that ; but, I 
 intended to be here as early as I could, not expecting to see you until the last- 
 named hour. But I am certain something has flurried you. Why, Mary, I 
 never saw you in this state before." 
 
 " I am so glad you have come, Adam, I've been so wishing for you, so im- 
 ploring that you might come, that now I look upon you, and am sure that you 
 are here, I own I do feel agitated more than usual." 
 
 " But something has happened, I'm certain that something has happened, 
 Mary." 
 
 " Yes, Adam Beech," she said, turning towards him, as she clasped her hands 
 and looked him imploringly in the face, " yes, Adam Beech, a something has 
 happened — a something which, as I believe in Heaven's mercy, I have hope will 
 be greatly conducive to your and to my happiness." 
 
 " Indeed, Mary, and pray what is it ? Do not make more of a mystery than is 
 necessary of so capital a thing ; but first of all, satisfy me upon one point — have 
 you left Majdame Pompadour ? " * 
 | " I have, I have." 
 
 u That's well, that's very well, I'm glad of that; now go on. my Mary, and tell 
 me what you have to say." ^ 
 
 Mary trembled, and was silent for several monjlnts ; she felt^probably for the 
 first time, the full difficulty of the task that shehad set herself— perhaps for the 
 first time too ; a shrinking doubt, whether Adam Beech was just the kind of 
 material to work upon in the manner she wished, crossed her mind ; and if he 
 were not, what terrific results might follow tile movement she had made in his 
 favour — she shook like an aspen leaf— and, but for his protecting arm, would 
 surely have fallen to the ground in the excess of all the fears that crowded across 
 her mind. And now, it was Adam Beech's turn to be alarmed ; he feared he knew 
 not what ; but that something fearful must have happened to cause such manifest 
 disturbance in the mmd of Mary Phillips, he felt assured. Conjecture became 
 busy in his brain, and for some few moments he tortured himself to think what it 
 could possibly be that so altered her from what she usually was, and made her 
 the victim of a thousand fears, which could not find an utterance. 
 
 " Speak to me for Heaven's sake, Mary," he said, " and not keep me in this 
 suspense." * 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said, " I will speak directly ; let me pause for a moment, let 
 me collect my scattered thoughts. Adam — Adam, you will kill me." 
 
 " God of Heaven ! what does this mean ?" he cried, " I kill you, Mary! this is 
 madness ; tell me at once, what has happened." 
 
 *' I will, Adam, I will ; do not speak to me, do not interrupt me, and I will tell 
 you all, if the next moment you cast me from you for ever, and tell me you will 
 never look upon my face again." 
 
 Adam Beech was evidently both amazed and terrified ; it was now his turn to 
 hold by the railings for support, which he did, while Mary Phillips, after she had 
 once commenced her narration, went on quickly, for she was anxious to get it to 
 an end." 
 
 " Adam," she said, u . it is about that money that I wish to speak to you— that 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 229 
 
 money which I know, for my sake, you took from Lamont the banker. I know 
 that you did it from the best of motives towards me — I know that if you thought 
 at all, Adam Beech, it was that you were doing a little wrong to accomplish a 
 great good — you painted to yourself all the relief that it would be to me to have 
 the command of much money without the intense labour to which I have been 
 subjected, instead of the command of little with it. It was love for me, Adam 
 Beech, pure love for me, that induced you to hazard so much, and induced you 
 to commit that offence which, the more it is reflected upon, assumes a more 
 terrifying aspect. It was, Adam, was it not, love for me — pure, genuine 
 affection ?" 
 
 " In good truth it was, my Mary ; is it likely that I should deny such an 
 imputation % — it was love for you. Could you wish me to have a higher and 
 better motive ?" 
 
 " No, Adam, no, but you permit me likewise to have such a motive for action ; 
 and if you, from your genuine affection, can do so much, am I not to do some- 
 thing at least which, to my poor judgment, may perchance be a greater benefit to 
 you than as if you could heap upon me the whole world's wealth, Adam." 
 
 " I must confess I do not understand you, Mary." 
 
 "But you shall. You have committed an offence, Adam, the consequence of 
 which you have not reflected upon. For my sake, you shut your eyes to the 
 most frightful results of an act which allured you to its commission, merely 
 because vou considered that it would be the means of saving me from toil.* 1 
 
 " Well, Mary, well." 
 
 " Yes, Adam, yes, it is well — the motive was well and good ; but since you did 
 think, since you did not reflect, it behoved me to do so. I ought to pause not 
 before I accept of any fancied good fraught to you with such terrific dangers." 
 
 " Oh, Mary, these scruples are m^re fancy ; and besides, they are too late — : 
 the act is done, my Mary, and I have already heard from your own lips that it 
 has had the effect, and wished it to have, namely, that of removing you from the 
 hateful Madame Pompadour's." 
 
 " Yes, but " 
 
 " Nay, nay, you tell me that you have left her, and that repays me for this risk, 
 were it a thousand times greater than it is. Say no more of it, Mary — you have 
 thought over this circumstance until your fears have magnified it to something 
 monstrous. Come, come, all will be well — there is nothing really to apprehend ; 
 I am perfectly safe, and as for any compunctious visitings about robbing such a 
 man as Lamont the banker, I must confess, Mary, I have few indeed. Calm 
 yourself, calm yourself, my girl — fear nothing, and be assured that I shall keep 
 my promise to you — before the money I have already given you is gone, you 
 shall have ample more." 
 
 " Adam Beech, you know not what you say — chere is danger, frightful, horrible 
 danger — danger from which I would fain rescue you from, which it is my duty to 
 rescue you." 
 
 " Mary, beware, beware, I tell you, how you interfere in matters of this 
 description — the slightest word let drop, the merest hint might indeed bring upon 
 me the very danger you talk of ; but be prudent, Mary, and all will be well— I 
 have nothing to fear, Mary, nothing, absolutely nothing. Lamont don't know 
 me, he never will know me — the secret lies between you and I completely, and I 
 know I can trust you as I can trust myself, so all is well." 
 
 It was terrible to poor Mary Phillips to hear those expressions of confidence, 
 when she had really acted in precisely the reverse manner to what they indicated ; 
 but yet the power and the goodness of her motive urged her on with a sort of 
 feverish and restless earnestness ; she again addressed herself to him who was the 
 arbiter of her destiny. 
 
 '* Adani Beech, I will be more explicit to you. Upon reflection you will see, 
 I am sure you will see, that money so obtained, as you obtained that, cannot bring 
 with it any amount of happiness. You will perceive, Adam Beech, that it is 
 impossible it should do so." 
 
230 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Oh ! that's an old woman's tale, Mary. Money is money, let it come from 
 where it m ly, or let it come how it may ; "besides, .I'm not spending it myself, 
 so that the ban, if any there be, attached to gold unlawfully obtained, is gotten 
 rid of." 
 
 * No, Adam, no ; you must restore yourself to your former position with me 
 and with the world ; you cannot feel, Adam Beech, that you can stand before your 
 fellow-man and defy even the breath of suspicion to assail your good name— the 
 money must all be returned to Lamonr,.tbe banker." 
 
 " Now, really, my Mary, you're romancing; return the money to Lam on t, that 
 would be too good a joke. Why, you had better say that you mean to go back to 
 Madame Pompadour and set to work again." 
 
 " No, I shall not do that, for Madame Pompadour has placed a barrier between 
 us which I will never cross ; but some one else must be found who will require my 
 services, and enable me to earn a subsistence which, although it may be a hard 
 one, shall yet be honest." 
 
 " 1 wonder, my Mary, who has been instilling into your mind these old-fashioned 
 and exploded doctrines with which you are favouring me ?" 
 
 " To me, Adam, they are the offsprings of my own heart ; and when I say that 
 Mr. Lamont, the banker, must have the whole of his money, I may add to that the 
 fact that he has already had that portion of it which you gave to me replaced in 
 his hands." 
 
 Had a bullet suddenly struck him Adam Beech could not have been more 
 shocked, or made a greater recoil than he did at these words. 
 " Mary, are you mad V he said. 
 
 " No, Adam, T'm sane enough to know that it is never too late to do right — 
 I'm sane enough to be perfectly aware of what I'm about. I have seen Lamont, 
 the banker, I've returned" him the whole which you placed in my possession^ he 
 has promised to forgive all, on condition that the rest of his loss is made up to him." 
 
 Adam Beech turned ghastly pale ; and several times he tried to speak, before 
 he could utter a word, to the great surprise and alarm of Mary Phillips, who 
 really had no idea of the communication producing such an effect upon him. 
 ♦ Then, as he leant upon the iron railings for support, he shook his head, and said, 
 faintly, — • 
 
 " Mary, Mary, you have destroyed me !" 
 (i No, Adam, no ! 1 have saved you." 
 
 " Good God ! what a piece of infatuation ! fly, let us leave this spot at once. 
 Oh! Mary, Mary, why did you not speak to me of this before? Lamont, the 
 banker, forgive a robbery? he would as soon do so as I would stoop to ask him." 
 
 fie seized her by the arm, and ltd her hurriedly towards Adam-street; but, ere 
 . they had proceeded half the distance, and before the terrified Ma>y, for abundantly 
 terrified she now was, could utter another sentence, two men dashed out of a door- 
 way, and at once flung themselves upon Adam Beech. 
 
 " Now, my rummy cove," said one of them, " I think we've got you at last. 
 How do you find yourself?'" 
 
 " As well as can be expected," said Adam. " How are you V* 
 
 The man gave a half shriek, and then shouted, " He's killed me ! he's killed me ! 
 I'm a dead man! He's got a knife V and then he fell to the ground. 
 
 The other officer, for such they both were, was a powerful man, and he got such 
 a grip of Adam Beech by the throat that he became nearly black in the face, and in 
 another moment or two his hands fell powerless by his side, and lie was incapable 
 of making further resistance. Tne officer took the opportunity of handcuffing him, 
 and then giving him a hearty shake, he said, "You're a nice article, I think, to put 
 your knife into a honester man's ribs than your own ; but that dodge won't do for 
 me, it's been Hed on before. You'il swing, as sure as my name is Mouldy." 
 
 The shrieks of Mary brought a number of persons running from the Strand to 
 the spot on which this brief but decisive encounter had token place; brief, we 
 sav, because scarcely a couple of minute? had elapsed from the first moment of the 
 officers making their appearance and that which witnessed the handcuffing of the 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 2-31 
 
 gasping Adam Beech, who very slowly and with difficulty recovered the power of 
 breathing again, after the iron grip of the officer was tnken off hi? throat. 
 
 A mob in London collects in an incredibly short space of time ; and before any 
 one would have supposed it possi'ole, the little party of the two officers Adarn and 
 Mary Philips were surrounded by a dense throng of person*. The man against 
 whom Adam had so unhesitatingly used his kni'e, lay, looking faint and exhausted, 
 upon the pavement, and the mob looked on in amazement at the singular scene, 
 and wondered what so beautiful a girl as Mary could have to do with such a deed 
 of violence and^bloodshed. The officer who had announced his name to be Mouldy 
 would not leave his hold of Adam Beech for a moment, and while some persons of 
 the crowd lifted his companion and placed him in a sitting posture against the 
 railings close to which the fracas had taken place, and others had run off for a sur- 
 geon, he said aloud, *' In the king's name I ask somebody's assistance to take this 
 girl into custody ; this young fellow I have hold of is too desperate to be let loose ; 
 he's a housebreaker, and she's his fancy girl." 
 
 " Liar !*' said Adam, faintly. 
 
 " Oh, so you've found your tongue again. Come on, we'll soon place you in 
 security." 
 
 " Oh, no, no," cried Mary, " all will be well, I will run to Mr. Lamont." 
 " Mr. Lamont?" said the officer ; why, he gave us the office to come here and 
 take ye both." 
 
 " She is innocent," said Adam ; " do not mention her in the same breath that 
 you talk of crime; she is innocent, I swear it by Heaven. Let her go instantly |* 
 *' Oh, yes, of course, just as you please !" 
 
 <£ I'll help you, officers," said a respectable looking man, stepping forward ; then, 
 turning to Mary, he said in a mild and good-tempered tone, " My girl, you know 
 you must go if this man has a warrant for your apprehension, and you'd better go 
 with me than with a regular escort ; come on, I'll take care of you, that you shall 
 meet with no rudeness ; and you shall tell me all about it as we go." 
 
 Mouldy the officer shrunk back, and touched his hat a number of times to the 
 unknown, who drawing the arm of Mary Phillips within his, motioned him to pro- 
 ceed, adding, " You're wounded companion had better be taken to a hospital. I 
 can't think this young girl has anything to do with the robbery you mention. Do 
 you know roe ? Your looks would seem to imply that you do." 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir," said the officer. ** Beg your pardon, sir, but I know you ; you're 
 Mr. 
 
 " Well, nevermind who I am. Lead on; by-the-by, here comes the doctor; 
 we may as well hear his verdict on the wounded man." 
 
 A surgeon, wjio bad been hastily fetched from the Strand, arrived, and kneeling : k 
 down, he made a hasty examination of the wound which Adam Beech had inflicted i 
 on the officer. 
 
 " He'd better be removed at once to the hospital," he said ; (e as it is, I don't 
 think the wound's mortal, but it is impossible to say what is the result of this class 
 of injuries. Get him along, some of you, and I'll follow. Do you think you can 
 walk?"' 
 
 (i Yes," said the man, faintly. 
 
 "Then," added the surgeon, 'Met him walk as far as the Strand, and then we'll 
 get a conveyance fcr him. This will be a bad job, for all classes of wounds such 
 as these are the most difficult; to cure. Get him on gently | don't let hiai take too 
 much exertion." ij 
 
 Mary Phillips shuddered as she saw the man led off. and she allowed herself to ': 
 be led by the stranger after the officer who had Adam Beech in custody, and who 
 walked with a rapid pace toward Covent Garden watch house, where he intended 
 to lodge his prisoner for the night, since it was too late to make an app?arar;ce 
 before a magistrate. As they proceeded, the stranger who walked with Mary 
 spoke kindly to her, saying, '* How is it, my girl, that you are associated with such 
 an affair as this? you seem all unfitted for such transactions ; tell me candidly, I 
 may be able possibly to serve you." 
 
232 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " I do not know you," said Mary ; " I have already trusted one and been betrayed." 
 
 " Ah, that may be, but it does not by any means follow you know, my dear, 
 that everyone should betray you ; possibly the one you trusted may have had 
 some strong interest which swayed him in the course of action he adopted 
 consequent upon the proceedings. Now I have none, nor cannot possibly have 
 any, being" a stranger to the whole affair." 
 
 There was something exceedingly pleasant and ingratiating about his manner, 
 so much so, indeed, that. Mary was tempted briefly to tell him what had happened ; 
 but brief as was the nature of the communication, it was invested with an utter 
 simplicity that evidently much won upon him, and at its conclusion he said to her — 
 
 " So this man, Lamont, the banker, lost the hundred pounds of you, and said 
 that he would set free Adam Beech upon a further restitution of the property that 
 had been stolen from him.'' 
 
 « He did, sir/' 
 
 w Well, well, then, don't trouble yourself about this affair ; it's a serious one, I 
 grant you, but I dare say we shall be able to do something that will give your 
 protegee a chance of redemption, and as for yourself, mark me, I will take especial 
 care that you suffer nothing ; — nay, you shall not be even subjected to the incon- 
 venience of a night's imprisonment." 
 
 " Imprisonment ! " exclaimed Mary ; " God of Heaven, they did not surely think 
 of that, ; what have I done, that I should suffer such pains and penalties? I am 
 innocent of all wrong, Heaven knows." 
 
 " Yes, I believe you are, but still you had all the appearance of being an accessory 
 to another's criminality ; you have convinced me, however, perfectly of your 
 innocence, and such being the case, I do not scruple to promise you ample and 
 efficient protection." 
 
 " A thousand thanks ; oh, I should have died at the thought of a detention of 
 so horrible a nature." 
 
 By this time they had arrived at the watch-house in Covent Garden, into which 
 the whole party was ushered, and confronted with one of the ancient i^ce of night- 
 constables, that have now given place to the scarcely less insolent police inspector. 
 
 ** Hilloa, hilloa!" cried this worrthy ; "what's happened now? Ah, Mr. 
 Mouldy, is that you? there is something particular going on when your'e afoot, I'll 
 be bound." 
 
 " There is ; I've got a young prisoner here, and you must take eare that you 
 lock him up safe, for he's as slippery as an eel I take it, and has no objection, in 
 addition to that, to show his claws whenever he can." 
 
 " Oh, we'll take care of him, never fear, that's just the sort of fry for us precisely, 
 we like them,— the more trouble the more merit-j— what's his name?" 
 
 " Adam Beech ; and if he's not hung this time, it's a name we shall hear of again 
 and again, or I'm no true prophet; look at him, aint he cut out exactly for a 
 cracksman ? — look at his face, is it not pictured in it, — he's begun early and he'll 
 end all the younger ; we've got his girl too, and she's one I don't like to see thrown 
 away upon such a chap ; you'd better take good care of them both, and I'll be 
 down in the morning to charge them.'' 
 
 " Stop a bit," said the stranger, who had walked with Mary Phillips, " stop a 
 bit, 1 think that you may safely let this young girl go, upon her promise to 
 appear if called upon ; I am quite convinced that she is innocent of any participa- 
 tion in the robbery," * 
 
 u And who the devil are you V* said the night constable, " that put your spoke 
 in other people's wheels? You look as if you dipped your beak too often in a 
 bottle to know any thing of any thing else. You look like a thief yourself, and 
 I'd lock you up for half a pin." 
 
 u My friend, you are too hasty," said the stranger, " my name is Sheridan, and 
 I really think that my word ought to be sufficient with you, as you pretty well 
 know ; I am in this neighbourhood for the release of this young girl." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Mr. Stokes," whispered Mr. Mouldy, to the night 
 constable, *' it's Mr. Sheridan, the member of Parliament ; don't you know him ? 
 
NEWGATE. 233 
 
 Why, I thought you'd seed him often enough, and that everybody know'd 
 him." 
 
 * I should know him, Muster Mouldy, he's a rum-looking chap, too. Do you 
 think it safe to let the girl go?" 
 
 " It won't be safe if you don't. Why, lord bless you, he knows the Prince of 
 Wales as well as if they were sworn brothars, and you'll get your head in your 
 
 hand in less than no time, if you don't mind what you're about, and make a fool 
 of yourself." 
 
 * Well, Muster Mouldy, 111 take your advice, though I don't think I ought, 
 exactly, and it's likely enough I may get something said to me to-morrow morning 
 by the magistrate, that won't be altogether in the shape of a compliment ; 
 howsomever, I'll do it." 
 
 No. 30 <> 
 
234 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Then, turning to Mr. Sheridan, for it was the great Richard Brinsley himself, 
 
 he said, with a short, dry cough. : — 
 
 " Well, sir, I must say, so far as regards that, that when a gentlemaa like you 
 comes forward, and says as how he'll be answerable for anybody, it makes a 
 wonderful piece of difference, and alters the case entirely. So, sir, taking them 
 ere things into consideration, along with them ere others, I'm rather inclined to 
 think as I'll let her go." 
 
 " Decided like a man, John." 
 
 '* I begs your pardon, Muster Sheridan, but my name's Thomas." 
 
 " Then rejoice in it, Thomas; and as for you, girl, make your way home, as 
 quick as you can ; all the world knows where to find me, so if you should be more 
 troubled, in this affair, you can send to me, and I will do my best to see you 
 through it, for, on my soul, I think you innocent of any participation whatever in 
 the crime laid to your charge." 
 
 " I am, indeed, sir ; I assure you that I am most innocent, and much beholden 
 to you am I for this kindly interest in my fate. If ever there lived one who now 
 requires a friend, Lam that one ; for in an attempt to do good, it appears I have 
 done abundance of evil. I have pleased no one, while at the same time I have 
 exposed myself to much obloquy." 
 
 "But you'll find that always the case; people |won't be pleased by the way 
 other people set about doing it. llow, I try to please people sometimes, but 
 believe me, I very seldom succeed. 'Then go at once, and don't stop to bid good 
 bye to your sweetheart." 
 
 " " One moment, one moment," said Mary ; <{ Adam, Adam Beech, can you, will 
 you, Adam, forgive me ? ■ 
 
 Adam stretched out his manacled hands towards her. 
 
 (( With all my heart Mary, with all my heart ; you meant well, and so think no 
 more of it, it is past and over now; leave me to my fortunes, such as they are, and 
 perhaps it's all for the best, who can say that it is not V' 
 
 "Quite a young philosopher," said Sheridan, as he strolled out into the open air, 
 and saw Mary, after bidding him another fervent good night, proceed sobbing 
 homeward. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE ESCAPE OF ADAM BEECH FROM COVENT GARDEN WATCH-HOUSE. 
 
 " So my young fellow," said Mr. Stokes, the night constable, to Adam Beech, 
 when Sheridan and Mary had left the watch-house, " you are a nice article for a 
 rum un I don't think ; you crack a crib that nobody else knew how to crack, and 
 you put a knife into one of the receivers." 
 
 " What's that to you V said Adam. 
 
 " What's it to me % oh ! not much to be sure. I say, Mr. Mouldy, he's an out- 
 and-outer, aint he, don't you think? * 
 
 " I know it," said the officer, as he walked towards the door, ** and all I have 
 to say to you is to keep a good look out upon him." 
 
 « Look out ! if he g^ts out of here I'll swallow this flannel night-cap, I'll bet 
 anybody my silver watch here, to a glass of ale and ginger with the chill off, 
 that I have him here safe by ten o'clock to-morrow." 
 
 '* Done," said Adam Beech, " mind it's a bet, I will have no backing out of it 
 afterwards, old fellow ; come, is it a wager ?" 
 
 The night- constable looked at him lor a few moments in silence;- and then 
 he said, as he rose and took a key off a book that was close at hand, "it is ; and I 
 only wish you may win it. Of. all ihe impudent young rascals that ever I came 
 across you beat them; and that's saying more than you think for perhaps, for I've 
 had a few odd fish he$e in my time."'. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 235 
 
 '* Yourself included," said Adam, " for you are the oddest fish ever I came 
 near in all my life." 
 
 *' Why, who the devil are you? " said the astonished night-constable, " damn 
 it, I should like to know all about you— who are you when your'e at home ?— now, 
 my bey." 
 
 u Nobody, my lad." 
 
 "Nobody! What are you then ?" 
 
 " Nobody, my boy." 
 
 " Confound your impudence, calling a man old enough to be your grandfather 
 a boy. Why, you must be a something, or a somebody— you must have some 
 friends, I suppose?" 
 
 " Oh, dear no ! I was won at hazard one day at the in Drury lane." 
 
 "Come on, you'll make a figure, you will, unless you are hung this session. 
 Come along and be locked up. It aint often a fellow like you drops into the old 
 watch-house, so when they do, why we feel bound to take care of them — 
 come on." 
 
 ** With the greatest pleasure," said Adam Beech, and he followed the night 
 constable through a door-way, and down a narrow flight of stairs, at the bottom 
 of which was another door, which was locked. 
 
 * Here, you may as well make yourself useful," said Stokes, as he placed the 
 candlestick into one of the manacled hands of Adam Beech ; # hold the light." 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure," said Beech, " anything to be useful !" 
 
 The night constable had to take both hands.to turn the lock, and while he did so, 
 Adam held the light to his coat skirt until it was burnt clean through, and some- 
 thing fell out of it with a jingling sound on the floor ; but at that moment the lock 
 turned, so that Mr. Stokes attributed the sound he ' heard to that ; and then he 
 began sniffing with his nose as he said : — 
 
 " Something burning — I am sure something burning—damn it 1" 
 
 " Yes," said Adam, " it's the corner of my pocket went into the candle flame. 
 It ain't easy to hold a light when you are handcuffed. There, take the light back 
 again, and as I have been civil enough to you, just put your hand into my pocket, 
 and take out my handkerchief for me, for I can't." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind obliging you." 
 
 Mr. Stokes dived his hand into Adam Beech's pocket, and brought out a handker- 
 chief, which he handed to him, but. which Adam immediately dropped. 
 
 " Hilloa !" he said, " these handcuffs are so tight, I can hardly hold anything 
 with them, but [ can manage to stoop for all that*" 
 
 He stooped and picked up his handkerchief, and as he did so, he likewise picked 
 up what had fallen from the pocket of Mr. Stokes. It was a steel ring, on which 
 were some small keys, and Adam thought it more than probable that one of them, 
 if he could but manage to use it, would undo his handcuffs. t 
 
 " Now, my man," said Mr, Stokes, as he shaded the light with his hand, " please 
 to walk into the strong-room, and while you are there, you may think how you are 
 to win the wager you have laid with me, you know, ho ! ho ! ho !" 
 
 Adam Beech walked forv/ard, and immediately feel down about four feet, amid 
 the crowing laughter of Mr. Stokes, who, as he slammed the door, thus said : — 
 
 " That's one of my little jokes, how do you like it, Adam Beech? You see I'm 
 a funny fellow in my way, aint I ? Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 Mr. Stokes walked away quite pleased that he had played Adam such a practical 
 jest, and not caring one straw whether he was hurt or not. 
 
 " Very good," said Adam, as with some ''difficulty he struggled to his feet, "very 
 good, Master Stokes, I will with your leave owe you one for this ; how confounded 
 dark it is here, but I suppose I shall get accustomed to it soon, and now for the 
 keys.'" 
 
 Adam felt about the floor, which was of nothing but hammered earth, arid in one 
 corner he scratched a little hollow with his nails, in whichjj|e laid the small bunch 
 of keys, and then he carefully covered them up agfm with^Hfe* earth, and patted all 
 flat with his hands, so that no trace of what was buried could appear upon the 
 
 I 
 
236 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 surface. The utility of making some such an arrangement as this soon became 
 manifest, for Adam Beech had scarcely completed the arrangement, when he heard 
 hasty footsteps approaching the door, and in another minute it was flung open, and 
 Mr. Stokes stood upon the threshold. 
 
 " Hilloa ! " he said, " come, come, you set light to my coat-skirt, and have got 
 my small keys." 
 
 " What do you mean'? I saw that your coat-skirt was half-way in the fire before 
 you came down, but had no mind to say anything about it/ 
 
 " That won't do my man," said Mr. Stokes, as he jumped into the black-hole, 
 " you've got 'em, so we'll take the liberty of making a search." 
 
 Adam Beech submitted quietly enough to the search, which of course, to the 
 great disappointment of the night-constable, terminated in nothing. 
 
 " Come, now, 1 ' he said, " the keys are no use to you, where are they ? *' 
 
 " I have them not, and if I had is it likely I'd tell you ? no, indeed, not while I 
 have these hand -cuffs; on me take them off, and let me up-stairs, and then I'll help 
 you to look for them." 
 
 " I'll see you further first. A likely joke that ; I think I could master you single 
 handed, but I aint going to try, I don't care — give here the keys. He looked care- 
 fully round the black-hole, but could see no traces of them, and then, with an oath 
 or two, away he went, and Adam Beech was again in complete and profound 
 darkness. In another moment he had rescued the keys from their hiding-place, 
 but at first sight it would appear to be impossible to make any use of them, seeing 
 that he was shackled in such a manner ; but if Adam Beech had not the use of his 
 hands, he had of his teeth, and in them he grasped one of the keys, and after 
 repeated attempts and failures, at last succeeded in getting it into the lock of the 
 hand-cuffs. By turning his hands thus carefully, while he held the key quite fast, 
 he heard a faint click, and he knew that he was free. The hand-cuffs were off in 
 another moment, and flung to the further end of the black-hole. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " said Adam Beech, "hurrah, that's the first step towards liberty at all 
 events, and the first step is half the battle — now for it ; what's to be done next, 1 
 should like to know I strongly suspect that my friend Stokes is alone, oh ! that I 
 could get up to him." 
 
 This might be a decent enough aspiration upon the part of Adam Beech, but to 
 carry it out was quite another affair ; certainly his hands were at liberty, and his 
 eyes were getting quite accustomed to the darkness of the place, so that it didn't 
 seem quite so terribly dingy as at first it had appeared. 
 
 The door, however, was closed upon him, and by what skilful manoeuvre— by 
 what piece of chicanery could he hope to turn that ponderous lock, and get into the 
 upper air from that dingy black- hole, in which the prudent enough fears of Mr. 
 Stokes had placed him. 
 
 " This is a fix," said Adam Beech, "rather ; I have read of an old fable though 
 of the fox and the lion, which pretended to show that everything in the world 
 could be done by force or cunning ; no force won't do here, that's quite clear, and 
 how the fox part 01 the business is to be done certainly puzzles me." 
 
 While Adam Beech was thus ruminating, he heard a strange confused sort of 
 noise above, which could come from nowhere else but the common room of the 
 watch-house. 
 
 *" I shall have company," said Adam, " there's somebody else — well, that'll be 
 something, there'll be somebody to talk to ; what an infernal riot to be sure ; who 
 ever he is he has a strong objection to Co vent-garden watchhouse." 
 
 The noise continued to increase in intensity, and it was quite clear that something 
 like a struggle was going on, which terminated in the fall of some heavy body above, 
 and then all was still. 
 
 '* Now I wish I was there," said Adam Beech ; " somebody's been showing fight 
 and they've got him down at last among them ; old Stokes can't be above, that's 
 quite clear"." 
 
 Now for five minutes nothing but the confused murmuring of conversation met 
 his ears, then he heard the watch-house door bang and shut as if some people had 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 237 
 
 just departed, and the next sound to that that came upon his ears was that of 
 footsteps upon the staircase leading down to the black-hole. To fly to the door and 
 to listen attentively was the work of a moment, and then he heard that 
 Mr. Stokes was urging somebody forwards to partake of his, Adam Beech's 
 confinement. 
 
 " Come on, come on/' he said ; " you'll find company below. I'm not going to 
 have such fellows as you lolloping before the watch-house fire. Ah ! you may try 
 your best, you can't get rid of the darbies so easily as you think for — come on, will 
 you — curse you \" 
 
 Then there was another struggle, as if Mr. Stokes and his prisoner could not 
 agree at all about the mode of getting down stairs, but still for all that, they neared 
 the door at which Adam Beech was an attentive listener. 
 
 Then for the first time he heard the prisoner speak, and it was in a tone of voice 
 which betrayed some slight inebriety. 
 
 " Go to the devil ! " he said to Mr. Stokes ; "here, half-a-dozen of you get the 
 better of a man and put the handcuffs on him, so that he can't move, or take his 
 own part, and then you think you've done wonders ; but march on, my fine fellow, 
 you and I will meet somewhere else." 
 
 " Yes, I know we shall," said Mr. Stokes, " at the Old Bailey ; I often go to see 
 the trials." 
 
 " Oh, confound you ! just wait till the morning, and I'll let you know who 
 I am." 
 
 ** Oh, I'm not at all anxious," said Mr. Stokes ; t( I can wait quite well ; you 
 make yourself comfortable and don't make yourself uneasy on my account." 
 
 And so with such like insulting expressions, adding insult to injury, did Stokes 
 hurry forward the new prisoner whom he had assisted in handcuffing, and who he 
 fully intended'should share Adam Beech's cell with him. 
 
 " All's right," said Adam Beech suddenly in a voice of animation, "I think 
 I shall have him ; ah, bravo! he's coming, this is just the very thing." 
 
 He stood in the very centre of the cell, and when the door was suddenly opened 
 and a gleam of light shot into it, he joined his wrists together as if to show he still 
 h ad the handcuffs upon him. " 
 
 u Oh, you're there, are you-?" said Stokes, " my young shaver ; dear me, I thought 
 to be sure you'd got away by this time ! God bless my heart and life, it must be 
 very wrong to keep you here. Now, my ancient Roman, just walk in, if you 
 please." 
 
 " Jump it," cried Adam Beech ; r< there's a step." 
 
 The new prisoner took the hint, and sprung into the black-hole, without 
 experiencing the fall, which the facetious Mr. Stokes was in hopes he would 
 get. 
 
 *• You young vagabond ! what do you mean by interfering with other people's 
 business?" 
 
 «* Why, Mr. Stokes," said Adam, " I didn't like to see the gentleman fall. I 
 hurt myself, you know, when you let me in in that way ; but however, sir, since 
 you've been gone, in looking about I've found a little steel ring, with some little 
 keys upon it ; and, thinks I to myself, these are Mr. Stokes's keys that he lost." 
 
 " Of course they are," said Stokes : " give us hold of them ;" and he sprung into 
 the black hole. 
 
 " Here they are," said Adam Beech ; and he flew at his neck as if he had 
 been discharged out of a mortar — clinging round him with arms and legs — 
 kicking, scratching, tearing at him, and aiming blows upon his face with his head 
 — till down went the bewildered Stokes with a concussion that shook the very 
 building. 
 
 " D n you !" said Adam Beech, as he knelt upon his chest, " there'll be a 
 
 new night-constable wanting for Covent Garden watch-house." 
 
 Twisting his fingers in Mr. Stokes's neckcloth, and twisting it about, he pro- 
 duced, in a few moments, such an effect that all the bewildered man could do was 
 to gasp and roll his eyes, and grasp the air with his hands. 
 
238 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Good God !" said the new eomer, as he snatched up the light, which providen- 
 tially had not gone out, "you're murdering the man !" 
 
 " Call you it what you like," said Adam Beech, " I mean to kill him ; he's 
 going fast now. Take that, Mr. Stokes ; and that — and that." 
 
 H e lifted up Mr. Stokes's head as he spoke, and brought it down with an uncom- 
 fortable dash upon- the floor. 
 
 " Come, corns," said the other man, " you're a perfect devil. I won't have it. 
 Get off him, will you? — get off him. Why, I can hear the rattle in his throat." 
 
 a Very good," said Adam ; " it'll save him the trouble of springing any of the 
 rattles up stairs." 
 
 The stranger put down the light; and then stepping forward he flung himself upon 
 the body of Adam Beech, and, by main force, tore him away from the nearly- 
 . suffocated Stokes. 
 
 " You desperate young viper," he cried, " why need you get yourself into more 
 trouble than enough for ? You can walk out now, and there's nobody to say nay to 
 you." 
 
 " Leave him alone, will you? He won't be able to interfere with you for this 
 hour to come." 
 
 " Ah !*' said Adam, drawing breath, " I told him I owed him one. * Out of debt 
 
 out of danger.'" 
 
 ''Owed him one ! * said the stranger; "why, if you owed him a hundred, you 
 have paid them him. 4 Owing a man one' with you, it seems, means taking the first 
 opportunity of throttling him." 
 
 " Ah, well !" said Adam, "he served me out, and I have served him out ; night 
 constables take a deal of throttling : but come, Til take off your handcuffs for you, 
 if you like." 
 
 " If 1 like ! You don't doubt it, do you' 1 . Be quick about it. Leave this fellow 
 here— and now, come on." 
 
 " Is there nobody above ?" said Adam. 
 
 " No : but you run a chance every moment of an arrival ; and it would be rather 
 awkward were a constable or two to come, and find us in charge of the watchhouse, 
 instead of Mr. Stokes." 
 
 " So it would," said Adam, " Come on, then — quick." 
 
 They both ascended to the common room ; and there Adam, after looking eagerly 
 "about him for a few moments, was delighted to find Mr. Stokes's family watch upon 
 a hook. 
 
 "All right," he said ; "he bet me this watch against a glass of ale in the morn- 
 ing that I couldn't get away : so I claim the stakes." 
 
 These words were hardly out of Adam's mouth, when there came a tremendous 
 knock at the watch-house door ; and the confused noise. of a number of voices was 
 heard behind the door. 
 
 "Now we are in for it," s;<id the stranger: "there's some watchmen with, 
 a charge ; they'll guess in a moment what's happened, and we shall be nabbed 
 again." 
 
 "Not if I know it," said Adam. "The door opening inwards, step behind it; 
 and, as soon as they come in, make a rush out. Make as much noise as you can, 
 and hit right and left." 
 
 " Damn the fellow," said the stranger, -" if ever I came near such a one ; but 
 however, Master What's-your-name, it seems to be the only way, for although I 
 didn't interfere much with Stokes, he's come to swear I did." 
 
 "Yes," said Adam, "and the old bloke, the magistrate, will make a misde- 
 meanour of it. Come on, and never say die." 
 
 Bang, bang, bang ! came repeated knocks at the watchhouse door. 
 
 "Coming, coming !" cried Adam, and he flung the door wide open. 
 
 A crowd of watchmen appeared holding several persons in custody, and then 
 ^ e fore they could take a glance at the interior of the watchhouse, out dashed Adam 
 aQ d his new friend. 
 
 The stranger played his part very well and showed no lack of courage, but Adam 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 239 
 
 was like a maniac. Twenty men could not have held him, and he flew about, 
 anrbng the watchmen assaulting them in every possible way, and uttering as ha 
 did so unearthly shouts, which might have been the war-cry of barbarians in 
 ancient days, until he got clear of the throng, and then he dashed at once into the 
 purlieus of the market. 
 
 "Damn everybody !" he cried, as he stopped for breath, " I should like to have 
 another fight, that I should. I only wish there'd been a few more of them, that's 
 all ; but, however, I've kept jny word to old Stokes, and he'll know now that 
 Covent Garden watchhouse can't hold me. Let me think now — where am I to 
 go ? Why,- to old Isaacson's, of course, and see my men — they'll be rather 
 surprised to find me among them again. Hurrah ! the best cribs in London are 
 uncracked yet !" 
 
 Adam Beech hurried through the market and t' ,k li Is course in as direct a line 
 as he could towards the Jew's house, and it was with no small amount of exultation 
 that he thought how he should be able to keep his word of being there again that 
 night, notwithstanding what had occurred would seem to have been one of the 
 most effectual means of preventing him. 
 
 No one impeded his progress, although he certainly did not look just the thing, 
 for he was without a hat, and his clothes were much dilapidated and torn. 
 
 In this plight he arrived at the cellar-head, by which he knew he could obtain 
 an entrance to Isaacson's house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE SECRETS OF THE FENCE. 
 
 Adam Beech paused for a minute before he gave the preconcerted signal which 
 would admit him to the Jew's dwelling. He fancied, as he listened attentively, 
 that he heard the sound of human voices, and if such were the case, doubtless l^e 
 was the theme of the conversation ; and just was he upon the point of stamping" 
 with his foot, in order to demand an entrance, when he saw coming, hurriedly 
 down the street, some one who made his way so directly towards Isaacson's, that 
 Adam could scarcely doubt that he was bound there. 
 
 He shrunk back into the recess of the door. way himself, in crier th it he might 
 notice, without being himself observed, who the individual was. 
 
 He was repaid for his trouble— for he saw that it was Sir Gaskin, who, as he 
 sprang into the window-corner of the cellar, muttered sufficiently lou l for Adam 
 Beech to hear — 
 
 "His career's finished — short work he's made of it; he'll be La'ig?d for a 
 certainty, and that'll be rather a rough lesson to him, not to make too tree with 
 that dammed knife of his. I'll go and see him hanged, and that'll bs the richest 
 treat I've had for many a day." 
 
 Gaskin then cast cautious glances round him, and perceiving no one near, he 
 stamped distinctly three times upon the cellar-head, and then down he went, and 
 in an instant the boarding was replaced as before. 
 
 "/Oh, indeed," said Adam Beech, as he emerged from his place of concealment ; 
 " so you think I shall be hanged, do you, Sir Gaskin ? Oh, no, I shall live long 
 enough to disappoint you yet, you may depend. I know I've not your good wishes, 
 because I've crossed you; and perhaps it may happen that that same knife you 
 accuse me of being too ready with, may make close acquintance with you, if you 
 give sufficient provocation. But here goes to astonish them." 
 
 Adam Beech stamped upon the wood- work beneath his feet, and then with a 
 tolerably easy action he found himself go down, but he was not as before received 
 in the arms of the Jew, for his deputy then had charge of the trap. 
 
240 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 At first this sagacious individual seemed hardly to know Adam, but upon a 
 second look he recognised him, and said, — 
 
 " It's all right — it's all right — you'll find them in the room, and there's a rush- 
 light burning on the staircase." 
 
 ' Thank ye," said Adam, "thank ye— that'll do." 
 
 He walked onward, and by the aid of the rushlight which has been spoken of 
 he reached the door of the same apartment which was the rendezvous of his 
 notorious companions*. 
 
 I tell you all, my dears," he said, " it's a thousand pities, though I know 
 Gaskin you don't think so, for you don't like the lad — it's a thousand pities, for 
 he'd have done something worth remembering ; and what's more, he was not 
 greedy about the swag." 
 
 " Oh, confound him," said Gaskin, u let him go ; he was too fast for me by a 
 great deal. I don't like your forward boys crowing over men just because they 
 may happen to have the luck of doing something all of a sudden that's successful." 
 
 " No, it's not that, Gaskin," said another, you were jealous of the lad, and 
 you know you were. I'd run a good deal of risk myself to get him clear, but I'm 
 afraid he's too deeply in for it for any good to be done for him." 
 
 " Yes, he is," said Gaskin ; " so you may spare your sympathy. Now, mark 
 my words — I prophecy t v at I shall see that lad hung.** 
 
 *} It must be in another world, then," said Adam Beech, walking in, " where 
 we shall both of us have another chance, for you'll swing long before the rope 
 touches my neck." 
 
 There was a general start of surprise, and the Jew clapped his hands with 
 pleasure, while Sir Gaskin muttered damnation " between his clenched teeth. 
 
 " Here I am," said Adam ; " I told you I'd be here, and I always keep my 
 word. Come, old Jerusalem, bustle about, and get us something to eat; I'm 
 famished." 
 
 " The best in the house, the best in the house, my son — a cold ralf's foot and 
 a glass of pump water." 
 
 '« If you dare," said Adam, " to set such fare before me, I'll make you swallow 
 it whole. I must have wine, I tell you. I'll not work hard and enjoy-nothing. 
 Well, my man, you stare as if you were astonished. Did you never see a 
 gentleman before who wanted his supper V 
 
 '* A prodigy !" said the Jew, as he produced a key and unlocked a cupboard, 
 " quite a prodigy !" 
 
 •* Give us your hand, Adam Beech," said the robber, who had always taken his 
 part, " give us your hand, my boy, I am glad to see you — right glad to see you — 
 on my soul ! I'd given you up, for they told me you were in Covent Garden 
 watchhouse." 
 
 "There, my son," said the Jew, placing a bottle and glasses before him, "drink 
 that, and I'll just run round the corner to the British Hotel and buy a cold duck of 
 them or something of that sort— a prodigy! a prodigy ! — or a knuckle of ham — 
 quite a prodigy !" 
 
 " And stir your stumps, too," said Adam Beech ; " I may as well tell you at once 
 that I won't wait long for anything. Now, my men, be seated. So the last you 
 heard of me was being at Covent Garden watchhouse, was it?" 
 
 " Yes, and that you put* a knife previous to that into Patrick, the officer's, 
 ribs." 
 
 «' Well, I have some slight recollection, of something of the sort, and half an 
 hour ago 1 certainly was in the black hole of Covent- garden watch-honse with a 
 pair of darbies on me." 
 
 " The devil you were !" 
 
 " Yes," said Adam, as he poured out a glass of wine and tossed it down his 
 throat; "yes, that's about the fact; but I laid a wager, you see, with old Stokes, 
 the night constable, of a glass of mulled ale, with a dash of ginger in it in the 
 morning, against his old family ticker, that he wouldn't keep me there all night." 
 
 He heard the sound of voices 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 241 
 
 *' What. I Big Stokes, as he's called — a fellow that wears a red night-cap and has 
 a silver watch the size of a warming-pan." 
 " The same— that's the watch." 
 
 Adam very deliberately pulled out Mr. Stokes' watch, and laid it upon the table. 
 
 " Quite a prodigy, quite a prodigy !" exclaimed the Jew, rushing into the apart- 
 ment and whipping up the watch before anybody else had time to touch it ; " I'll 
 keep it for your sake, my dear— quite a prodigy ! a cold tongue, half a Devonshire 
 chicken, and an apricot tart." 
 
 I' 
 
 " Good, 5 ' said Adam, " you may keep the watch, Isaacson ; but mind, I warned 
 you once before not to call me by this name of a prodigy, I won't have it.", 
 " My dear, I won't sav it ; how do you like the wine V 
 " Humph ! fairish — tasted better." 
 « He's quite a prod—; no, I didn't mean that." 
 
 « But how did you get rid of the watchman, Beech," pursued the housebreaker, 
 t° ?" been making in( l uiries evidently in a kindly spirit, " how did you 
 
 " Why I got old Stokes' keys from him, and released myself from my 
 handcuffs." 3 
 
 'No, 37. 
 
. • 
 
 . 
 
 242 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Uncommonly like a whale," said Sir Gaskin ; " pray, where was your third 
 hand to do it with V 
 
 ** I've got teeth," said Adam Beech, " and, you mind, I don't bite." 
 ft What a prod — !" said the Jew. ^ 
 
 " And then I coaxed the old fellow into the black-hole, and there he's laying 
 now ; I rather think, on the whole — not such bad wine af|er all, Isaacson — that I 
 throttled him — about as delicate a tongue as ever I tasted ; so, after that, I walked 
 up stairs, and just as I was coming out, a lot of Charlies came with a charge — 
 rather awkward, but, however, I was forced to get through them the best way I 
 could, and here 1 am." 
 
 <{ Wonderful, wonderful IV said the Jew ; but, my dear, you'll be hunted up, 
 and the whole police of London will be upon your scent. You'll have to stay 
 here, my prod — ; I beg your pardon, I won't say it again — you'll have to stay 
 here till the heat of the pursuit's over." 
 
 " And can I do so safely?" 
 
 " Quite ; this house is like a warren, and # dozen men may be hid here at once 
 and defy everybody." 
 
 " Then I'll stay," said Adam, with a sigh, " though there is one I should like 
 to visit ; and harkee, old Isaacson, I'm out of cash." 
 
 " Oh, my dear, you shan't be out of cash long, I'll supply you ; and then, my 
 dear, you know, as you're quite a prod — , you can crack somebody's blessed v 
 crib for me and pay me afterwards. I'll keep a running account with you, 
 Master Beech." | 
 
 " Yes," said one, " no doubt of that, Master Isaacson ; only your running 
 accounts all run cne way — into your own pocket." 
 
 " Ah ! you will always have your joke. Mr. Beech, don't you mind what they 
 say ; we've all got our weaknesses, Mr. Beech, and mine is to love the profession. 
 I'm getting old now, so I may as well remain poor, and among ye, I dare say, 
 you'll find the means to bury me. Ah 1 Master Beech, Master Beech, you're a 
 young man, and you don't know the world so well as I do." 
 
 " Gammon !" said Adam, as he threw the dregs of a glass of wine in the Jew's 
 face ; " don't talk to me ; do you think that I don't know what you and the like of 
 you are? it won't go down — but, however, money I must have, and you know vjell 
 enough you'll get it back again from me." 
 
 " How much, my dear, a couple of guineas ?" 
 
 " A couple of guineas only, you old thief ! come now — at a wo»d, I want ten 
 pounds a week sent to a particular place that I shall name to you ; and, mark me, 
 I will have it, or else you and I do no more business together." 
 
 " Couldn't you make five do ?" 
 
 " No, I can't if I would, and I won't if 1 could ; there are plenty of cribs worth 
 cracking in London this winter, and I'm the man to crack them. You'll make 
 your fortune, Isaacson, and I don't care if you do, provided you'll supply me with 
 what I want ; but that I will have ; mark me, I've said it, I will have it !" 
 
 *' He's quite a prodigy, and I wouldn't say no to him on any account for fear of 
 hurting his feelings ; you shall have it — where is it to be sent to ?" 
 
 " I'll write the address to-morrow morning, when you find me a messenger ; 
 but now I must confess myself a little tired, ana want the refreshment of a good 
 long sleep." 
 
 " Come with me, then," said the Jew, " and I'll show you the house* ; you'll 
 say you haven't seen such a crib for many a long day, if ever you saw one like it 
 at all. You're one of us now, Mr. Beech, and shall know everything." 
 
 <; You're too hasty," said Gaskin. 
 
 " Not at all, Sir Gaskin," said the Jew, "not at all ; I've lived longer in the 
 world than you have, and I'm not a likely man to be too hasty in a thing like 
 this — this way, Mr. Beech, if you please — t u is way, my dear Mr. Beech." 
 
 Beech rose ; but before he left the room he turned to the housebreakers and 
 said, " Mark me, I've no wish to remain here in idleness a moment longer than is 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 243 
 
 absolutely necessary, and the next thing I do shall as far outstrip the last one as 
 that did the mere boys' pranks that preceded it. Now, Jerusalem, lead on !" 
 
 Mr. Isaacson acted the part of a cicerone extremely well, lie took Adam 
 Beech over the greater part of the house, and showed him such intricate and 
 admirably contrived means of escape as well as of concealment, that Beech was 
 astonished as well as gratified, and obtained a very general knowledge of the plan 
 of Isaacson's premises. 
 
 The fact is, that that house, which was ostensibly the Jew's, was not by any 
 means the one in which valuable plunder was kept or daring offenders against the 
 law secreted. No ; it was in the adjoining houses,' the shops of which appeared 
 to be inhabited by hard-working tradesmen, that most of this business was carried 
 on, the parties appearing in the shops being actually in the pay of Isaacson. 
 There were secret doors and communications between the houses, and Isaacson 
 showed him, in case of alarm, how he could slip from one to the other. Par- 
 ticularly, too, he pointed out to him the cupboard on the ground-floor, in which 
 he told him that a celebrated robber had hidden from the officers of justice, 
 although they looked into it when first they came to the house, and one of their 
 number was left as a sentinel below, actually within sight of it. 
 
 " But how was that managed?" said Beech. 
 
 " Why, my dear, there's another cupboard on the 'first floor,, just above it, so 
 that the floor of the one is the ceiling of the other, and the ceiling's moveable, and 
 runs down upon pullies, just by taking a fifty, pound weight off a shelf and adding 
 it to any ordinary man's weight that may be in the cupboard." 
 
 ** Oh, I see," said Beech ; " then he who wishes to be concealed gets in the 
 top cupboard first." 
 
 " He does, my dear, and when the lower one has been examined and the door 
 shut again, which it is sure to do by the sort of hinges it has, he comes down 
 from the upper one with the weight, steps off that portion of the flooring, and up 
 it goes again ; then the officers looking in and seeing nothing but a fifty-pound 
 weight think all is right." 
 
 " And would my weight carry it down V 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, along with the fifty." ^ 
 
 " A good contrivance, Isaacson ; should I be hard pressed I'll avail myself of it, 
 but now let me to bed, for I tell you candidly that I'm weary. I'm not afraid of 
 treachery from yr>u, Isaacson, as regards my personal safety, because you know it 
 will be to y(*tr advantage for me to go on in the career of robbery I have com- 
 menced ; but am I safe from others V 
 
 " Safe, my dear ! I should like to see the person that would touch you here." 
 
 " Sir Gaskin, for example." 
 
 " Sir Gaskin, 1 ' said the Jew, with ineffable scorn, " he dare not ; they may talk 
 of your being fond of using the knife, but. by Abraham, if Sir Gaskin does but 
 attempt to lay his little finger upon you, I'll rip him up and give his gutg to the 
 yard dog. No, no, Master Beech, you're safe enough here, safe as a baby iu it's 
 cradle, and there's a bed-room for you fit for a king." 
 
 " Indeed 1" said Beech as he entered rather a shabby looking apartment ; his 
 Majesty would not need to be very particular." 
 
 " He, he ! quite a prod — . I'll leave this light with you, Master Beech ; but 
 don't fancy, if you hear any noise in the night, that there's any danger to you ; you 
 lay still, and I'll keep a better look-out than you can ; you'll sleep as safe as if you 
 were in Abraham's bosom." 
 
 " I'll trust you, Isaacson," said Adam, " and, in point of fact, I'm so wearied 
 that I must sleep somewhere." 
 
 He disencumbered himself of some of his apparel and flung himself upon the 
 bed ; then, murmuring the name of Mary, he sank in a few minutes into a deep 
 and dreamless slumber. Had there been any amount of danger around him, 
 Adam Beech must have slept. Exhausted nature claimed its due ; the mind was 
 willing and active still, but the exertion and want of rest of the last two nights had 
 wearied the •physical frame. 
 
244 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 The Jew had lingered near the door, and when he felt convinced, by the hard 
 and regular breathing, that Adam Beech was fast asleep, he held up the light, and 
 looked long and fixedly at him, — 
 
 " No, no," he said, " Sir Gaskin must not rob me of such a customer as this, 
 he'll do some rare business yet ; and although, I dare say, the rope is spun that 
 will hang him, he'll put gold into my coffers before he comes to that — yes, gold, 
 gold ! bright, shining, and beautiful gold — you're quite safe, Adam Beech, quite a 
 prod — , quite a prod — !* 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 MARY AT HOME. 
 
 How shall we, for one moment, hope to describe the situation of Mary, when 
 she reached the humble home of her parents with the conviction on her mind that 
 she had, in making an effort to save Adam Beech from the consequences of the 
 crime he had committed, only succeeded in drawing down their worst ones upon his 
 head. And what was more, she had been the unhappy cause of inducing an offence 
 of a much blacker dye — an offence from the consequences of which he would, no 
 doubt, find more difficulty in clearing himself than from the consequences of the 
 robbery, which certainly was a most venial offence compared with what, for all she 
 or he or anybody else as yet knew to the contrary, might turn out to be nothing 
 short of the murder of the Bow Street officer. She was panic stricken, and unable 
 to think or act with anything like discretion ; and yet she had not fully awakened 
 to a sense of all the wretchedness of her position. She was in. that state which 
 generally succeeds, in most minds, any great misfortune for which they have been 
 altogether unprepared ; a state which seems, while it lasts, the very mockery of 
 calmness and fortitude. But far different is their reality ; for it is but the stunning 
 effect of the mental blow which for a time lulls sensation, even as at the moment 
 some frightful wound is painless, and it is only when the bodiJy functions recover 
 from the terrific shock they have experienced that the affair is felt in* all its 
 fearful intensity. 
 
 She sat down alone ; her mother was out and her father was chatting with a 
 neighbour, so she sat down alone to try to think. It was a terrible effort, one 
 which she was scarcely capable of ; but, as she did recover, by degrees she saw, or 
 fancied she saw, all the train of frightful consequences which she was on the mare 
 threshold of, she felt as if she was really going mad. 
 
 " What have 1 done V* she exclaimed ; " destroyed utterly him who was most 
 dear to me ; and that too, in a frantic effort to save him ; and he held out to me 
 the hand of forgiveness, even after that. Oh, Adam, Adam, I do not deserve your 
 love, for I have destroyed you ! What madness possessed me to think that I, a 
 mere girl, knowing nothing of the world and its ways, could interfere in the affairs 
 of men. How could lhope to save you? Adam, Adam, you are lost, and I am 
 your destroyer ! I, who would have died to make it otherwise. But it is over, as 
 I read in some old book lent me by one who knew the world well, that the worst 
 evils are ever inflicted by the hand of misjudging affection." 
 
 She buried her sweet face in her hands, and wept abundantly. During the last 
 twelve hours, what a change had been wrought in the tranquil even tenor of her 
 existence ! She felt as if in that time she had gathered a knowledge of the world, 
 which years of the ordinary kind of life that had been hers, would not have given 
 to her." 
 
 *• Oh, Adam," she said again, " your death shall be my death sentence. If the 
 cruel laws take from you the life they cannot give, they shall likewise have before 
 high Heaven to answer for my death. I will not live with the dreadful thought 
 that I have by my ill-judged interference with affairs beyond my controlling power 
 condemned you." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 245 
 
 The thought that she could prove her sincerity, and the depth of her affection for 
 Adam Beeoti by death, oheered and consoled her. 
 
 Alas, the mind that can find consolation from such a source must indeed be most 
 deeply affected. 
 
 And now she went to the little casement of her chamber and opened it so that 
 the night breeze should play upon her fevered brow, and she felt a sensible relief 
 from the cooling influence of the blessed air of heaven, which even in the close 
 pent-up houses of a large city, comes across the wearied frame and the fevered 
 brow with a pleasant freshness. 
 
 44 What shall — what can I do?" she again, for the hundredth time that night, asked 
 herself, and she meant, although she did not add these words to her constant 
 inquiry, she meant " what can I do to save Adam Beech V 
 
 But what answer was she likely to find to such a query ? I before, that which 
 she attempted wasjattended byjdoubts and risks, how much less likely was she, now 
 that Adam was in "the hands of the police, to be of very efficient aid to him." 
 
 And the reader must excuse this innocent and loving girl if she found all, or at 
 least by far the greater part of her sympathies so engrossed by the condition of 
 Adam Beech that she thought not with so much agony and horror as she ought to 
 hare done of the new crime which her lover had committed in his wild and reckless 
 use of the knife upon the officer who had done his duty by assisting in his appre- 
 hension. She certainly ought to have felt that in that particular, Adam Beeeh had 
 committed a crime that even her affection could not excuse. 
 
 But when does affection reason ? when does the heart draw logical conclusions, 
 as to what it ought and what it ought not to think or to feel ? never, never, love 
 is a passion, and therefore an antagonist to all reflection ; he who says he loves 
 from reflection, may use the soft language of the passion, may bind to him by the 
 hottest and most indissoluble ties the object of his admiration, but it is not real 
 love, although, perchance, a feeling of more probable duration. 
 
 She could think of no cause that afforded the least chance of effectual succour 
 for him. Had anything presented itself to her imagination to do, unquestionably 
 it would have been done, at whatever sacrifice, but the circumstances presented no 
 room for action. And thus despairingly she told herself, what without all the 
 painful thought that had preceded it, she might have told herself, namely, that 
 she could do nothing but await the progress of events, reserving herself to adopt 
 any course which might suddenly present itself as growing out of them. Most 
 bitterly, as might well be expected, did she feel the treachery of Lamont, the 
 banker, who had promised so fairly to her, and yet behaved so falsely. Hencefor- 
 ward, she felt that while she should couple his name with all that was base and 
 despicable, her confidence in human nature, that confidence which admixture 
 with the world so rarely offers, was of course wofully diminished. " 
 
 " I can trust no one," she said mournfully " for I have now by bitter experience 
 learnt the lesson which I have often spurned as a precept that human nature is 
 capable of exercising and of executing the blackest treachery. Oh, why did he 
 not tell me he could not, or he would not look over the injury that had been done 
 him, and let me go in peace." 
 
 Alas, poor Mary ! you little know of what materials the mass of human nature 
 is composed of, or you would feel but little surprise that the banker promised 
 that mercy, which he had no idea of granting to the criminal who had disturbed 
 his possessions. 
 
 " Can such a man," thought Mary, " stand before the judgment seat of God, 
 and ask for mercy ¥ 
 
 That was putting the question in quite a different light, and if she had gone to 
 Lamont, and so put it, and he had answered her according to the truthful dictates 
 of his own conscience, he would have said, without hesitation, — 
 
 ** Oh, I go to church, and pay my rates and taxes, and leave all that to the 
 parson of the parish." 
 
 And which is just what the religion of nine hundred and ninety-nine people out 
 of one thousand amounts to. Outward observances, and the payment of so much 
 
246 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 coin. Oh! where is that true and beautiful religion of the heart, which Christ 
 taught ? but, alas ! taught all in vain, for such on the world's jjpface is not to be 
 found. The banker Lamont had grossly deceived that youn^reature who had 
 placed confidence in his word ; and yet, by the world he wouf| not have been 
 tyamed. Oh ! no, not he ; on the contrary, most people would have called it 
 clever, and all with very, very, few exceptions, would still have called him a 
 wonderfully respectable man. But still, poor Mary Phillips, causing him whom 
 she loved still to be in that durance which had presented itself to her eyes in so 
 fearful an aspect, was in a perfect agony of disturbed thought, and wholly 
 incapable of closing her eyes in sleep. Knowing, of course, nothing of the realities 
 of such a place as that in which she had left Adam Beech, her imagination made 
 it something like those dungeons, a description of which the pages of old romance 
 presented her with. She fancied, of course, that Adam must be consigned to 
 some dungeon, and loaded with massive chains ; and, once or twice, she worked 
 her young and ardent imagination up to such a pitch of excitement, thjtt she was 
 half inclined, late as the hour was, to run into the streets, and rush impetuously 
 to the watch house of Covent Garden, and at least demand to be allowed to share 
 his captivity. And thus she passed the night ; and most welcome to her was the 
 first faint streak of early dawn that heralded the coming day. She had not 
 undressed herself, so her toilet was quickly made, and after partaking of but a 
 scanty breakfast, and still keeping secret from her mother the adventures she had 
 connected with Adam, she left the house, as the old people thought, doubtless, 
 to seek for work elsewhere than at Madame Pompadour's ; but, in reality, Mary 
 Phillips went to Bow-street police-office, where she fully expected to see Adam 
 Beech. 
 
 Justice was in those days conducted much as it is now, namely, interest went 
 a long way ; and we shall see how, but for the powerful friend whom chance had 
 raised up for her, Mary Phillips would have been in but a sorry position, in 
 consequence of the non-appearance of Adam Beech. 
 
 As she ascended the steps leading to the office, she heard a man suddenly 
 exelaim : — 
 
 " Here's the girl, by Jove ! Well, who would have thought of that ?" 
 " May I come in V said Mary timidly. 
 
 "Oh! and welcome; you may indeed, as for going out again, that is quite 
 another affair. You will please to consider yourself my prisoner, pretty one." 
 ¥ Prisoner ! why I was released." 
 
 " Yes, and I give you great credit for being fool enough to come here this 
 morning. Hark you, my lass, you had better 'peach upon him at once. Where 
 is he?" 
 
 " Where is who V said Mary, in amazement. 
 
 "Damn me !" said the officer, " if you aint an older hand than I took you to 
 be. Just look at her, Bill, did you ever see such a famous good face put upon 
 any thing in all your life 1 No, I'll be bound you did not. By Jove she knows 
 what she's about, I believe you. Come on my lass, we must introduce you to his 
 worship." 
 
 The astounded and alarmed Mary was led into the office a prisoner. She had 
 fully imagined and understood, that her release on the preceding evening was 
 final, and had not the least idea^, that her appearance at the police-office as a 
 spectator could be a prelude to her apprehension. The fact is, she too much pre- 
 sumed upon her own knowledge of her own conscience, and did not take sufficiently 
 into account those circumstances which made her appear guilty, and which were 
 so much calculated to exercise a powerful control over the opinions of others 
 respecting her. 
 
 When she found herself actually in the presence of the magistrate, who had but just 
 taken his seat and who regarded her with a stern aspect that he thought dignified, 
 and which, consequently, he bestowed upon everybody alike, she felt ready to 
 sink. jff 
 
 " What's that, officer ?? he cried. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 247 
 
 " Please your worship, it's a young girl." 
 
 " Well, I see ik&t ; damn you, officer, do you think I'm a fool, a young girl 
 indeed ! of course she is ; but what has she done, eh? I don't, sit here to listen 
 to foolish remarks. What has she done ? that's the question." 
 
 " Yes, your worship, certainly. She was apprehended along with Adam Beech, 
 the housebreaker, against whom your worship granted a warrant yesterday on the 
 complaint of Mr. Lamont." 
 
 " Oh, ah ! a :id so she was concerned in the robbery, eh ? " 
 
 " No, no," exclaimed Mary ; " indeed I was not." 
 
 " Good God I am I to sit here and be told to my face I'm a liar ? I believe I know 
 best ! Am I to be contradicted here in open court ? I say you were connected with the 
 robbery, of course you were connected with the robbery, of course you were ; I 
 never knew a robbery yet of any consequence but some girl or another was at the 
 bottom of it, you know that as well as I do." 
 
 1 You are wrong," said Mary ; " you are quite wrong. Think you that with 
 any consciousness of guilt, I should have come here this morning. No, no ; I came 
 with the hope of breathing but one word of consolation to Adam Beech, and to ask 
 him again to forgive me for being the involuntary cause of his arrest." 
 
 " Now of all the impudence that ever I met with this beats all. Officer take her 
 away till the housebreaker is brought up." 
 
 " Ahem ! " said the officer ; '< please your worship, the fact is, I'm sorry to say, 
 your worship, he won't be brought up this morning." 
 
 '•What? you don't mean to tell me that among you all you have not taken 
 him ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, your worship, we did take him and put him quite safe in Covent 
 Garden watch-house, but he made his escape." 
 " Escape! escape!" 
 
 " Yes, your worship ; he's one of the most troublesome young fellows that ever 
 we came across. He'll give some trouble too yet ; he's one of the old sort, your 
 worship, he nearly killed old big Stokes, the night-constable, and would have 
 killed him altogether but for another prisoner ; he's got clear off though, and we 
 have no news of him as yet." 
 
 " Then he is free ! oh, thank Heaven he is free ! " exclaimed Mary Phillips, clasp- 
 ing her hands ; " he is free and I am happy." 
 
 " Are you ?" said the magistrate sulkily, " Are you happy ? very good, we 
 will give you plenty of time to think about it ; you are committed for a 
 fortnight," 
 
 *< Committed, and for what ! " said the young girl, summoning courage in the 
 desperation of the moment. " Why should I be sent to prison when I am inno- 
 cent ? Who says that I am guilty? who can with truth accuse me of such an act? 
 Oh, sir, I am innocent; indeed, my whole and sole connexion with this most 
 melancholy affair has consisted of aJiope to turn aside from his guilt Adam Beech, 
 and to give him a chance of redeeming his character, and becoming an honest 
 member of society. I have failed, miserably, dreadfully failed, but that does not 
 make me guilty." 
 
 "Oh, of course, that's all very well. What now, who's this from ?" 
 
 These last words of the magistrate were addressed to an officer of the court, who 
 brought in a letter which he handed to his worship. 
 
 *< What do people pester me with letters for? Everybody knows I hate letters, 
 of course I do, and I never answer them." 
 
 His worship was one of the old school of magistrates, who probably would in 
 some cases have found it a difficult thing to answer a letter, from a lack of that kind 
 of literary skill which would suffice to put one together with any degree of pro- 
 priety. As it was, after giving vent to these grumbling remarks, he opened the 
 epistle and read it through, when his countenance expressed astonishment and he 
 scratched his illustrious head, displacing very much a wig that he wore, after which 
 he said — 
 
 " Young woman, upon second thoughts, I don't feel disposed to commit jtm ; 
 
248 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 ahem ! Mr. Sheridan has written me a note, and he says that of course a magistrate 
 of my judgment must perceive that you are quite innocent ; ah, of course, Mr. 
 Sheridan is a great man and knows what's what, he says that you are a friend of 
 his and he hopes you will not be put to any inconvenience." 
 " Blessings on him ! " 
 
 '* Ah ! hem ! and so upon second thoughts you may go." 
 
 Mary Phillips was not likely to "want a second bidding to leave the place which 
 she did at once, without saying another word. Adam Beech had escaped — and she 
 was herself! Ample conclusions, without her troubling herself to ask for more ; she 
 hurried from the place and took her way home again with a degree of thankful 
 feeling at her heart towards the really warm-hearted, witty, dissolute being, who had 
 written in her behalt to the magistrate, which, had he known it, would have amply 
 repaid him for all the trouble he had taken in the matter. 
 
 The first question that was asked her by her mother was, if she had succeeded in 
 procuring any work ? but the only answer Mary gave, was to burst into tears, and at 
 that moment a carriage drove up to the door, and who should alight from it but 
 Madame Pompadour. 
 
 " Good gracious \ " exclaimed Mrs. Phillips ; u it's Madame Pompadour, I 
 declare." 
 
 " I cannot see her," said Mary ; " I have no heart to speak to her ) I don't think 
 that now again 1 could hope to settle down into the drudge I was before. Ther^ is 
 no chance of such a thing. Tell her, mother, that I cannot." 
 
 M Very well, my dear. But suppose some better terms could be nade with 
 her — your father's health is breaking, Mary, and I begin to feel that I am not 
 so young as once I was." 
 
 " Enough, enough !" said Mary ; " do with me what you please ; what you 
 agree to, mother, that will I." 
 
 Mary left the little parlour just as the great Madame Pompadour entered it, 
 and although that lady came upon a mission of peace, and fully had made up 
 her mind, that at the price of- some condescension she would get back her old 
 slave, Mary Phillips, without whose aid she found it difficult to get — she could 
 not help showing some of the low arrogance of her nature. 
 
 " How do you do, madam ?" said Mrs. Phillips, dropping rather a slight 
 curtsey, and making a short dry cough, as much as to say, though I ask you I 
 don't care a jot how you do. 
 
 "Oh ! very well," said Madame Pompadour, " thank you. I seldom recollect 
 people; are you Mrs.— a— a— I think it's Phillips? Really, ordinary persons' 
 names slip my memory dieadfully." 
 
 " My name is Phillips, madam.'' 
 
 "Oh ! very good. Then, I have just come to say that I am willing — indeed 
 I always am foolishly good-natured — I am willing to look over what has 
 passed, and take back again your daughter— I think she is your daughter — 
 Mary, I believe she is named." 
 
 " Thank you, madam ; but — " 
 
 " Oh ! I don't want any thanks, I assure you. Oh, dear, no ; not at all. 
 Just send her back and say that I will look over what has happened." 
 
 "That's no doubt very kind of you, madam, and more than was to be 
 expected ; but Mary has said that she will not go back to you, and I don't 
 know very well how to induce her to alter her mind again, you see." 
 
 " Not come back? Not come back V 
 
 " No, madam ; but upon two conditions I don't mind trying to persuade her, 
 and of course, what I say to her — for she is grateful to all who have treated her 
 with kindness, just as much as she despises those who have not done so — will go 
 a long way." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" said Madame Pompadour, making a great rustling of th e 
 silks and satin in which she was enveloped. " Oh, indeed ! very good. You see 
 I am not in the least put out of my way j soar folks would be in a passion — I 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 249 
 
 say in a passion, mem, but 1 am not ; oh, dear no, I never get into a passion 
 with common people." 
 
 "Then, madam, I really do not think Mary will come back to you at all/' 
 
 " What do you mean V 
 
 " Why, you see, madam, if you were to say to Mary that when you struck her 
 you had done so in a passion, and was sorry for it afterwards, I don't say but 
 what she would look over it ; but if once she thinks that you really meant it, I'm 
 quite sure she won't come back to you." 
 
 " Good God ! then J was in a passion. But, pray, what are the two condi- 
 tions you talked of, Mrs. Phillips V 7 » 
 
 " Oh ! they are two very common ones, madam, I assure you ; one of them is 
 leas work." 
 
 " Well, well, and the other V* 
 
 " The other, madam, is more money. Upon these two conditions, but upon 
 no others, will I consent to Mary coming back to you." 
 
 No, 32, 
 
250 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Madame Pompadour could have denied -Mrs. Phillips with a deal of pleasure 
 if she had her own way, but with a groan she remembered that divers pieces of 
 work were waiting at home unfinished, and all for the want of the exercise of 
 that ability, which only Mary possessed. She was, in a manner of speaking, 
 compelled to give in, and so not with the best grace in the world, she said I — 
 
 " Well. I don't mind giving a shilling a- week more, and letting her come half 
 an hour later in the morning. 1 ' 
 
 " No, madam, that will not do. Mary now works for you thirteen hours 
 a-day, or rather she has done so, and 1 think an hour taken off in the morning, 
 and an hour in the evening, is not much, besides getting two shillings a- week 
 more — these are the only terms." 
 
 " Why, good God !". said Madame Pompadour, who was quite a Cobden in her 
 way ; " you are interfering with the industry of the country ! Why, may not 
 people work as long as their employers can make them — that is, I mean — a-hem ! 
 — of course, as long as they like — I should like to know ?" 
 
 "I have told you my mind, Madame Pompadour, and I won't go back 
 from it." 
 
 There was a show of decision about Mrs. Phillips which convinced Madame 
 Pompadour that she would not be swayed from her conditions, so the milliner 
 rose, saying : — 
 
 " Very well, let it he so, then. I'm sure you cannot say but that I am liberal 
 enough. Most people, situated as I am, would have taken the nose off their 
 faces betore they would have done any such thing, I can assure you — that they 
 would." 
 
 « Very likely, madam. I dare say Mary will come to you to-morrow." 
 
 Madame Pompadour departed, and the treaty was considered fixed ; but, alas ! 
 " there is many a slip between the cup and the lip," and it was not yet quite 
 settled that Mary Phillips was ever again to set foot beneath the roof of Madame 
 Pompadour's slave-driving establishment. : M 
 
 Her mother told her of the bargain she Jiad made for her, and ended by saying, 
 ** And now, you see, my dear Mary, how 4tit of what seems to be a bad thing 
 sometimes will come all sorts of good to us ; and if you had not quarrelled v/ith 
 Madame Pompadour, and came away as you did, you would never have found 
 out of what value you were to her. And now all I have -got to say to you, my 
 -dear, is to keep clear of that Adam Beech — whcJpjfcnow, comes after you — he is 
 a bad lad, and will come to no good." w^j^^^k 
 
 " Do not judge too harshly, mother." ' '/" r ' - % , 
 
 "No, my dear; I should be the la^t to do so, out it's everybody's opinion as 
 well as mine, I can assure you. He goes to public^houses ; and Anderson, the 
 baker round the corner, told me that he saw him a day or So ago along with some 
 desperate characters, so you be warned in time, Mary, and have nothing to say 
 to him. He'll come to a bad end, I'm suie he will, that boy." 
 
 Mary said no more. Alas I what could she say in defence of Adam Beech'? 
 What her mother said of him was only founded upon conjecture of what he might 
 do; what she, Mary, knew of him consisted of what he had done, and she dreaded 
 the moment when the press and popular rumour should make her parents 
 acquainted with the criminality of Adam, and possibly the share she had h?-d in 
 the transaction; so that, although the quarrel with Madame Pompadour was thus 
 patched up, Mary had abundant material in her mind for uneasiness and dread. 
 
 But we must leave her<iow, in order to return to Adam Beech, as he slept in 
 Isaacson's house so deep, and what appeared to be, so undisturbed a slumber. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE ATTEMPT OF SIR GASKIN TO MURDER ADAM BEECH IN THE JEW S HOUSE. 
 
 When Isaacson looked upon the sleeping form of the mere lad, concerning whom 
 he predicted such great things in what he called the profession, lie was not without 
 a tolerably well-defined notion that some danger was likely enough to accrue to 
 Adam from the evil of Sir Gaskin. 
 
 Isaacson had seen enough of the world to be a tolerably good judge of the 
 hidden impulses of others, and he was likewise so well acquainted with the ruffian 
 Gaskin, that any attempt of that individual to conceal his real thoughts and 
 intentions from the Jew acted but as a very flimsy veil to them,, through which 
 Isaacson easily penetrated. 
 
 " Ah," he muttered to himself, " Sir Gaskin will get rid of the boy if he can, 
 but I must stand in his way. Ha! ha! I am not going to have the goose killed 
 that will bring me many a golden egg yet, just because Sir Gaskin happens to be 
 jealous of him. Oh, no ! oh, no !" 
 
 When he had reached the room below where he had left the thieves, he-found 
 Sir Gaskin talking Toout a house that was situated a short distance from town, on 
 the Hampstead-road, which he affirmed contained some good booty, and which 
 could, if the time were well chosen, be easily entered from the fields that lay at the 
 back part of the premises. 
 
 There was some difference of opinion about the practicability of the proceeding. 
 Some were for putting it off until another time altogether, and one or two sadly 
 provoked Gaskin by openly stating that they would like Adam Beech, who had 
 shown so much talent, to be consulted in the affair. 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Gaskin. " Do you men allow yourselves to be put off 
 an enterprise because a boy has gone to sleep, and is not ready to go with you? 
 For shame ! for shame ! If the crib is to be cracked, it had better be done in about 
 two hours' time from now, if you will, all of you. meet here, I']] go and reconnoitre 
 the place, and bring you back a report, on which you can make up your minds." 
 
 " Well, agreed, agreed/'' cried several. 
 
 " Take care of yourself," said Isaacson, as he let Gaskin out, "take care of 
 yourself, captain. Don't hurry, *ou know. The lads can amuse themselves well 
 enough till you come back." 
 
 " Aye, aye, Isaacson, all's 'right/' 
 
 " Bless you. Ah ! there he goes; but just about as much to look at the crib he 
 talks of as I am going ro Jamaica! Ah, Sir Gaskin, you are a clever fellow, but it 
 don't do, you know, or you ought to know, it don't do with me. Ha, ha, Adam 
 Beech, I must keep an eye upon you, my boy, or your first sleep in this house might 
 turn out to be a longer one than you counted on. But we shall see, good Master 
 Gaskin ; we shall see ; I don't think y*ou are quite so clever as you think yourself, 
 Master Gaskin ; and it may be, after all, that you are about to put your head into a 
 hornet's nest, Master Gaskin, and that before you get it out again it will sting 
 you/' 
 
 That the Jew was more than what may be called suspicious of Gaskin's inten- 
 tions, may be gathered from these words, which he muttered to himself, as he 
 walked away from the door of his house, and in order that we may discover if his 
 notions regaiding the proceedings of Gaskin have the stamp of truth or not, we may 
 as well follow that individual. Anyone who had taken but a slight notice%f that 
 gentleman's character, and then heard him say that he was going to the Hampstead 
 Road, would have, by the steadiness and perseverance with which he for some time 
 proceeded in that direction, given him full credit for the wish to get there quickly. 
 Perhaps, the possibility of being molested had come over his mind, for he walked 
 about a mile precisely in the right direction, but then he sensibly decreased in his 
 speed, and finally he turned down some street that enabled him to get back again 
 towards the Jew's house, 
 
252 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " We shall see," he muttered ; " if all the cleverness of this lad, whom I hate, 
 for he has already taken out of my hands almost all the authority I have taken so 
 much trouble to obtain, can help him when I have a knife across his throat. D — n 
 them, they cannot suspect me, surely, and I don't care who they accuse of it else. 
 He shall die to-night, or Til know the reason why. But now to get an entrance 
 to the house." 
 
 The Jew's house was about five doors from the corner of a street, and it so 
 happened that the corner house was to let, and unoccupied completely. Gaskin 
 at once, as if, which probably was the case, he had pre-arranged the affair in his 
 mind, towards the empty house, and with a marvellous skill, having nothing to 
 assist him, but which looked like a piece of bent iron wire, he picked the lock of 
 the street-door and entered the premises. He then groped his way till he got to 
 the back part of the house ; after which he ventured, by the aid of a phosphorus 
 box, then well known to thieves, to get a light. The dim radiance from a small 
 wax taper, enabled him to look around him and to note well the route he was taking, 
 while so dim a light coufd hardly, through the blackened and begrimed window 
 panes, have suggested to anyone passing, the idea of a light in the house. Without 
 pausing for what he had to do, he felt like Macbeth's murder of the king — 
 
 " 'Tweie well done, if done quickly." 
 He walked up the staircase, nor halted until he had attained the_ topmost landing. 
 Then he looked about the roof till he discovered a small square wooden trap, such 
 as is, or should be to all houses, opening on to the roof. There did not, however, 
 appear to be any means of getting up to it, and he went into one of the rooms in 
 search of the ladder or steps, which should have been there, but none could he 
 find. This was most especially provoking, and he had to go right down to the 
 lower part of the house before he found the object of his search, which after all was 
 in a back kitchen. Still he did find the steps, without which he could have done 
 nothing, and having brought them up, he placed them against the frame-work of the 
 trap and ascended ; he withdrew two rusty bolts, and then the trap-door was easily 
 slid on one side, and he scrambled out on to the roof of the house. 
 
 " So far, so goed," he said ; " now, if my observations have not been made in vain, 
 you are sleeping your last sleep, Adam Beech." 
 
 His object evidently was to get across the tops of the houses till he came to 
 Isaacson's, and then descend into that by the same means, namely through the 
 trap in the roof, as he had used to get out of the empty mansion, It is astonishing 
 what risk men will run for the gratification of their evil passions, and what perils, 
 which in a good cause would deter them, they will not allow to stand in the way, 
 when their worst feelings are concerned ; thus it was with this bold bad man, Sir 
 Gaskin, for the sake of revenge against one, who really had given him no just cause 
 for such a feeling, he was willing, not only to run the risk of his life in getting at 
 him to consummate a murder, but he was willing to run all the chances of the 
 after-discovery of the black and dreadful deed he contemplated doing. The might 
 was a dark one, which although it might add to the security from observation of Sir 
 Gaskin, on the house-tops, materially increased the danger of making a false step, 
 and perchance by so doing, precipitating himself from the top of the house to the 
 bottom of it. It was more difficult too, than he had exactly anticipated, to find his 
 way among a legion of chimney-pots, and stacks, and sloping roofs, and flat roofs, 
 &c. and he began to fear that he should scarcely be able to recognise the Jew's 
 house when he got to it. That circumstance, however, dd not deter him, and he 
 went as carefully as any human being could ; now trembling upon the verge of some 
 frightful abyss, and then coming to some place of greater safety, where he could 
 breathe a little more freely and rest himself. 
 
 Certainly these houses were not built with the slightest intent to the possibility 
 that a fire might occur and involve the number of terrified persons being roused 
 from their sleep, to get from roof to roof. Truly they might escape death from 
 fire, to meet it from broken bones, in consequence of some dreadful fall. However, 
 most ingeniously placed between the different houses, ugly ridges of brick-work 
 springing up, like the back-bone of some huge animal, from the very edge of the 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 253 
 
 stone parapets, and over which Sir Gaskin had to go, while the cold perspiration 
 of fear stood upon his brow. But he went on — slowly he went on — but yet 
 surely, and at last he was en the roof of the Jew's house, which, after some 
 topographical observations, he thoroughly satisfied himself he had at length reached 
 so far in safety. 
 
 " I am here," he said ; " and now for the trap, which, if no one has been 
 officious enough to meddle with, I have left unbolted, for I took the opportunity of 
 doing so some hours since ; I know the chamber too, in which Adam Beech sleeps, 
 it is but the work of a moment, and that young cock will have done crowing." 
 
 He now found the trap-door on the roof of Isaacson's house, and to his satisfac- 
 tion he forced it aside with the greatest ease ; no one had touched it, and the 
 precautions he had as yet taken to ensure the successful issue of the deed of blood, 
 appeared all as yet to have been successful and perfectly well calculated to aid him 
 in effecting the object. 
 
 Cautiously, and avoiding any noise, he let himself down into the Jew's house, and 
 left the trap door open ; in case, from any untoward circumstance, it should become 
 necessary to make any sudden retreat indeed from the scene of his projected 
 iniquity. And now he felt that although he had escaped the dangers, and they 
 were by no means inconsiderable, of the transit across the tops of the houses, he had 
 greater risks to run, for Isaacson was cautious ; and he had no doubt but that the 
 companions of his vices, to whom, until the arrival of Adam Beech among them, 
 he had been in the habit of dictating what they should do, were still in the house 
 awaiting him. That Adam Beech still slept, he did not for one moment doubt ; for he 
 had marked, while the lad was speaking, with anxiety, how very knocked-up and 
 wearied he really was. 
 
 " Oh, yes I" murmured Sir Gaskin," he will sleep, and sleep securely, too, for many 
 an hour yet, now that he has once given way to it. The crime will be an easy one 
 to do ; and I think I have well enough arranged, so that no suspicion shall light 
 upon me." 
 
 And so he had, under ordinary circumstances; and, if no suspicion of his designs 
 had been entertained by Isaacson the Jew, there is little doubt but that he would 
 have done the deed he meditated ; and at once stopped the course of Adam Beech, 
 to the great loss of whoever reacts these papers; chronicling, as they do, not the • 
 air-woven dreams of the novelist's fancy, but actual events which took place 
 among actual people, who once lived upon the very spots we occupy. The second 
 floor, he knew, was that on which were some sleeping chambers, one of which was 
 occupied, no doubt, by Adam. There were four, he knew; but as no one else was 
 staying in the house, who was at all likely yet to have retired to rest, since all were 
 waiting for him, he could, with perfect security, go from chamber to chamber 
 until he found the right one. Taking off his shoes, and leaving them just 
 under the trap-door, so that, upon his return, whether leisurely or hurriedly, he 
 could pick them up at once, he crept down the little staircase. When he reached the 
 landing, he leant over and listened attentively, to catch any sound that might come 
 from below, and he fancied he heard the murmur of commotion among the thieves. 
 
 " They are waiting for me," he said ; " and they must wait yet a little longer 
 before they get me. In another half hour I hope to walk boldly in, and say that I 
 have reconnoitred the house in the Hampstead Road, and find some one sitting up 
 —so that it would be unsafe to attempt it to-night." 
 
 He much wished that he could hear the voice of Isaacson ; but, although he 
 strained his sense of hearing to the utmost, and even went a pace or two down the 
 staircase, he could hear no sound indicative of the Jew's presence ; and, as time 
 was now precious to him, he proceeded to make his examination of the bed-rooms. 
 The first one he went into he soon found was untenanted ; but the next, he knew, 
 the moment he cautiously set foot in it, was the one he wanted ; for he could hear 
 the deep and long-breathing of one fast asleep. In the exultation of the moment, 
 he could hardly keap from an exclamation of satisfaction ; but he did manage so far 
 to control himself, and feel in his pocket for a half-knife, half-dagger, that h e 
 
254 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 always carried, and which was a weapon of most extraordinary strength end power 
 as wall as of great temper and sharpness. 
 
 It was a most diabolical idea, but his intention was to feel for Adam Beech's 
 neck, as he lay on the bed, and then suddenly hold down his head with one hand, 
 and cut his throat from ear to ear with the other. 
 
 He relied upon the suddenness of the attack being such that his victim should 
 have received his death- wound unarmed, before he would be able to make the least 
 struggle or appeal for aid, and he knew that from such a wound as that he in- 
 tended to inflict, sufficient blood would immediately flow to induce faintness and 
 consequent death without the least disturbance. 
 
 The room was very dark, and he dare not illume it by one of the matches he had, 
 lest the flash of light should awaken Adam Beech, in which case the whole house 
 would be alarmed as a matter of course, so he tried by listening to the sound of 
 the breathing to get towards the bed. 
 
 He stepped with theextremest caution for fear of disturbing that repose, which 
 was really so sound, that he might have walked in without any care at all, and 
 yet not run the least risk of disturbing. 
 
 Not in> whisper even did he speak himself, but with his arms extended before 
 him, and his whole soul intent upon listening, he went on till he touched some 
 of the hangings of the bed. 
 
 The knife was in his grasp — already he felt sure of his victim, and had stretched 
 out his left hand to feel for the situation of the throat of the unconscious sleeper, 
 w hen he f und himself clutched by the back of the neck, as if a vice had suddenly 
 opened and closed upon him. 
 
 On, the impulse of the moment be uttered a cry of dismay, but that failed to 
 awaken Beech, who merely muttered some unintelligible words and changed his 
 position. 
 
 Not a word was spoken by whoever it was had hold of him, but the horrid 
 clutch tightened upon him, and he felt some long heavy fingers compressing him 
 almost to suffocation ; then, as another half- stifled cry came from him, he felt 
 himself twisted round ; there was a sudden crash, and his head came in contact 
 with a marble chimney-piece, one deep groan succeeded, and Sir Gaskin fell upon 
 the floor with a heavy lumpy sound, that proclaimed him dead or insensible. 
 
 Then some one glided away from the room, and slowly desoended the staircase, 
 f muttering to himself as he went — 
 
 ? Ha ! ha! He wanted to kill the prodigy, did he? Shout of my fathers ! a 
 pretty go! Oh! no, no, Master Gaskin, that won't do. Adam Beech has got 
 i something to do for me yet. He's quite a prod. Quite so. Ha ! ha ! I think I 
 have given you a warning, Master Gaskin. Ha J ha!" 
 
 And so congratulating himself, Isaacson, ior it was indeed he who had saved 
 the life of Adam Beech, went to the apartment where the housebreakers were 
 waiting for the expected return of Sir Gaskin. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXri. 
 
 THE MERTING AT THE JEW'S. THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE MURDER, AND THE 
 
 DISPOSAL OF THE DEAD BODY ON THE DOOR STEPS. 
 
 The gang of questionable characters that had assembled that night at Isaacson's, 
 were never more surprised in all iheir life than by that personage, about five 
 minutes or so after Sir Gaskin had left, coming into the apartment in which they 
 were all assembled, and placing upon the table two bottles of wine, he said — 
 
 *' Now, my dears, I have got a little business of my own to attend to, and shall 
 be very much obliged to you if you will enjoy yourselves." 
 
 " What I" exclaimed one to this — " your birthday, Isaacson?" 
 
 " No my dear, it is not ; I never had one." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 255 
 
 " Oh ! that, indeed ! Then we will drink your vvine at all events, come what 
 may, and all we can say about it, old fellow, is, that we are as much surprised as 
 we are delighted." 
 
 There was a general laugh, which Isaacson paid no attention to whatever, not 
 allowing the faintest smile to appear upon his countenance, but, with a nod, he left 
 the room, and carefully closed the door after him. % 
 
 From what has been related already, the reader is well aware of what were 
 Isaacson's intentions in then leaving the thieves to enjoy themselves alone. He 
 had such strong suspicions of what Sir Gaskin was about, that he had determined 
 not to trust him, and therefore as his suspicions all pointed one way, he took up 
 his position patiently in one corner of the chamber in which Adam Beech slept, 
 when, sitting upon one chair and resting his feet upon another, he waited 
 patiently. 
 
 The arrival of Gaskin confirmed all his suspicions, and what ensued upon that 
 arrival we must not more particularly allude to. 
 
 When the housebreakers found themselves alone, and r c-t that at all events they 
 had a couple of hours to wait before Sir Gaskin would make his appearance from 
 his work of examination of the house in the Hampstead-road, they -wished to make 
 themselves as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, and to circulate 
 Isaacson's two bottles of wine freely, with the hope that the same vein oF liberality 
 which had produced them might, when they were empty, produce two more. 
 
 As naturally might be expected, much of the conversation ran upon Adam 
 Beech, whom they now, one and all, agreed would become a shining light in the pro- 
 fession, and ifhewere not cut off prematurely would assuredly achieve great things. 
 
 Then another topic suggested itself with them, which was sure to be popular, 
 namely, their own exploits ; and then all had something to say, and no doubt 
 many were the exaggerations which were told by way of anecdote, of what really 
 had occurred ; but it was surprising with what complacency they listened to each 
 other, a piece of good breeding which only the urgent necessity of mutual forbear- 
 ance could possibly have instilled into such a lawless set of men, 
 
 Some told what they had to-say with much graphic detail, but, as the wine be- 
 came exhausted, their spirits flagged a little, and casting lots among them who 
 should perform the service, it fell to one to fetch from a neighbouring house some 
 strong ale, which some of them really liked better than Isaacson's wine. 
 
 There was a slight pause among them, and no one spoke for several minutes, 
 but they sat smoking and drinking, and app^eiitly in deep thought, until one of 
 them took up his pot, and after giving the ctsbtents a turn or two round, he applied 
 it to his lips, and after drinking somewhat copiously, he left off: with a deep sigh, 
 and put. it down again upon the table. After having set the pot down, he said, in 
 an inquiring tone, as if referring to some former conversation :— - 
 
 " In those times, there used to be something like business ; men in those times 
 used not to stand upon trifles.' 1 
 
 M And cuss me,'" said another, " if they are not trussed up like rooks. Lord, I've 
 seen men tucked up, two and three at a time ; they made no bones then, and th:y 
 weren't particular, so long as you were known, and had anybody — no matter who 
 — to swear against you." 
 
 " Ah, that's true enough, do vou remember poor Jack Dolby ?" 
 
 « Yes, well." 
 
 " Ho was a young man, and wouldn't have hurt the hair on a child's head, 
 t know : but he got sworn against, and Jack had ill luck enough to be known 
 on one or two former occasions, and that decided the case, though the man who 
 swore to him was an old enemy, and had been heard to say that he would 
 serve him out." 
 
 " What was he hanged for, Bill V 
 
 " Smothering a woman," replied the party interrogated, with some noncJudance 
 " a small matter, but enough to hang a man, when blown, 1 ' 
 
 ** Smothering a woman, eh ! Well, and what did he do that for ?— and how 
 did he do it? It seems rather funny, but I can't see how he could have done it." 
 
256 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 w Easy enough, Jack was hard-up one night ; it wasn't often that Jack stopped 
 a woman ; he had an objection to it, they swore so hard, and he used to think 
 that if he didn't get into trouble somebody else would, for they will have some 
 one hanged." 
 
 " Well, go on about the woman." 
 
 " Well, Jack stopped a w-oman, and took four sovereigns from her, but she 
 squalled so infernally, that Jack didn't know what to do ; in fact, she kept 
 following him about, screaming for her four sovereigns." 
 
 " I never heard* of such a thing." 
 
 u Nor nobody else, but you can't reckon upon a woman ; however, Jack began 
 to think he was in dangerous company, and had better get rid of his torment 
 the best way he could, and finding no other method at hand, he hit her a precious 
 slap across the head with a stick, and she reeled back somehow, and fell into 
 a ditch. Jack knew nothing about it, but the woman was found with her head 
 buried in the mud." 
 
 " She was drowned in a ditch." 
 
 " She was ; that was quite accidental on his part, he didn't mean it, and yet 
 they hanged him. But then, as I said, they used to do business in those days — 
 Lord, they used to stop them in all quarters." 
 
 t( Have you ever engaged much in any of that business?" 
 
 " No, mine lay more in the cracking of cribs than the highway, and yet I have 
 had a good turn at that now and then, when other things came slack. There 
 was, however, one thing in which I was engaged, which would have settled my 
 business had it been known.'" 
 
 <* Out with it — you are not modest, I know ; we are all friends, and, besides, 
 bygones are bygones." 
 
 " That's very true," replied the other, who seemed to hesitate. 
 
 ** Let us know all about it. You are well aware we are all very pt til y n fo 
 it one way or another, and therefore, splitting would only do mischief and no 
 good, and no harm either that I know on." 
 
 " I shouldn't like to try it, nevertheless I will relate to yoia an affair in which 
 more than one life was lost, and which took some time and trouble to accomplish." 
 
 <l How long ago was it?" 
 
 " Why, it must have been about the year eighteen hundred, or eighteen hun- 
 dred and one, or somewhere there about. There were five of us in it, and we all 
 agreed to stick together through thick and thin. And we did so too, as you shall 
 hear ; indeed, the*re would have been but little done if we had not been true to 
 each other — " 
 
 "Good men and true," said one of the party; "a better motto never was 
 written, when it can be fairly said of a party." 
 
 " You are right, and we deserved it, certainly, for we stuck together like 
 trumps. But to understand all about it, I must begin at the beginning, and 
 relate how it came about, as well as describe the place to you. Some of you may 
 know some of the warehouses about Tooley-street, all places with an immense 
 number of ware rooms, store houses, yards, and I hardly know what." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; well, they are queer places, very queer places." 
 
 *' They are queer places, very queer places, but in them is sometimes stored 
 thousands upon thousands of pounds' worth of the most costly articles, not much 
 money usually, though some is to be found. But about the time I speak of, silks 
 fetched a high price, especially real Indias." 
 
 " They just did, and you could sell them," said another ; " I was engaged in 
 smuggling some silks from France, and I know well they just would sell, you had 
 only to hold up your hand and say you wanted a customer, and you were sure to 
 find a good one too." 
 
 ** That is just it. Well, one night I was drinking at a place I used to frequent, 
 I wasn't known there, and very few were there who knew anything of the place I 
 spent my evenings, for I found that it was much to my advantage to go where I 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 257 
 
 was not known at times becmse there I found I learned a few things, and I 
 escaped being looked upon, and that was something now and then. 
 
 " Well I was drinking in a room where there were some respectable people, and 
 I was enjoying myself to the full, but who should walk in but Harry Walker." 
 
 " Why he's hanged long ago." !" \ "1 « • . j- . 
 
 « Yes, he suffered for highway robberies, he had five or six indictments against 
 him, one after another ; but they only tried him on the first, and then he got found 
 guilty, and having killed a man he was hanged, as a matter of course. » 
 
 " I thought he had a chance V 
 
 u Yes, and a good one, but for an infernal woman, who fainted away, and yet 
 she could recollect Harry. She swore so hard to the gate-keeper, said, 'she believed 
 he was the same man/ so he was turned off one fine morning, and made his bow to 
 St. Sepulchre's." 
 
 " And many a good man has done so before, I reckon." 
 
 " And will again, I have no doubt ; but to resume, I was rather astonished to see 
 Harry, but he was a decent fellow and would have passed very well in decent 
 ocmpany ; and so he did, lad." 
 
 No. 33. 
 
 5 
 
258 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Well Harry, my boy, I said to him, when I could speak to him, what brought 
 you here? it is quite a chance to meet you, I reckon." 
 
 " Why not exactly ;" he replied, " because 1 am here on purpose to see you, and 
 if you can spare time, I think we had better adjourn. I have something to tell you 
 ; that may be of importance/' 
 
 " Well,'' said I, " I can hear you here." 
 
 li I would rather go elsewhere," he said ; " it is a dangerous matter and I^jvould 
 not have a soul overhear one solitary word ; a good plan might be spoilt' and we 
 both much hurt into the bargain." 
 
 Well," I replied, " I am willing, since it is an affair in progress, I will go with 
 you at once, and so saying, I got up and came out ; now, said 1, when we had got 
 outside, how came you to find me out?" 
 
 " Oh !" said he, "Frank Pitman, saw you go in here the other day, and have 
 seen you do so several times since." 
 
 " Oh ! then it's time I bid good-bye to this place; I went there because I should 
 be unknown, but my hiding-place is found out and I must now take another." 
 
 " It is very fortunate I found you out," he replied, " because we must, at once, 
 decide upon what is to be done whether you will become one of us or not ?" 
 
 " To be sure I will, if there's a chance, but you are in a hurry; we had better go 
 into the house over the way, it is seldom used by any one ; and the parlour will be 
 nearly empty, and we can take an opportunity of talking upon this matter." 
 
 " No, no :" said Harry, " I am looked after now, and I may, by some chance 
 circumstance meet with them. I would rather not; come a little further and I 
 know a place where we can in safety talk over the matter and settle what shall, or 
 shall not, be done." 
 
 I agreed to it, and we walked through several by-streets and courts till we came 
 to a house where he was in the habit of using. He walked into the house and ^ 
 then up stairs, on the landing of .which he paused, and then, pulling out a panel, 
 he stepped into a room, saying — 
 
 " Here we are very s>ife, I can trust you, and, therefore, don't mind telling you 
 I live here altogether and have done so for some time in the midst of the hottest 
 pnr>uit." 
 
 " Indeed ! I should have thought it would have hepn discovered long ago, for 
 the slightest noise you should make would be heard here, the panel is so thin," 
 said he." 
 
 " Ah, no ; there is a green-baize door," he replied, pushing it to, " there is 
 no chink or crevice here at all ; and, as for noise, nothing will go through of that 
 kind, especially when we are very careful, as people in danger ought to be, so the 
 hardship is not great." 
 
 " No ; it is a nice snug place." 
 
 He lit a candle and then seated himself before a good fire and then invited me 
 to do so too, and placing jugs on the table and a bottle, he said — 
 
 " Now — wine for yourself — when you have done, I will tell you what it is I 
 have to tell you." 
 
 Accordingly I mixed myself some spirits and then awaited, with some curiosity, 
 for the plan he had to propose and with some anxiety, also, as you may guess." 
 
 " Well," said he, seeing I was furnished with the needful, " I have been long 
 w T atching for an opportunity to do anything upon the grand scale, something that 
 would give one something like money, and so put one beyond the necessity of 
 working in this, or any other matter, for ever." 
 
 " It would be very desirable, but there is a great difficulty in that.'' 
 
 " You are right ; and when we find one good thing it takes several men to do it, 
 so it gets divided, but several good plans, if they succeed, would do so much 
 toward it, that I think a man may succeed in the end, if his luck hold good." 
 
 " That is the only difficulty, save another." 
 
 " What is that?" 1 inquired. 
 
 " Why, that you should have a run of luck, so that one good affair follows 
 hard on one another." 
 
NEWGATE. .&$9 
 
 " That is what I am anxious about; I have been engaged on one matter and' 
 I am out of the way now tiil it is blown over, but, in the mean time, I have 
 another affair in view, one that I have learned something about during my other 
 business, it was an episode, and one that I maiked at the time and which I could 
 not attend to." 
 
 " Veiy well/' said I, " drive on and let me know what it is?" 
 
 " Theie are in Tooley-stieet," he said, " several warehouses where some silk 
 goods are housed until they are sent to the dealers in the city, they are the 
 cargo of some Jndiamen that have just arrived, the house does not deal 
 ostensibly in silks, but they owned the vessel as well as many more of the same 
 sort, they carried out goods and brought these home— they are worth an immense 
 sum of money." 
 
 " But they are cumVersome V 
 
 " Not at ail ; a light chaise-cart would carry away a very great quantity — say 
 some thousands of pounds worth. 
 " So much V 
 
 " Yes, real India silk, you know, goes in a very small compass, and a very small 
 parcel, packed closely, would hold a great deal and be, in tact, a small fortune to 
 anybody." 
 
 " Can you sell them?" 
 
 " I can, to advantage, and at once. I know a fence where they can be planted 
 without any ri-k or fear, that is a great point. "Will you be one with us on the 
 occasion ? We shall want three or four." 
 
 " If I know who are to be my mates," I answered, " I don't mind if I do ; but 
 I must know. \vhp they are, for I tell you, honestly, if some persons are among 
 them, I will not be one of them. If I put my neck in a halter, I don't choose 
 that every one should have hold of the end." 
 
 "Nor I," said he; "and then he told me that besides himself there were three 
 others, whose names I kne'vy, and who wete men to be trusted, and if I made one 
 we should be five in all." 
 
 "Do you intend to have any more V I inquired. 
 
 "None; five are hot too many, for there maybe a scuffle, and I shall have a 
 good chaise-cart." 
 
 " I don't mind," said I, " but what kind of resistance do you anticipate — have 
 they got fire-arms ?" 
 
 " I know not ; and I do not believe we shall have any disturbance ; indeed, my 
 object is to get away without any noise or trouble whatever, without indeed its 
 being known there was an entry into the house ; the quieter the better ; it is not 
 so easy to trace when there is no disturbance, and so it is much safer than under 
 any other circumstances." 
 
 " There your opinion is mine," I said. 
 
 " At the same time," he said, " I do like to have men with me who would 
 sooner die at once than be taken in the fact, and then be hanged afterwards ; 
 because- in the one case you may escape, you have a chance, while in the other 
 you have none, but excess of misery is added to your suffeiings. So a cur is no 
 gainer by being so." • 
 
 " You are right, I am not inclined to be taken ; but tell me when you think of 
 making your first attempt V 
 
 " To-night or to-morrow night." 
 
 " And how are we to settle the matter, as regards the money; who is to be 
 salesman, and who is to divide the proceeds?" 
 
 " T will tell you what I have done," he said, " what I have proposed to the 
 others, and what they have agreed to, provided you also agree to it. That you 
 are each to receive fifty pounds a piece for your assistance, and I am to take the 
 booty and dispose of it how I can, and where I can. What do you think of it 
 
 " Well," said I, "1 hardly know. What will the value of the whole swag be, 
 do you think V inquired I. 
 
 " Why," he replied, " the full value I can hardly tell; it may be eight or nine 
 
260 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 hundred pounds, but then that cannot be had — that is what it might fetch ; but 
 we shall sell the whole to a Jew — you understand well enough the reasons why 
 we cannot realize much over half its retail value for any property — hardly plate 
 and bank-paper, the latter perhaps excepted— if Bank of England paper." 
 "Exactly." 
 
 " Well, the fifty pounds each will be two hundred pounds, and all expenses paid, will 
 cost you no great deal ; you have realized a good night's work, and I shall have 
 a little move, because I have been the promoter of this event, should it take place." 
 
 u Very well," I said, " I do not mind if they have agreed to accept it, I will 
 do the same ; but let us first understand, have they agreed V 
 
 u They have, conditionally." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " Conditionally, as I before told you, upon your agreeing to the same thing. If 
 you refuse, they refuse, and if you agree, they do so too. Understand this, 
 because I do not wish to be accused of acting unfairly." 
 
 ** That is all right," I said ; " then we understand each other; fifty pounds and 
 our expenses for the night's work." 
 
 ''Exactly ; and if you are agreed, we will go round to them, and if they should 
 be ready we can turn out to-night, as I am sure the goods* are housed, and fit to 
 send away,probably all examined, and the affair may not be found out for some days." 
 
 " In that case," I said, " the sooner the better ; we shall have more time to 
 dispose of the property, and put ourselves out of the way, and to evade any search 
 that may be made for us." 
 
 * Then come along, as " 1 said, " I know where they are, and I dare say if they 
 have not had too much of the juice they will be ready enough to take their places. 
 The only difficulty I know at all likely to happen, will be getting a light chaise- 
 cart with a horse that can go over the stones without slipping and sliding about ; 
 I want one that can trot through London at a good pace and yet easy to shift about." 
 
 "Aye, that is very difficult to find," I replied, "but I could have got such a one 
 but the time is against us ; it is now a good bit past ten, I think." 
 
 " Yes, but if I can obtain one at all, it will be of one of those who are to go with 
 us — so come along." 
 
 We at once arose and left the place of concealment he had^ chosen, and after 
 walking some little distance we came to a house, where we found the three sitting 
 down before a fire, drinking ; they were pleased enough to see him there, and one 
 of them said — 
 
 " We were speaking of you but a moment before, and were wondering who our 
 mate was to be, and here you are." 
 
 " Speak of the devil, you know," added another, " what the consequences are we 
 have conjured you up." 
 
 " Exactly, well I have come now to hurry matters. You have not got too much 
 grog aboard I think, and in that case, if I can get a cart and horse, we could crack 
 the crib this blessed night." 
 
 " There's the black mare I bought the other day, she's fast and good, a better 
 horse you couldn't have — fast and safe." 
 
 " But she's vicious." 
 
 " No matter, she will bite and kick if you meddle with her — so much the better ; 
 but she will go, and when once up, off she is, nobody can stop her ; let a man put his 
 hand upon the rein then, and he'll say she is vicious, and a good job too you'd say 
 if you sat behind her and didn't want her to be stopped by any one." 
 
 " Well, if there is no difficulty in getting her to start," he said, " I shouldn't mind 
 her at all; that's my only fear— a difficulty in starting — -because it might be fatal, 
 especially so if you wanted to be off in a hurry, you are booked ; why you might as 
 well go and give yourself up." 
 
 ** I would not offer to go with her," replied the man who offered the horse, " did 
 not I know there was no probability of that. I will undertake to drive her there 
 and back." 
 
 " Well, will you meet us all then on London Bridge with the cart, about twelve ?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 261 
 
 f' To-night." 
 
 " Yes, I must go at once and feed her lightly before she starts, and watch her at 
 her food until she has done, and then I'll be with you at the time you mention, on 
 London Bridge, provided the coast is clear." 
 
 " Exactly, but stop before you go I must just ask you one question— do you agree 
 that the fifty pounds each is to be the price ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes/' was the general reply, " provided all are agreed to it." 
 
 " That is enough, and I am content." 
 
 The man who owned the chaise-cart went out, and we remained nearly an hour in 
 conversation. At the end of that time we all left the house, and at once proceeded 
 towards London Bridge, where we were to meet the cart and horse which was to 
 carry our booty. I 
 
 However we were fortunate enough to be overtaken by the vehicle itself and the 
 driver. It was lonely and still, there was scarce a human beibg in the streets, save 
 the old-fashioned Charlies, the then only guardians of the oft-disturbed slumbers 
 of the inhabitants of this vast collection of human beings. 
 
 It was at the foot of Holborn Hill where he overtook us, and we all got into the 
 eart, and found it was an uncommonly roomy affair, very light, and fit for fast work, 
 just the thing desired, and the horse went along well. We just got up to St. 
 Sepulchre's when twelve chimed and struck from the tower. 
 
 " There goes the old clock," said one, " she's tolled more men to death than any 
 one in the metropolis ; this is the only bell that tolls for them before they have ceased 
 to live." 
 
 " Aye, its duty is sometimes a disagreeable one, and to my certain knowledge that 
 more than one young fellow has sunk there innocent of the crime imputed to him — 
 but then its all chance." 
 
 " Yes, but it is a poor chance, if old Newgate could speak it would tell a tale, I 
 think; but never mind, we have something else in hand now, at all events here is 
 the bridge." 
 
 "Turn over the bridge to the left." 
 
 We now trotted on very quietly until we came to some narrow places, and there 
 were several places very much like yards or gateways, at one of these he backed the 
 horse and gently closed the gate, so as to screen us from observation, and luckily we 
 did, for the old watchman walked up to the very spot, and bawled the hour of the 
 night — half-past twelve. 
 
 At first we gave ourselves up for lost — that is the job -we could get off well enough, 
 but we wanted the booty ; however, it was a false alarm, and when he was gone 
 away we immediately set to work to get into the warehouse, which we effected in a 
 curious manner. 
 
 t There was a crane with a chain hanging down, up this we climbed for a short 
 distance, we came to a trap-door, and that we contrived to open after some trouble, 
 with a little ingenuity and some danger, we got into the house, and there we saw 
 enough to have filled a couple of dozen carts of the most costly goods. 
 
 We soon began to select the best we could. We came provided with dark 
 lanterns, and the goods lying in packages we were at little trouble to pack up some, 
 we threw them into sacks and then lowered them down to one of our people below, 
 who had remained there on purpose, and who carefully stowed them away in as small 
 a compass as he could. 
 
 Half an hour sufficed — say an hour — perhaps that is nearer the mark, to fill the 
 cart, and then we all stowed away pieces of the finest silks for handkerchiefs around 
 our bodies, that ever were seen. This was for our own private use, and was worth 
 many pounds, and that in the chaise-cart was not worth less than ten or twelve 
 hundred pounds, I am sure, at the very least. 
 
 "Our time is up now," he said, looking arouud. " Do you go down first; and 
 I will secure the door after you all, so they shall not find it out in the morning." 
 
 This we all agreed to, and did accordingly, and in less than five minutes we 
 were all in the chaise-cart, and everything restored to its former position ; and nobody 
 
262 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 would have known anybody had been there committing a robbery : however, we 
 got clear off — no alarm, or anything unpleasant. 
 
 We agreed to meet the next morning after dark, and receive our share of the 
 plunder— that was fifty pounds each. We met according to the appointment, and 
 when we were all assembled, he said to us — 
 
 " Now I have disposed of my booty, and here is the promised reward." 
 
 At the same time he gave us our money, in hard cash; and there was a handsome 
 supper provided for us: everything in the best style — wine, and everything we 
 cculd desire— there was nothing shabby about it. 
 
 " Harry Walker," said I, '« you do the handsome thing ; you are a trump. May 
 your success be as long as you live" 
 
 " Thank you," said Harry, " you cannot wish me a better wish ; but I have some- 
 thing to tell you, which may somewhat inieifere with the amount of wine you maf 
 drink, and that is why I haven't said anything about it before, for I don't like to 
 spoil a good thing." 
 
 "Well, out with it," said I; "if it spoils our booze, it must be something of 
 consequence : but as it is, I don't think anything short of immediate danger will 
 do so." 
 
 " It's business, and not danger, I allude to." 
 
 "Then," said I, " to it again, and let us know all about it — we can booze at any 
 time ; for business, like time and tide, will wait for no man." 
 
 " That is right enough ; but what I wanted to tell you is — I have been hanging 
 about the place in Tooley-street. 
 
 " Well, have they discovered the abstraction of property r" 
 
 "I believe not: matters seem to have gone on as usual there. There was no 
 appearance of any excitement there ; no bu>tle or bother of any kind; they appear 
 to oe all quiet and comfortable. I don't think that they are at all aware of the fact 
 that any robbery has taken place.'" 
 
 *' Then we might make another crack of it, and have another booty, and yet get 
 clear off/' said I. 
 
 " That is what I was about to say," he replied. If you are all agreed, we can 
 make another trip, and be back safe and sound, and finish our supper to-morrow 
 night, if you are agreed to do so." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; we are all agreed." 
 
 " I am," said I ; u but, Harry, honestly tell us, can't you double the amount of 
 our shares, without hurting any one, yourself included ?" 
 " You come very nearly equal shares," he said. 
 
 " Why," said I, " that cargo of silk must have fetched something. I have been 
 looking over the silks I had, and I know they are worth much." 
 
 " Very true," he said, I won't dispute*it ; let it be so: it will come very near 
 share and share alike, I can assure you. You know the fence price : it is not what 
 you'd have to pay at a shop." 
 
 This was true enough, but we were all agreed; and about midnight we all started 
 off ngain, and were soon in Toojey-street, where we backed the cart into the same 
 place, and ascended by the same means as before, until we got into the warerooms; 
 and then we began selecting our bales, and pitching them down below, where our 
 mates packed them safely away in the chaise, as thick and as close as we could 
 stow them. 
 
 " I think that will do," said Harry Walker ; " here are some bandannas, wind 
 them round you ; but take care how you dispose of the whole, as they may lead to 
 detection." 
 
 Well, we had scarcely ^done this, and the word was given to leave the premises, 
 before a voice said — 
 
 " Surrender! you are prisoners," 
 
 At the same momenta hand was laid npon my shoulder, and the muzzle of a 
 pistol presented to my mouth. 
 We were for a moment paralyzed ; and in a moment more the whole ware-room 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 263 
 
 was illuminated by several candles, and that we had a more numerous force than 
 our own opposed to us. 
 
 " Surrender I" said the officers, preparing handcuffs, " and you will not be hurt ; 
 but you are our men at any rate : you are our prisoners." 
 
 "Not if I know it," said Harry Walker ; and he immediately levelled a blow at 
 the- head of the man who held me, with a short handy steel crowbar, and in an 
 instant dashed his skull in. 
 
 u Secure them I" said another; the murderous villains will have a fight for it." 
 
 '** We will," said I, and I pulled a dagger, or Spanish knife out of a sheath ; and, 
 seeing Harry Walker closely engaged with two big men, I pushed the point of my 
 knife about five inches in, under the arm-pit, and he immediately fell at my feet. 
 
 " They had then five men and we only three — the odds were fearful— but those 
 below hearing a ncise, guessed what was o'clock, and had they been anything but 
 trumps, they would have sheered off." 
 *' You may say that/' said one present. 
 
 " Well, they both came up quietly, and got in, and seeing how matters stood, they 
 got in. I was struggling with a big fellow, whom I had cut in one or two places 
 with my knife, but I had not done him any mischief. Harry Walker, half stunned, 
 was ineffectually struggling with two men, and he had the darbies on one hand, 
 and the other chap he had two men on him, so we were nearly sown up, as you 
 may guess." 
 
 •* I should think so." 
 
 " I was nearest the trap, and I was the first released, and my man lay stunned 
 and bleeding upon the ground, but I had los-t my knife ; but 1 picked up Harry's 
 crowbar, which lay down, and brought it wi'h all the force I could upon the head 
 of the man, who was just fixing Harry's other hand in the darbies. In a moment 
 he lay sprawling upon the floor, with his face cov red with blued, find H^rry in a 
 moment was: up in a struggle with the other man, who, drawing a pistol, plsced 
 it close to Harry's ear, saung — " 
 
 M By Ci — d I'll have one safe '." and fired it. 
 
 ** 1 thought Harry was a dead man, and rushed upon the man who bad fired, 
 and struck hirr. down with the crowbar, though he flung t) e pistol at my head, 
 but it fortunately mis-cd me, and I grappled him." 
 
 There's no time to lose," said Harry ; " get down as quick as you can some of 
 you, and get ready for a start ; I'm almost done for ; I can't stnd — I have had 
 it over the head." 
 
 " Here's a rope," said I, " we have got the better of them ; let's lower Harry 
 down first, and then we can follow quickly ; the freshest men had better remain to 
 the last." 
 
 (t We were scarce two minutes before we were down, all five of us." 
 
 " All right," said Henry Walker. All right was the response, and away Ave 
 cleared the gateway ; the old watchman made a snatch at the reins, but missed, 
 and the wheel went over his toes, and made him scream out a thousand A-iurders, 
 to which we added a cut of the whip right round his face that must have opened 
 the skin for him." * 
 
 " There was a pretty bustle, as you may imagine ; the report of the pistol and 
 the shouts of the officers had brought several peopk to the spot, and we expected 
 that after all we should be nobbed." 
 
 " If we are taken,*' said Harry, " we are hanged to a certainty ; therefore, fight 
 it out to the last — no half- work, die sooner than be taken ; there is no flinching 
 in me." 
 
 " Nor in any of us, Harry ; had there been," said I ; u those below could never 
 have come up to your assistance you may depend upon it, they would have sheered 
 off and left us to our fate." 
 
 " I hardly know what has happened, but do you hear that damned' watchman 
 springing his rattle, some other fool, you see, will be coming along and try to stop 
 us, do you hit him hard over the head, while I drive on, never mind horse-flesh 
 now." 
 
264 NEWGATE. 
 
 These words' had hardly been spoken, when a watchman, who -was running along, 
 called out to us to stop, and ran into the road and siezed the horse by the head and 
 held him effectually enough, until I jumped out, and struck him with the crowbar 
 over the head, and he fell back, I jumped up, and away we went right over the 
 Charlie's feet. By St. George, and the Dragon to boot, on that occasion we spared 
 nothing and nobody, it was neck or nothing. Away we went, and «s we dashed 
 along we could hear the wild and infuriated shouts of men in our rear, such a 
 hubbub, all sorts of sounds. 
 
 " My soul," said Harry, " I never heard such a hue and cry ; why if we had 
 only been two or three we should have been in Newgate by this time and safe for 
 a swing." 
 
 ** You may say that." 
 
 We now passed St. Sepulchre's Church, which chimed the hour of two, and in 
 a quarter of an hour more we were safely lodged for the night, and saw the horse 
 safe and booty housed. 
 
 " We had one hundred each the next night, and we all sat down to supper, and 
 we had wine after, as much as we pleased, but we were not fools enough to indulge 
 in it to excess ; we had gone through so much danger, and there was such a hue and 
 cry after us, that we were obliged to be careful for some time. There was a devil 
 of a noise in the papers about it. I believe we killed three men while the others 
 were hurt so badly that they were weeks before they got round again. 
 
 It was said that the robbery had been discovered very early, but it was said that 
 they suspected some one on the premises, and therefore determined to watch, and 
 that was how it happened they came upon us, but I shall never forget that night 
 if I were to live for a century. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Isaacson's jeopardy. — the courage of adam beech* — the crisis or fate. 
 
 Isaacson had a peculiar look upon his face when he entered tW apartment in 
 which the party had been making so merry and enjoying themselves, so peculiar a 
 look, indeed, that they one and all remarked it to themselves, and a dead silence 
 ensued. 
 
 " What's the matter now?' said the Jew. " What are you all staring at I should 
 like to know — did you never see me before?' 
 
 " Oh, yes, Isaacson, and hope," cried one, " to see you after, but somehow you 
 have an odd look about you to-night. What a deuce of a time Sir Gaskin is." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed Isaacson. "You think he is long in coming — do you. 
 A good jest that truly—a famous jest, you are all waiting for Sir Gaskin. Well, 
 well, 1 don't care, you are welcome to wait as long as your patience will last, but 
 I have something to say to you." 
 
 The manner in which Isaacson uttered these words, convinced the thieves that 
 the something he had to say was of no small importance, and they looked eager 
 and curious, as after a moment or two's pause he added — 
 
 " My boys you all, as well as I, feel certain that young Beech will be a credit to 
 us. You all know well enough, of course, what it will end in, but before that end 
 comes, I am as certain as I am sitting here, that he will point the way to some- 
 thing of impeitance. He'll make a name among you. What then M ould you say 
 to his being murdered in this very house." 
 
 " Murdered !" exclaimed the thieves, and they sprang to their feet. 
 
 " Sit down, sit down now, and be calm. You can do nothing — absolutely 
 nothing. You may take my word for that, but what do you say to Adam Beech's 
 throat being cut the first time he lies down to sleep in confidence beneath this roof. 
 
 " Damnation," cried one, "it's Gaskin's doings." 
 
 "Hold, hold," said the Jew, " now don't you be too hasty in accusing anybody 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 265 
 
 But I say this, that such an act here is enough to ruin us all — enough to upset the 
 whole establishment — enough to make us all go and 'peach against each other- 
 enough to destroy any feeling of safety that hundreds of persons have felt in this 
 place — it's absolute ruin." 
 
 " It is, it is I" cried several. " But Adam Beech shall be revenged." 
 
 " Stop a bit," said the Jew, " stop a bit, now don't be in a hurry. You 
 
 know that I lefc you all here for some time, and gave you a couple of bottles of 
 wine to amuse yourself with'till I came back again." 
 " You did, you did ! What then, Isaacson V 7 
 
 u Why, I don't know how it was, but I had an idea that Beech was not safe. Some* 
 thing crossed my mind that he was not safe here in my house, and the suspicion 
 that any harm should come to any one sleeping here, was more than enough to 
 drive me half mad. I could not leave him ; I went and sat down in a corner of 
 
 No. 34, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 the room iu which he slept in the dark, and then I made up my mind to remain til 
 
 he awakened." 
 
 " And yet he was murdered !" 
 
 *' Not so fast, now, not so fast. You shall hear how it all happened." 
 
 rt Comrades," said one who had been a great friend of Sir Gaskin's, and possibly 
 in that gentleman's confidence, " if Adam Beech is murdered, the Jew has done 
 the deed." 
 
 " I thank you," said Isaacson. " \Yell spoken — I'll take all the consequences ; 
 but mark me, Jeffries, this is your last appearance here, unless you are in danger,' 
 and then I will hide you ; if are hunted by the b'oodhounds of the law, you may 
 come here for refuse, bur. mind you, not otherwise." 
 
 '■Brave, Isaacson," -said he who from the first had taken the part of Adam 
 Beech, "bravo, well spoken. Now, Jeffries, are you not ashamed of yourself? 
 Ask his pardon." , . ' 
 
 *' His pardon ! ask pardon cf^a Jew V 
 
 " Oh, 1 beg your pardon ; it's rflJigion that keeps you from it, is it ? Oh, ah ! that's 
 quite another thing. Lrealiy had no idea, Jeffries, you were half so pious." 
 
 " Never mind him, Blunt," said Isaacson, " Ail* 'Jeffries and I can settle our 
 affair* together very well indeed, never mind him ; Wrt^as I was saying, i sat down 
 in Adam Beech's room in the dark, and presently 1 beard the >ouad of a footstep^*' 
 
 *' Coming up stairs V 's- i:< '?^%&***' \ ■ ' V£V > 
 
 " No, strange to say, it was coming down. 1 heard it quite distinctly come step 
 by step ' % it bolted, up the landing and went into the room next to Beech's, and then 
 it slowly opened Iris door and crept in. It was some one without shoes, and by 
 sitting so long in the dar,k I could see dimly, and the dark outline of a man against 
 the window-eurtain was revealed to my e$es. He muttered something about 
 cutting a throat, and he made his way cautiously towards Adam Beech's bed, and I 
 looked on " - ^LaJL M 
 
 " What," said Blunt, " you looked on while—" . ViI^hI' 
 
 "While what, good Blunt? reaily now you are a world coo hasty. B.eai|5 ? really, 
 you won't let me say what I have to say, but I can excuse you ; your fehemence 
 is on the right side, and that makes a world of difference." 
 
 ii Go on, go on." v ^j^^^ 
 
 "Well, I did look on while the man advanced towards the bed; — I looked on till 
 he reached it. If I had looked on a moment longer, Adam Beech would have been 
 murdered, but then 1 caught the assassin by the tack of the neck, and think I gave 
 him a bit of a twist and a bad fall/ He may have hit his head against the 
 mar'uie chimney- piece, for there was a cia^h of something; I had no light, so I 
 won't say who he is, for I cannot tell, but if he had been my own brother I would 
 have done the same." 
 
 Blunt snatched a candle from the table/ and without a word dashed from the 
 room. There was a momentary pause of irresolution among the others, and then 
 they followed him, Isaacson bringing up the rear. 
 
 A few moments sufficed for the housebreakers to reach the apartment of Adam 
 Beech, and there he was sleeping as soundly as if nothing at all had happened, and 
 breathing so calmly and regularly, that it was evident he had not been disturbed. 
 
 Blunt held the light above his head and looked around hioa. " There he is," h e ; 
 said, as he pointed to the figure of a man laying on the Ace by the fire-place* 
 " There he is, hy Heaven !" r ' 
 
 n Yes," said Isaacson, " that's just where I left him, and just where I fully ex- 
 pected to find him. There he is, as yon say, dead, I. suppose^ What do you think 
 of him," Jeffries V 
 
 Jeffries turned aside and said nothing : but Blunt at once advanced, and placing 
 the candle on the floor by the side of the body, he turned itJFace upwards, when* 
 they all exclaimed — 
 
 M Gaskin ! it's Gaskin *?' 
 
 " Ah," said Isaacson, " as you say.' J 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 267 
 
 The noise and the light now awakened Adam Beech, and springing up in the 
 bed, he cried aloud — 
 
 " Holloa? what's all this J what's the matter?" 
 
 " All's light," said Blunt ; " if you have had sleep enough, Adam, get up, you 
 have had a narrow escape. Lock there, and tell us it' you know who that is — look 
 at the blood-stained face and livid lips of the man who would have murdered you 
 in the night — see, the side of his head is smashed in, but still you may know him, 
 Adam Beech V 
 
 "^ir Gaskin," said Adam, " and I owe my preservation to you." 
 
 "Not at all ; Isaacson sat by you while you slept, and saved you." 
 
 " Oh, don't mention it," said Isaacson ; " all's right, Master Beech; T thought it 
 would be better to keep a good watch, for one don't know what may happen in this 
 world. All's right! can you get up now, for we must think of what's to be done 
 with the fellow V 
 
 Adam Beech had taken off but a very small portion of his apparel, so that, in a 
 few moments, he was quite ready to mingle with the housebreakers. He approached 
 the dead body and looked at it with a shudder — a confused rush of strange feelings 
 came across his mind — it was the first time he had looked upon such an object, and 
 he turned away with a pale and agitated countenance. 
 
 " Well," said the Jew, " what's to be done?" 
 
 " Blood for blood V' cried Jeffries, suddenly drawing a pistol from his pocket and 
 presenting it at the Jew; " I don't believe one word of the tale Isaacson has told, 
 cunningly put together as it is, I don't believe one word of it. I say, from some 
 grudge of his own, he has murderedGaskin." 
 
 Adam Beech stepped before Isaacson, so that the muzzle of the pistol almost 
 touched his own breast, and his eyes blazed fiercely as he looked .Jeffries in the face. 
 
 " Ruffian f he said," so you would commit a murder because you are yourself 
 so much accustomed to lying that you cannot believe what any one says; pull the 
 trigger of that pistol if you dare. I tell you to your face that you dare not." 
 
 Jeffries turned pale with rage, but his hand dropped, and he said with an air of 
 affected nonchalance, that sat but badly upon him, it was so evidently forced— 
 
 " Pshaw ! I don't went to hurt. you, boy, nor you either, old Isaacs m, if it comes 
 to that ; but when one sees an oid comrade lying smashed all of a sudden, one's 
 feelings may be well excused for being a little excited or so. Gaskin and T, and 
 indeed, he and all of us, have been at -the sacking of a good many cribs. We have 
 all jogged on quietly enough till now, and it's rather a hard thing that, after all, he 
 should meet with his death in this house." 
 
 " It is a hard thing," said Blunt; "but it's a much harder thing to think that 
 he would have committed a murder that would have disgraced us all for ever." 
 
 " You don't know he meant to do it." 
 
 "Lock there. The knife he meant to" do the deed wiih is now so fast clutched i n 
 his hand with the rigidity of death, that you would find it, were you to try, no easy 
 matter to get it away from him. He meant to do it, and, dead and bleeding as he 
 now lies there, it's better for him that he did not succeed." 
 
 "When did you think of beginning to come the parson over us ?" 
 
 " Never ; I aint preaching. I mean to say, that he should have swung for the 
 deed, if I had to stand up in a court of justice, and chance my own neck by telling 
 of any robbery we bad ever done together. If Adam Beech had been murdered, 
 I would have g&ne before a magistrate at once, and blown the whole affair, so it's 
 well for Gaskin that he has come by the sudden death he has, or he would have 
 come to the scaffold, as sure as we are all living now." 
 
 "That's true enough," said Isaacson, "quite true, and you would have been 
 quite justified, Blunt. I would have gone with you, fur if such a deed had been 
 done, our business would have been knocked up. Now I have told you all* about 
 it, for I did hot think it worth while making a secret of it. Nothing would have 
 been easier than for me to have disposed of the body somehow, and you would 
 never any of yen have known a word about it. But why should T adopt such a 
 
268 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 course ? I had done nothing but what I would do again and again. The question 
 is now, for mutual safety, what's to be done with the body ?" 
 " Get it out of the house by all means," said Blunt. 
 
 " So say I," said Beech. " It aintfar to Lamont, the banker's, suppose we go 
 and make a present of it to him ?" 
 
 "Agreed, agreed. We'll put it up against his dcor-step — come on." 
 et Stop a bit," said Isaacson, " I'll get a sack." 
 
 He went down stairs, and presently returned with a large potato sack, into which 
 the dead body of Sir Gaskin was put, head foremost ; and then, agreeing among 
 themselves how they Mere by turns, two and two, one hold of the mouth cf the 
 sack, and the other the bottom of it, to carry the weight, they, after a reconnoitre 
 to see that the coast was clear, lefc the house. 
 
 Even at so short a distance of time ago as forty years it was a fact that six 
 or eight men who were determined characters, might do very nearly what they 
 pleased in the streets of London after midnight. The miserable old men who 
 were by a figure of speech suffered to be the guardians of the night, could offer no 
 effectual resistance to such a party, and, indeed, the probability is, that a watch- 
 man, if he saw so many persons together on his beat, quietly got into his watch-box, 
 thinking prudence the better part of valour, and there waited till they had gone past. 
 
 Now-a-days, half-a-dozen men would not dream of venturing to carry a dead 
 body a mile through the public streets ; the police would soon make a capture of 
 both the -living and the dead, and lodge the whole party in the nearest 
 station. 
 
 The party walked rapidly, and before they had proceeded very far they did meet 
 a dreamy-looking old watchman, who had the temerity to say — 
 u Holloa ! what have you got there ?" 
 *' Some cold meat," said Blunt. 
 
 ** Come, come, you must not joke with the watch. Move on, move on.'' 
 
 " Oh, certainly, sir, certainly. Is there anything else you would like us to do ? 
 Pray what's o'clock, Charles, and what sort of a morning do you bring it in V 
 
 The old watchman walked off growling, but he did not think it worth while to 
 covet a good knock-down blow, which he shrewdly suspected would be his, if he 
 attempted to spring his rattle, long before any of the other guardians of the night 
 could have come to his assistance. 
 
 They reached the house of the banker with only one other interruption of a very 
 similar character to the first, only that the watchman asked for something to drink, 
 which was given him at once, as the easiest way by far of getting rid of him. 
 
 Adam Beech looked curiously at Mr. LamonVs door, and felt that he should like 
 much to see the portly hall-porter, if he were not dismissed, for the want of tact 
 he had shown in defending the house. But when he trembled at the idea of 
 knocking at the door, he was overruled by his companions, who were not disposed, 
 without profit, to run any risks or chances. 
 
 "No, no, Adam," said the Jew, "just prop him up against the door and leave 
 him." 
 
 This was done, and then Adam said — 
 
 " Now there can be no danger in going opposite into the entry, where you all 
 wait for me before, you know, seeing a bit of fun." 
 « What funl" 
 
 "Why, I'll manage to make Benjamin Birch if he be there, open the door. 
 Come along, come along, and I'll engage that, without any danger, you shall see 
 some sport." 
 
 They followed Adam Beech, taking the sack with them, and having the dead 
 body huddled up against the banker's door. Adam, as hp crossed the road, picked 
 several large round stones, and then, when they were all snugly ensconced under the 
 gateway opposite, he flung one of the stones with all his strength against the banker's 
 door, when it made such a bang that if Benjamin Birch happened to be, as was 
 highly probable, in the land of Nod, he would be certain to awaken with a firm 
 impression that there was a knock at the door. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 269 
 
 But if he did, experience had not been thrown away upon Benjamin, and he 
 did not, as upon the occasion of Adam Beech's first visit, look out to see who was 
 there. Oh ! no — Benjamin had acquired cunning. 
 
 " He won't move," said Adam, and bang went another of the stones. 
 
 There was a pause of about two minutes, and Adam Beech began to think that 
 Benjamin Birch must have had his discharge, and that no person was in the hall, 
 when the door suddenly opened to its full width, and Benjamin Birch appeared 
 with a poker in his hand. He sprung back ; for the body of Gaskin, as it fell 
 in against his feet, made him think that the same manoeuvre, which before had 
 precipitated him head foremost down the steps, was about to be practised, and 
 then he commenced banging away with the poker in both hands, till he saw that 
 his opponent did not move, and he paused to take breath. 
 
 They saw him wipe the perspiration from his brow, and lay down the poker. 
 Then he touched Sir Gaskin with his foot, and they heard him say, — 
 
 " Come, come, no gammon ! Get up, you vagabond !" 
 
 Meeting, then, with no answer, Benjamin Birch got a little alarmed, and he 
 procured the night hand-lamp from the bracket on which it stood, and stooping 
 down he looked curiously at the dead body. They saw him shake in every limb ; 
 then with a loud bellowing voice he shouted, — 
 
 "Murder! oh, murder!" "Murder, sir!" remarked somebody. "Murder! 
 watch !" " Oh, Lord ! Help, help ! Oh, oh ! sir, I've done it !" 
 
 " Come away," said Beech, " come now at once. All's right V* 
 
 They glided down the street, and not a little pleased at the result of the 
 adventure, which to all intents and purposes had fixed the death of Sir Gaskin 
 at the door of Benjamin Birch, they made their way as quickly as possible back to 
 Isaacson's house. 
 
 On their road Jeffries came close to Adam and said, " Beech, I have offended 
 you and offended Isaacson. Second thoughts are best ; I have seen my error, 
 and when I come calmly to put one thing to another I do find that 1 was wrong." 
 
 " Never mind," said Beech ; " there's my hand, say no more about it." 
 
 ** You are generous hearted, and you shan't repent holding out your hand to 
 me I can tell you, Master Beech. Gaskin was an old friend of mine, but I don't 
 defend him now. Will you make my peace with Isaacson V 
 
 l * If t can I will ; but if he is obstinate, what can I do V* 
 
 " Oh ! he will listen to you." 
 
 " Well, we will see. Isaacson, Jeffries is sorry for what has passed, and I 
 have shaken hands with him. Will you, to please me, do the like ? M 
 
 "Yes," said the Jew; "and now mind, Mr. Jeffries, don't you be so hasty 
 another time, and let me tell you that, however you may doubt it, there is honour 
 among thieves after all." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 MADAME POMPADOUR HAS HER REVENGE AGAiNST MARY PHILLIPS. THE PIECE 
 
 OF LACE. N 
 
 Mary Phillips went to Madame Pompadour on the following morning. She 
 had given her mother a carte blanche to do what she liked on her behalf, and so 
 she consented at. once to the arrangement that had been made, and one hour 
 precisely after the usual time she arrived at the work-room. 
 
 The rest of the girls, who knew nothing of the arrangement that Madame 
 Pompadour's interests had forced upon her, were quite astonished at the arrogance 
 of any one coming so late, but as Madame Pompadour said nothing about it, 
 neither did they. 
 
 But let not the reader suppose that the cruel and unconscientious task-mistress 
 of the poor white slaves was going to put up so easily with the defeat she had 
 experienced ; no, crafty, vindictive, and subtle as she was, she set all her in- 
 
270 NEWGATE. 
 
 triguing wits to work to think of some mode, of not only turning the tables upon 
 Mary Phillips and her mother, but of having besides a good share of revenge for 
 what had already happened in which she, Madame Pompadour, had made so small 
 a figure. 
 
 Besides, what a dreadful example the whole affair was setting to the girls ! True, 
 she had requested Mary to -say nothing about it, but still they would see, that she, 
 Mary, must have acquired some sort of victory or she never would have been 
 permitted to come one hour later in the morning, and to leave one hour earlier in 
 the evening— two glaring facts which could not be kept from, their observation, 
 although the alarming increase in the amount of the stipend Mary received could be. 
 
 " What shall I do to crush this girl?" was Madame Pompadour's mental question. 
 What she wanted was to retain her so completely in her power that she should 
 never again dare to take offence at, or object to anything, and she, after some 
 cogitation, hit upon a plan, which once before she had practised with a success that 
 had forced a poor young creature to suicide. 
 
 She, however, let a day elapse before she put the plan into execution, and when 
 she did do it she congratulated herself upon its complete success, for there seemed 
 no possibility of failure. 
 
 There was a small ante-room contiguous to the work-room where the girls were 
 in the habit of leaving their cloaks, shawls, and bonnets, and of taking, occa- 
 sionally, such refreshments as they brought with them from home ; and in this 
 ante-room Mary Phillips hung a cloak, which she was in the habit of wearing in 
 her transit to and from the work-room. 
 
 It is night, and only ha^f an hour to the time that Mary was, by the new 
 arrangement entered into, entitled to have. A \ery dim light is burning in that 
 ante-room, and with a diabolical look upon her sharp features Madame Pompadour 
 creeps in. 
 
 She evidently did not wish to be heard, for she had, as softly as foot could fall, 
 and now and then, as people do in such dramas, she placed her finger on her lips, 
 as if that would have a material effect in assisting in preserving the silence she 
 considered absolutely necessary to the success of the plot she had in the chambers 
 of her wicked brain concocted, and was now about to carry out, without the 
 smallest tinge of remorse. 
 
 How true, how sadly true it is, that when a woman does forget that gentleness 
 and that truthfulness which surely constitute her greatest, charms, she scruples not 
 at acts from which men would shrink back appalled ! 
 
 Madame Pompadour now was about to consummate a deed of heartless treachery, 
 such as we tremble to depict ; and all for what? Two shillings a-week, and the 
 ti umph of having got the better of a youngs and innocent gill, who was already 
 victimised by her to a terrific extent. 
 
 She listened at the door of communication between the two rooms, and she 
 heard the whispered remarks that now and then beguiled some of the tedium 
 of the incessant labour to which the young creatures who had fallen into her 
 ruthless hands, and who made up the sum of her factory system, were subjected. 
 
 How frightfully guilty was the expression now of Madame Pompadour's counte- 
 nance — how sickening was it to think that anything wearing the outward form of 
 woman should stoop to the perpetration of such a diabolical wickedness, as was 
 implied by the act that she intended to perform. She shook perceptibly, a proof 
 that she was to the full cognizant of the fearful consequences of that which she was 
 about to do ; and then she searched along the wall where there were pegs on which 
 the girls' bonnets and cloakshung, until she found the latter article which she knew 
 belonged to Mary Phillips. 
 
 Ouce more she listened attentively. The conversation was a little louder than it 
 had been, for the time she had been absent now from the room encouraged the poor 
 victims to think that she might still l^e so for some time longer ; nay, perhaps she had 
 altogether gone out to pay some visit, and if so, what a relief it was for the 
 forewoman, who was supposed to act all sorts of heroes in the absence of 
 Madame Pompadour, did not do so for a very simple reason, for the moment that 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 271 
 
 lady's back was turned the aforesaid forewoman retired to her own Apartments and 
 gave way to the delusive joys of somebody's best cordial. 
 
 Now the betrayer of innocence — the false witness — the plotter and planner of 
 the destruction of all that was beautiful and good, took from her* pocket a small slip 
 of lace ; it was but a small piece, nevertheless it was valuable, as being of some 
 rare and costly quality, and a portion of some that had been sent by a lady of 
 distinction connected with the court, to be made up in a dress that Madame 
 Pompadour was employing Mary Phillips upon. 
 
 Now that she had this piece of lace in her hand actually, and had made up her 
 mind to do the deed which, in the estimation of all persons who have a proper 
 appreciation of right and wrong, ranks along with assassination in the catalogue of 
 human crimes, she thought that the quieter she accomplished it the better, and 
 accordingly she, in another moment, had succeeded in pinning the piece of costly 
 lace to the inner part of the back of Mary's cloak. This she did with such a 
 devilish art that it would be next thing to an impossibility for the young girl to 
 observe it as she might put the garment on. 
 
 * Now," muttered Madame Pompadour, as she glided noiselessly from the room, 
 " now I think I shall let you see, Mary Phillips, that I am not to be braved with 
 impunity. Now you will find out that you had better by far have left well alone, 
 for if you do not humble yourself to my heart's content you shall be made 
 acquainted with the inside of a prison, and that, 1 think, wiil bring down your 
 pride a little." 
 
 Madame Pompadour now proceeded to carry out some of the minor details of 
 her plan, and she went to the forewoman, whose name was Green, and said — 
 
 " Do you know, Green, I think that some of the lace which Lady Bellefield sent 
 to have put upon her court-dress has disappeared." 
 
 " Oh, gracious," cried Green, " and it's worth at least two guineas a yard." 
 
 ** It is indeed, and not to be matched, because, you know, Sir George Bellefield 
 was the ambassador to Paris, and they say he got it of the Queen of France, and 
 then smuggled it, of course." 
 
 "To be sure, madame, to be sure. But you don't mean really to say that the 
 lace is lost? Oh, dear, what will become cf us all? — what a world we do live in 
 to be sure ! I declare my heart's in my mouth." 
 
 "Now, Green, I don't want any fuss made about it ; but the fact is, I suspect 
 some of the girls have taken a piece of this lace, I want to find out which of them 
 it is. Now, as they go away to-night, I wish that you would get them one by 
 one to come into my room, and I will endeavour to find it out." 
 
 " Yes, madame. Oh, the wretches !— oh, the villains of the world ! the idea of 
 taking anything from you, madame, is enough to make one's flesh creep in one's 
 bones ; it is, indeed." 
 
 " Very goo l. Do not forget to do as I tell you, and by-tbe-by, I have promised 
 to let Mary Phillips away an hour earlier than the others, so of course you will be 
 on the alert, Green, and bring her first; and Green — " 
 
 " Yes, madame," 
 
 " You must not tell her I want to see her until she is ready to go, and at the 
 door. Do you understand me perfectly, Green ? " 
 " Oh dear, yes, madame." 
 
 And Green did understand Madame Pampadour most perfectly, for from what 
 she had last said, she had her eves opened to the whole affair, and felt no doubt 
 whatever but that Mary Phillips was to be the victim of a plot of Madame 
 Pompadour's, for her destruction. But that did not give Green much concern ; 
 partly with dodbt and partly from natural callousness, she had so far stultified all 
 natural ideas of right and wrong she might once have possessed, that the fall of 
 anyone, however innocent they might be, did not disturb her at all." 
 
 "It's no business of mine," she said; "Madame conducts her own business, 
 and if she chooses to say that some one has taken away some lace, I cannot 
 help it." J 
 
 But Green knew well that she must not fail in the part of the plot which was 
 
272 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 committed to her care, and therefore she kept a close watch for the time when 
 Mary Phillips rose to go, and as the young girl was really tired, and determined to 
 keep Madame Pompadour to her bargain, she, when the clock that was in the 
 work-room announced the agreed upon hour, quietly laid down her work aud 
 glided from the room." 
 
 A light was always left burning in the ante-room — a dim rushlight — and by its 
 assistance Mary managed to find and put on her cloak, without the least idea of 
 what was appended to it. 
 
 She then with her light, noiseless step glided down the staircase, and was upon 
 the point of emerging from the premises, when she was met by Green, who said, 
 with an affectation of civility, — 
 
 " Oh, Miss Phillips ! when I see you it quite reminds me that madame told me 
 she wanted to see you a moment before you went." 
 
 " Now ?" said Mary. 
 
 " Yes ; she is in her room. I think it's something particular." 
 
 Mary was vexed, but she fully anticipated a remonstrance about going the hour 
 earlier ; however, she made up her mind to be firm upon that point, and, as she 
 could not very well say that she would not see Madame Pompadour, she walked to 
 that lady's private apartment, and there found her. She was followed by Green, 
 who was to be the witness upon the occasion. 
 
 " You wish to see me, I believe," said Mary. 
 
 ** Yes ;" said Madame Pompadour, seriously. " Now mind, Mary Phillips, you 
 must not fancy from what I am going to say that I mean anything against you, but 
 the fact is#I am in great trouble about Lady Bellefield's lace, for, upon measuring 
 it over, I find about half-a-yard missing, and of course somebody must have taken 
 that half-yard, which, you know, is just the quantity for one of the sleeves. 
 
 " Indeed V said Mary, quite innocently. " Whom do you suspect ?" 
 
 " No one. I can hardly believe that any one here could do such a thing, and 
 sorry, indeed, should I be to be forced to believe it ; but what can I do ? If there 
 is a thief in the work-room, I must — for the sake of everybody else — you know, 
 find out who it really is." 
 
 " Certainly," said Mary. 
 
 *' Very good; then you, I am sure, will approve of my resolution to search 
 * every one that goes away from the house to-night." 
 
 A flush of colour — incidental to insulted virtue — came across the cheek of Mary, 
 but she said at once, — 
 
 " Madame Pompadour, however od ous it is to be placed in such circumstances, 
 I cannot of course object to such a proposition. The innocent must suffer the 
 disgrace of suspicion, in order that the guilty may be discovered." 
 
 " You are quite right, Mary Phillips ; but you see, if I were to stop every one 
 else and not you, they would have a right to complain of partiality." 
 
 " Enough — enough !" said M ary ; " there needs no excuses for the act — I am 
 quite content." She took off her cloak as she spoke, and Green held it up to the 
 light, and turned it round and round several moments before making the least 
 remark, and then, suddenly with a scream, she sank into a chair with the cloak in 
 her hand. 
 
 " What's the matter?" said Madame Pompadour, " what is the matter, Green ? 
 — Green, I say, I insist upon knowing what is the matter ! " 
 " Oh, the world — the world! " 
 
 " What is the meaning of all this ? " said Mary, with a look of the greatest 
 surprise ; for she did not see the lace pinned to the cloak, as Green held the gar- 
 ment crumpled up in her hands, — " What is the meaning of all this ? '* 
 
 But even while she asked, a presentiment of some coming dreadful evil came 
 across her heart, and she trembled violently, although she could not have told why, 
 had she been asked to do so. 
 
 * Oh dear, oh dear! "added Green," what we do live to learn and keep on con- 
 tinually finding out I Oh dear me ! — Can I believe my own mortal eyes that are 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 273 
 
 in my own head ? No, no, no ; it must be a delusion. Oh, Miss Phillips — oh, 
 Miss Phillips !— is that you ? »' 
 
 "It is," said Mary ; " and I am afraid you are deranged! " 
 
 " Oh, can you look Madame Pompadour in the face ? If you can, you are hard- 
 ened indeed. Can you look her in the face ? That's what I want to know ! " 
 
 " Yes/' said Mary, " I know of nothing which should prevent me looking 
 Madame Pompadour in the face — nothing whatever. I am looking her in the face." 
 
 " Good ! and now look here — look here at the very identical half-yard of lace 
 that Madame Poaipadour has been fretting herself about till it was a pain, and 
 
 agony to me to see her—pinned to your cloak ! Oh, you hussv ! And you could 
 put on such a look ! Well, T never ! " 
 
 Mary clasped her hands as she exclaimed — 
 
 " Great God, I ought to have expected this ! " 
 
 "You confess it?" said Madame Pompadour." 
 
 " No, madame, no. You should confess— you, who know my innocence. You 
 may well shrink from before the gaze I now bend upon you! You have laid this 
 
 No. 35. 
 
274 
 
 NEWGATE' 
 
 dreadful — this most wicked plot, for my destruction. I can read it even now in 
 your countenance. Even you have not quite yet lost all the blush of shame. You 
 know that I am innocent, and that I have nothing to confess." 
 
 "This is all very fine," said Madame Pompadour; "but you found the lace, 
 Green, and can swear to where you found it? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, madame." 
 
 ''Well, then, I don't see what I can do, in common jnstice to others in the 
 establishment, but prosecute — more especially as really, Mary Phillips, you don't 
 show any humility or contrition in the business." 
 
 " Yes," said Mary, " I quite understand it — that is what you want. You have 
 been conquered by me, and this is the plan you have adopted to subdue me. I see 
 it all as plainly, Madame Pompadour, as Heaven sees it — that Heaven which will 
 record this act against you as one calling aloud for a retribution you, perchance, 
 have not yet dreamed of. But you shall be disappointed. You may persecute 
 me — you may wreak your malice against me to the uttermost — you may destroy 
 me — but you shall not humble me ! " 
 
 Rage flashed from the eyes of Madame Pompadour, for she really did not wish 
 to loose Mary, but had a hope that the horrors of a prison, if confined in one even 
 on a false charge, would be amply sufficient to induce in Mary a desire to make all 
 the concession she wanted. But now she felt that she had to do with one who 
 would not be subdued, and she felt all the bitterness of the disappointment. 
 
 ReveHge overcame every other feeling, and, turning to Green, she said — 
 
 " Ring for somebody, and we will send at once for an officer." 
 
 Mary, with a gasping sob, sunk upon the chair. 
 
 " Hold!" cried Madame Pompadour, as Green Mas about to leave the room. 
 " Wait a moment ; Mary, will you throw yourself upon my mercy ?" 
 
 " There is no mercy in such a disposition," said Mary. " Where there is no 
 justice, there cannot be its divine attribute — mercy. Madame Pompadour, you 
 know I am innocent. Beware how you move a step further in this business — 
 beware, I say, for you may find the blow you aim at me recoil upon yourself. I 
 warn you now.* 
 
 " Y on threaten r £" 
 
 " I do threaten. The innocent should ever, and can ever, threaten the guilty. 
 I do most truly threaten you. Up to this point I am willing to let the matter rest, 
 but i do threaten you, if you push it further." 
 
 «* Green, fetch a constable directly. To prison — to prison, Miss Phillips, shall 
 you go, and you will soon find what effect your threats have upon the walls of 
 Newgate." 
 
 The very sound of that dreadful name, New gate, was enough to appal the heart 
 of the young girl ; but the mind triumphed over bodily weakness, and she looked 
 in the face of Madame Pompadour with a glance of calm, holy defiance, from 
 Avhich the evil-minded woman, after a vain effort to sustain herself, shrunk abashed. 
 
 Green saw that matters had got serious, so she rang the bell, and desired a lad 
 who answered it to run and fetch a constable, which he did with quickness, for he 
 wanted to see the fun of somebody being taken up, he did not care who. The 
 nearest constable he was aware or' was a fat publican in the next street, and to him 
 he accordingly went, desiring that he would come round at once to Madame 
 Pompadour's, as somebody had done something, he did not know who or what. 
 
 The publican accordingly took down his staff from the little brass hook in the 
 bar, on which it hung, and followed the boy back to the house, .and was soon 
 introduced to the private room of the milliner. 
 
 «« I give this girl into your charge," said Pompadour, " for stealing lace." 
 
 " Lor," said the fat publican ; " what a pity ! Is it much ? Couldn't you 
 make it right again, my pretty lass V 
 
 " Do your duty, sir," exclaimed Madame Pompadour. " How dare you hesitate 
 when a person is given into your custody on a charge of felony ? Take her to the 
 watch-house at once, and 1 will appear in the morning before the magistrate to 
 
 osecute her. Take her away, take her away !" 
 
 Pr . : : f| 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 275 
 
 " Well, there's no such desperate hurry, ma'am. I'm very sorry for you, my lass, 
 but I must take you." 
 
 " I am innocent, sir/' cried Mary, ''indeed I am innocent. God knows my 
 innocence ; and Madame Pompadour knows that she herself has laid this trap for 
 my destruction. I did not take the lace, They have pinned it to my cloak, and 
 then they accuse me of stealing it. Believe me, I am innocent ; I swear it by 
 Heaven, and I would not take that sacred name in vain !" 
 
 " 1 believe you, my girl. Come, come, ma'am, you don't mean to press the charge ; 
 what's the value of the piece of stuff you have lost? I'll pay you for it " 
 
 "Do your duty," screamed Madame Pompadour, " do your duty." 
 
 " Well, if I must, I must. But I shall have to trouble you to come to the 
 watch-house to make the charge ; you know that, I dare say ; I can't sign a charge- 
 sheet, unless I am the prosecutor, which 1 never yet was, aud it is the greatest 
 nuisance in life to me to be a constable." 
 
 Madame Pompadour hastily rose, and putting on a shawl and bonnet, she 
 answered that she was quite ready to go and make the charge against Mary 
 Phillips ; so the constable put Mary's arm under his, and Madame Pompadour 
 marched behind towards the nearest watch-house. 
 
 The reader, from what he knows of the case, can imagine what must have been 
 the state of mind of poor Mary when she was thus taken to be locked up on a false 
 charge. The desolation and despair which crept over her heart was enough to 
 drive her to madness, and the only relief she got after a short time consisted in 
 bursting into a flood of tears. 
 
 " Come, come," said the constable, " don't cry, my dear, I'll try what can be 
 done for you ; I don't believe you did it, upon my soul !" 
 
 " Indeed I did not." 
 
 ei Of course you did not ; I could have sworn you did not, directly I looked at 
 you. But I'll lind you a friend or two, or my name aint Mathew. I won't desert 
 you. Don't be afraid, my lass. You shan't want for anything." 
 
 " You are very, very good to me. I can only thank you, and pray God to bless you 
 for those words of kindness to me. Wiil you send some' one to tell my poor 
 mother? but, oh, tell her 1 am innocent ! Yet no — that would be an insult — as if 
 she could doubt it. !" 
 
 "I'll go myself, my dear; stand aside, and let these two fellows pass." 
 
 Two men were walking with great rapidity up the silent streetin which they were. 
 They were talking energetically, and when they came near, one said to the other — 
 
 " I tell you, Blunt, that I must see her, let the danger be what it may. She has 
 gone back to that odious employment which is killing her, and I must and will 
 rescue her from it. You do not know her, or you would not wonder at the hold 
 she has of my heart." 
 
 Mary sprung forward, and the next moment she was clapped in the arms of 
 Adam Beech ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE RESCUE. 
 
 "Adam, Adam, dear Adam, is this indeed really and truly you?" exclaimed 
 Mary, as she clasped him in her arms ; and all the misery of the moment was 
 forgotten in the joy of that most sudden and unexpected meeting with him whom 
 she loved. 
 
 " Yes, my Mary ; but by what lucky chance is it that I meet you here ? This is 
 not your road home ; and who are these people that are with you ?" 
 
 Tnese last words brought back Mary at once to a sense of her situation, and, 
 clinging yet closer to Adam, she cried — 
 
276 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 " Oh, save me, save me, Adam ! that is Madame Pompadour ; she has herself 
 pinned to my cloak a piece of lace, and then, under the pretence that I had pur- 
 loined it, or intended to do so, she is even now having me conveyed to prison. Save 
 me, Adam ! save me !" 
 
 Fury flashed from the eyes of Adam Beech, and he heeded not the whisper of 
 Blunt to be careful and quiet about what he intended to do, but darting a furious 
 glance at Madame Pompadour, he exclaimed — 
 
 " Infamous wretch ! how dare you act in such a manner ? Are you not afraid 
 that the vengeance of one who will exact a terrible retaliation if a hair of this yeung 
 girl's head be injured, will overtake you ? I almost forget that you are a woman P* 
 
 " And how dare you," said Madame Pompadour, " interfere with the course of 
 justice ? Constable, why don't you knock him down 1" 
 
 " Oh, that is a constable, is it ?" said Adam, making an effort to disentangle 
 himself from the grasp of Mary. " I'll soon let him see what a dangerous job he 
 has undertaken." 
 
 " No, Adam ! no, no!" whispered Mary, "he has spoken words of kindness 
 to me, and has promised to befriend me. You must not hurt him, Adam." 
 
 "My good fellow," said the constable, stepping up so close to Adam that 
 Madame Pompadour could not hear what he said ; " the least touch in the world, 
 you understand, will knock me down, and I'm remarkably slow in getting up again, 
 but you'll have some trouble with the lady." 
 
 " Thank you, I understand ; Blunt, will you attend to Madame Pompadour, 
 while 1 knock down the constable?" 
 
 " Very good." 
 
 Adam Beech affected to hit the fat publican, who immediately sat down upon 
 the pavement, and said, with an air of ridiculous composure, " I rather think 
 that's my death-blow ; at all events, it will be a long illness, and I am much too 
 bad to get up from where I now am ; so, ladies and gentlemen, you will be. so 
 good now as to fight it all out among yourselves. ' , 
 
 Madame Pompadour flew forward, but she was met by Blunt the housebrea*ker, 
 who, extending his arms, cried — 
 
 " That's a duck, come to my bussum." 
 
 ''You wretch ! get out of my way." 
 
 " Not if I knows it, marm ; come on, I know you love me." 
 
 Then, whichever way Madame Pompadour turned, he kept hovering round her, 
 so that if she had persevered in advancing, she must have done so into his arms, 
 which was not exactly the sort of thing that Madame Pompadour was looking out 
 for at present, so she took up a new mode of operation, which was to scream — 
 
 "Help, help! thieves, murder !'' till the street echoed again. 
 
 "Good God, ma'am," said the fat constable, "that will do; you really need 
 not exert yourself so much ; I am quite sure everybody within half a mile must have 
 heard you by now." 
 
 " Oh, you old wretch, you have wilfully let them go." 
 
 "Wilfully ! I'm sure you saw me knocked down flat here, and I have not been 
 able to move since; I shall call upon you to swear to that." 
 " Help, help, thieves — murder !" 
 "Damn the woman, what a throat she has got!" 
 
 But all this time Adam Beech and Mary Phillips were getting away. Clasping 
 his right arm round her waist, so that he was an immense support to her, he told 
 her to run, and she, so upheld, found it an easy task to do so, and swiftly too, so 
 that, without much fatigue to her, they in a few minutes were far beyond all 
 chance of pursuit from Madame Pompadour or from anybody whom she might 
 call to her assistance. 
 
 The riot, however, which she made soon brought the watch to the spot, but as 
 theie was no one there to take, for Blunt had made his escape, but herself or the 
 fat publican, it did not seem clear to the guardians of the, night in what way they 
 were to show their efficiency. 
 
 It was rather an indefinite thing to say that somebody who had been in custody 
 
NEWGATE. 277 
 
 had escaped, but run away somewhere ; so Madame Pompadour began to find 
 that, after all, she had gained nothing by the whole affair but a great amount of 
 personal inconvenience. 
 
 She glanced towards the constable, and she thought, nay, she was sure, upon a 
 second look, that she detected a merry twinkle at the corner of his mouth as if* he 
 quite enjoyed having been knocked down and his prisoner taken away from him. 
 This was too much to bear, and, determined upon having her revenge upon some- 
 body, she flew at him and inflicted a tolerable scratch upon one of his cheeks 
 before he could defend himself, but then he stretched out one hand and laid hold 
 of Madame Pompadour's ankle, at which he pulled till the lady sat down beside 
 him on the pavement with a sudden precipitation that must have given a tolerable 
 shake to her animal economy. 
 
 "Really ma'am/' he said, "you don't know what you are about to-night. 
 Here, watchman, I give this woman in charge for assaulting me. You saw her 
 do it ; therefore you can Lave no doubt about taking her." 
 
 " Come along, mum," said one of the watchmen. " Now, mum, if you please ; 
 come along, we can't wait here all night along o' you." 
 
 " What?" exclaimed Madame Pompadour. " Take me in charge, you horrid 
 wretches ! I'll have you all transported, I will." 
 
 " Wery good, mum. Come on, will you? Bill Needham, you'll have to take 
 the lady's trotters, I think, while I takes her head, if she won't walk." 
 
 Now the fat publican contrived to get upon his feet, and he imitated as well as 
 he could the manner of Madame Pompadour when she had been urging him to get 
 along with poor Mary Phillips. 
 
 " Pll follow'and make the charge/' he said. " Take her away; it's your duty, 
 you know. Take her away, I am determined to prosecute." 
 
 " Oh ! no," said Madame Pompadour, when she found the affair was getting 
 serious, and that, as she had shown no mercy, she had no right to expect any, 
 "Oh! no. What do you mean? I am a respectable housekeeper, and my 
 name's Pompadour. How dare you, Mr. Constable — you don't mean it! Pll 
 pay something — murder ! murder ! " 
 
 " Damn you all \ " said a voice from a window of a house close to which they 
 were ; " damn you all ! am I to get no sleep to-night with one riot and another ? 
 Take that, and move on ! " 
 
 At the moment a great slouch of water came full upon Madame Pompadour, 
 with such a dash that it really took her breath away and made her stagger again. 
 
 " I hope you got it, some of you," said the voice from the window. " Damn 
 you all !" 
 
 Bang went down the window with a vehemence that quite sufficiently signified 
 what a passion the gentleman was in who probably slept in that room, and for the 
 last twenty- minutes had heard nothing but one continual tumult, accompanied by 
 Madame Pompadour's screams and shouts, which in the night-time are anything 
 but agreeable things. 
 
 The fat landlord, now that he saw what a state Madame Pompadour was in, 
 told the watchmen that he withdrew his charge against her, as he considered her 
 sufficiently punished, adding, to their great satisfaction, — 
 
 " I am the landlord of the ( Goat and Looking Glass/ in the next street. Come 
 along, and I'll give you a drop of something that will do your hearts good." 
 
 « You will?" 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure I will ; never mind her, she'll find her way home, and if she 
 don't, it's no great matter. Come along." 
 
 " I say, Bill Needham, this here's a trump of a fellow, aint he? Lor'! I 
 knows him now — the landlord of the 'Goat and Looking Glass' — I knows him 
 quite well. If I'd a-thought it was him that ere female woman shouldn't have 
 gived him that claw under the eye. She's a bad un, you may see that, with half 
 an eye. Come on, come on, we're a-coming !" 
 
278 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE LAPSE OF YEARS, AND TIME'S REVELATIONS. 
 
 When I had arrived thus far in the narrative of Adam Beech, the burglar, I felt 
 quite a pang of alarm, for I found that the narrative seemed there to cease, ending 
 most strangely and abruptly at that point which was to me one of great interest, 
 inasmuch as it threw the innocent and beautiful Mary Phillips completely upon 
 the protection of Adam Beech. But so it was. I appeared to have taken up the 
 last piece of paper, and that was only half written over, and there was a dash of the 
 pen after the last word, that looked really as if the writer felt that his work was 
 over, and adopted that mode of making a flourishing conclusion. 
 
 " This will not do," I said ; "we surely have something more here of Adam Beech 
 and of the beautiful girl who was so fondly attached to him ; it won't do to leave 
 off in this way — it would be a positive take-in and nothing else." 
 
 The reader may imagine with what eagerness I lifted up paper after paper in 
 search of something more concerning Adam Beech, and then, just as the full 
 sensation ot disappointment, accompanied by a large amount of downright vexation, 
 was coming over me, I found upon the outside of a packet, neatly fastened together 
 by tape, the following words : — 
 
 '* THE SEQUEL TO THE LIFE OF ADAM BEECH, THE BURGLAR, SHOWING HOW HE 
 CAME TO THE SCAFFOLD." J 
 
 "Bravo ! " I said, exultingly, " bravo ! here we have it." I could not control my 
 impatience, although then the timepiece that was on my chimney-piece had 
 warned me that I had got into the small hours of the morning, but, eagerly 6'pening 
 the papers, I found appended to the first sheet a small strip of paper, on which was 
 written — 
 
 "Three years have passed away since Adam Beech rescued Mary Phillips from 
 the custody of Madame Pompadour and the fat constable/' 
 Then I found that the narrative resumed thus. 
 
 ***** 
 
 What a storm! — what a roaring of wind !— -what dashing of rain, hail, sleet! 
 There, again, chimney-stacks totter, and even the firmest built houses seem affected 
 by the shock. It is a perfect hurricane, and it has now lasted two hours, or rather 
 more, shaking London almost to its very foundations, and spreading alarm and dismay 
 amongst its inhabitants. Old and young, rich and poor, gentle and simple, alike 
 thought that some awful catastrophe was now at hand, and that the vengeance of 
 Heaven was surely descending upon the fated city. Never had any living man seen 
 such a storm as that was. Some ran out in the streets^ thinking it would really be 
 unsafe to remain in their houses ; others, of a religious turn, assembled beneath the 
 porticoes of the churches, thinking, probably, that the storm would, at all events, be 
 sufficiently pious to spare those buildings, and one man stood beneath the portico 
 of Drury Lane Theatre, fully believing that the once Temple of the Drama (for 
 there was no Mr. Bunn then) would be protected against the elemental strife. 
 
 There's no accounting for people's different tastes and prejudices. 
 
 But the wind still blew in such frighful gusts that strong men found a diffi- 
 culty in getting round corners ; and such was the vehemence with which the sleet 
 and hail blew in people's faces, that the few people who were in the streets could not 
 ice such an attack. t 
 * In the neighbourhood of South wark, where there were a number of old, dilapidated 
 houses, a great amount of mischief was done; and the inhabitants of several of the 
 miserable habitations rushed out, crying that the houses were about to fall, for they 
 could feel the walls giving way, and hear the loose mortar rolling along the wood- 
 work. 
 
 There was one house, from the lower pait of wljich some abandoned -looking 
 characters hastily hurried, and repaired to a neighbouring tavern — leaving, as they 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 279 
 
 thought, the crazy habitation deserted ; for they all forgot that in one of the 
 topmost rooms a man and woman, with a young child, lodged ; or, if any did 
 remember the fact, they thought it more expedient to seem to forget it than to risk 
 their own lives by going up three pair of stairs to warn them that the house was not 
 considered safe. 
 
 But if the reader will clamber up with us the dark and narrow and shaking stair- 
 case, we will with him take a peep at the occupants of the most miserable-looking 
 attic the eye of man ever looked upon. 
 
 It was a long room, but of disproportionate width. The roof in one part was 
 straight, but in another it sloped down to within four feet of the floor — a most 
 inconvenient arrangement, because, if it slipped the memory of any one, in walking 
 across the apartment, asharp blow on the forehead was the certain consequence. The 
 window was composed of those wretched, greeenish-looking squares of glass cemented 
 together by lead-work, through which, even in broad daylight, and when all was 
 bright and clear without, but very feeble light struggled. The furniture — if we 
 may be really allowed to use such an expression concerning the miserable frag- 
 ments of articles that were in that place — was certainly of the most wretched 
 description. In one corner was a pallet bed, and there was a rickety-looking 
 table standing in the centre of the floor ; two broken chairs stood by the table, and 
 there was a blind by the miserable little skeleton grate, in which burned a few 
 pieces of green wood, near which sat the apparently sole occupant of the place. 
 
 That occupant was a female ; and, from her position, it would have been diffi- 
 cult for any one to see what she was, or even to hazard a guess her age. She 
 was meanly dressed, even to wretchedness, and she bent completely forward, with 
 her head resting upon her hands, and those again upon her knees ; so that, but for 
 a short hysterical sob, that now and then came from her lips, she might have been 
 thought dead. 
 
 But it' was evident that she was labouring under some deep and dreadful depres- 
 sion of mind. Her agony of spirit was more clearly evinced by the deep moans 
 which now and then came from her lips, and which, while they proclaimed the fact 
 of her existence, at the same time spoke most eloquently of misery. 
 
 And yet, one would hardly think that the despair of poverty, even, although it 
 might verge up-on absolute want, could produce that description of suffering. Those 
 moans which came from the mourner's heart were surely the result of some mental 
 affliction, against which the soul in vain struggled to support itself. 
 
 She remained in this state for a considerable time, heedless of the dashing storm 
 without, and probably caring nothing for the danger to which she was exposed, by 
 remaining in that dilapidated house, while such an elemental strife was proceeding 
 without. 
 
 Bat now, something suddenly occurred which aroused even her from the apathy 
 of despair which appeared to have seized upon her. The whole roof of the place 
 shook, and then succeeded a strange cracking noise, after which there was a frightful 
 pauae, of a moment's duration, and then-such a tremendous ciash^ that she started 
 to her feet with a scream of dismay, and flew to that miserable pallet bed, on which 
 slumbered a yoang babe, whom she now clasped to her breast, shrieking — 
 
 " Save us, Heaven, oh, save us, save us !" 
 
 Several minor sounds now succeeded to the loud crash which had so much 
 alarmed her, and then she felt conscious that, she was breathing a more dense 
 atmosphere than usual, and that a cloud of white dust was making its way through 
 the half-open door of the apartment. 
 
 This phenomenon, however, was but of short duration. The white dust settled on 
 the floor, and on the various wretched articles of furniture of which the room 
 might boast, after which nothing came upon her bit the continued ptlt of the rain, 
 and now and then peals of distant thunder, indicating that the storm was passing 
 away from London, after no doubt doing incalculable mischief. 
 
 The child had been awakened more probably by the mother's frantic caress, 
 than by the noise of which she yet had to hud the cause. The little stfeaturs 
 lung to her with terrified energy. She clasped it to her heart, she wept over it, she 
 
280 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 kissed the soft cheeks, and with murmured accents of tenderness, she again hushed 
 it to repose. 
 
 Then she rose, and the dim light of the caudle that had neaily burnt down to the 
 end, fell upon her countenance — it was the countenance of Mary Phillips! 
 
 Yes, this was the state and the condition of her whom we have already depicted 
 in the sweet spring-tide of her wondrous beauty, with her heart matured by an 
 affection that has been her destruction. There are still the traces of beauty upon 
 her wan cheek. Misery, wretchedness of every hue, of every kind, that she could be 
 made to suffer, has not succeeded in despoiling her of the form of loveliness, which, 
 under happier auspices, might have been a whole world's pride. 
 
 True, the cheeks had lost some of their soft roundness, the eyes no longer beamed 
 so brightly as of yore, but yet she was beautiful, and as she placed aside the 
 clustering hair from her brow, the same child-like and beautiful hand was visible, 
 that Adam Beech had held in his and gazed on with delight. 
 
 Now the babe slept, and Mary, taking the light in her hxnd, trod cautiously the 
 chamber-floor, and went out upon the landing. 
 
 A glance into the next apartment explained to her the cause of all the uproar 
 she had heard, and she shuddered to think what might have been the dreadful 
 consequences had she and her child inhabited that room. 
 
 A stack of chimneys had been thrown down by the storm, and had fallen through 
 the roof, and even burst a way through the flooring, which was rent to pieces, and 
 torn up as if a bomb-shell had exploded beneath it. She listened attentively, but 
 she heard not the least cry or sound indicative of any one being in suffering, so 
 she concluded no one had been in the room below, tuid she crept back again 
 to her own apartment, dismayed at the wreck she had witnessed, yet abundantly 
 thaukful in her heart that she and her little one had not been involved in the 
 frightful consequences of such an accident. 
 
 " He comes not home," ?he said, as she leant her head again upon her hands, 
 he comes not home. Oh ! Adam, Adam, it is cruel to leave me thus, so many 
 weary hours alone, very cruel, Adam ; and yet — yet — " she shuddered as she spoke, 
 "ought I to wish him home, as sometimes I see him — no, no, no. Oh, God, what 
 will be the end of all this V 
 
 These latter words she pronounced in shrieking accents, but the moment after 
 she checked herself, for she remembered that the child still slept. 
 
 f Hush ! oh, hush,'' she said, " I have yet something to live for, I have yet a 
 sacred duty to engage me. The babe — it shall not know so long as I can bear up 
 against the load of miseries that oppress me — it shall not know the want of a 
 mother's love. I may mourn, as God knows I do, that ever it opened those sweet 
 eyes upon such a world as this ; but since it is born, God forbid that strangers 
 should take the place towards it which a mother's love can only fill." 
 
 The hour was now one at which she ought to have been seeking rest, but she 
 was awaiting the arrival of Adam Beech, who was out on, she much feared, 
 some predatory and lawless expedition, along with a gang of the most desperate 
 ruffians of the metropolis, and she could not think of retiring to rest until he returned. 
 
 Many and many a night had she so sat up for Adam Beech, aye, even until the 
 soft light of morning had broken in upon her lonely watch, but she murmured not; 
 all she wished, as repayment for all she endured, was a kind word or a smile from 
 him ; but, alas, these she seldom got ! 
 
 Fearing now that he might yet be hours ere he arrived, and that she might drop 
 into sleep, and so not hear his advancing footstep, she took from a cupboard in the 
 apartment a tattered book of manuscript leaves ; it had been lent her by some one 
 in the house, in whose room the former occupant had committed suicide, and so 
 left all his worldly effects to the next comer, for the house was one that no landlord 
 ever ventured near ; it had been already condemned as dangerous. And so, 
 to while away the weary time, Mary Phillips lit up another candle and read — 
 
 There lived, some few miles from the great Bath road, a gentleman whose 
 estates stretched over many a mile ; he was considered immensely rich, though it 
 was known that his lands were heavily mortgaged, and that he had a great love 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 281 
 
 of gaming, at which he lost great sums of money, and yet he still went on and 
 none could understand it, but all supposed his estates bore the charge. ' 
 
 " He was a young man, scarce thirty ; he had, moreover, been many years on 
 the continent— he had travelled through France, Italy, and Spain ; in each of these 
 countries he had passed some time, so that he became somewhat familiar with the 
 habits and peculiarities of each. 
 
 " He was as well a sporting man, that is, according to the notion of the times, 
 especially in all such matters as related to feats of personal strength and endurance ; 
 he could ride well, and few men followed the hounds more frequently or more 
 regularly ; his stable was good, but the cattle that were bred in it was of the finest 
 description—some of the choicest horses that could be found in England were there 
 to be seen. 
 
 " What most surprised people was the number of his visitors, the frequency of 
 
 No. 36. 
 
282 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 his fetes, and the deep play he always seemed to be engaged in, and yet he always 
 paid his bets on the moment. 
 
 " He was quite a problem and a wonfer ; but at length people ceased to notice 
 it, it became too old and too obstinate an affair even for popular contention, and he 
 settled down into a thing that was. 
 
 " The house was surrounded by ornamental woods and plantations, lawns, and 
 park-like meadows, to a great distance, and the stabling was sheltered from the 
 wind by the shubbery behind. 
 
 " Many gentlemen came to Mr. Middleton's house, and remained there a few 
 days, and the frequency with which he gave gala parties drew around the neighbour- 
 hood some of the most noted highwaymen, who were not idle on these occasions. 
 
 "One above a 11 others was notorious for his courage, audacity, and skill with 
 which he committed deprecations to enormous amounts— he was known as the 
 Black Spectre. — for he wore more the appearance of a spectre than a human being. 
 
 '''He was broad and square as he sat en horseback ; he wore a long and wide 
 black cloak with a large hood, in which was enveloped his head ; he rode a black 
 horse of extraordinary power— he was the dread and terror of all men. 
 
 " On one occasion after dark a young nobleman, a visitor to Mr. Middleton's, 
 was riding towards the house, but when about two miles from it, he was suddenly 
 startled by the appearance of the black spectre, seated ©» horseback close to his 
 side. 
 
 " The stranger was startled, for he t ad not seen the approach of the black 
 horseman, and his sudden appearance by his side was quite unaccountable, on 
 ordinary principles, but he sat still without speaking, watching what next would be 
 the manoeuvre of the strange being who thus mysteriously appeared beside him. 
 
 " There wns, however, but little time for reflection, for the black horseman held 
 out his long and skinny hand ; it was all bone and sinew, and appeared as if 
 utterly devoid of flesh."' 
 
 u Your money!'* said a deep sepulchral voice, " your money !" 
 
 u And wherefore,"" inquired the young nobleman, " and wherefore would you 
 have my money V 
 
 " Because 1 demand it," said the figure. 
 
 " And I will not comply." 
 
 There was a dead pause for a few moments. The young nobleman being both 
 young and active, and seeing no other enemy at hand, determined to make a 
 resistance to the attempt, though he by no means felt that he was at all likely to 
 get the best of the affair. 
 
 "Do you know the penalty of disobedience?" inquired the black horseman. 
 
 "No, I cannot see who is to inflict any but yourself, and you know it is but 
 man to man." 
 
 " It is not so — you have no conception who I am — you know not what you pro- 
 voke—yon cannot conceive the death you will encounter — you are a dead man if 
 you resist." 
 
 " But I shall. I do not choose to part with what I have so readily as you may 
 imagine. Besides, I am provided with fnearmg, and you can have no more' — it is 
 but man to man." 
 
 As the young f hanger spoke, he pulled a beautiful pair of double-barrelled pistols 
 outofhis pocket, but, before he could cock them, the spectre horseman had wheeled 
 his horse round, and suddenly pressing his spurs to his flanks, caused him to leap 
 forward upon the flank and saddle of the stranger, who was instantly, horse and all, 
 flung to the earth with so much violence that he lay insensible and like one dead 
 — even the he#?e lay stunned, and the black spectre instantly dismounted, and, 
 after looking both up and down the road, proceeded to despoil him of all the cash 
 he had about h «m, which happened to be a considerable sum of money. Then, 
 wiih the quick: ess of thought, he sprung to his saddle, and rode away with great 
 rapidity; but 1 e had not ridden three hundred yards, before he met with another 
 adventure. Two farmers, or graziers, were coming along the road on their nags, 
 when he suddenly called upon them to halt. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 9 283 
 
 After a moment's pause they perceived their enemy, and seeing it was the 
 black horseman, they were terrified. 
 
 " Lor' ! neighbour Jones," said one, " do ye see that beast hi front? That's 
 the spectre — we are dead men !" 
 
 "We shall be bankrupt in pocket soon, I reckon," said the other; "I have 
 been robbed before now by that infernal machine — God knows what it is, I can't 
 tell ; but push on, we may escape somehow or other, and two may offer a 
 resistance, for he can fight like fury and don't care about shooting — not a bit — I 
 can tell you." v 
 
 " Oh, Lor' ! don't go to him, you'll be murdered ! * See, he's a living skeleton, 
 and he has pistols as long as my arm." 
 
 The other man did look up, and saw to his horror and amazement that the 
 spectre horseman had thrown his cloak open in froift, and there were the ghastly 
 white bones of his body ; his arms and his legs were to be seen in all their 
 hideous perfection ; his long arms were stretched out to the utmost, and seemed 
 unnaturally long, by the long horse-pistols that were levelled at the two country- 
 men. 
 
 Your money or your lives ! Choose at once." 
 "Ou'r lives — spare our lives!" they both called out at once, and at the same 
 moment they drew forth their purses, which they held out at arm's length towards 
 the spectre. 
 
 " Throw down your purses and return !" exclaimed the spectre horseman. 
 
 The two farmers did as they were desired, and glad enough were they for their 
 permission to return, for they set off at a gallop that would have done honour to 
 them in a race. The spectre dismounted, and taking the purses into his hand he 
 examined them, and taking the contents he threw them away, and then remounting, 
 he rode away. 
 
 These transactions could not occur without making some noise, but it was loss 
 than might have been imagined ; for there were but few who made any public 
 complaint, for many were unwilling to lose more than what they had lost, and said 
 nothing more about it, save to their friends, yet it was a notorious fact. 
 
 Many plans were devised to catch the horseman or spectre, but somehow they 
 all failed ; it was always remarked that when wanted he was not to. be had, but he 
 eluded all the vigilance they were capable of exerting upon the watch for him, 
 until the officers were mad with anger and vexation at being so often foiled in 
 their attempts to entrap and secure him. 
 
 There were so many robberies committed on this road, and for some miles on 
 either way, that people began to believe in the ubiquity of the spectre horseman — 
 he was a dread and a terror to all. 
 
 When the young stranger, who had been thrown down by the sudden charge of 
 the spectre horseman, recovered from his temporary swoon, he found he had 
 received no hurt save some bruises and contusions, and tlie loss of his money 
 which he had about him. 
 
 However, he got up, but found himself hardly able to stand, yet contrived to 
 get on his horse once more, for the animal was quietly grazing hy the roadside 
 after its overthrow; once more mounted, and he dashed onwards towards Mr. 
 Middleton's house. 
 
 Here he w r as received and welcomed by the owner of the house with all the 
 cordiality of a friend. 
 
 " How do you do, ray dear Sir Herbert? God bless me ! you look pale. Ah ! 
 I declare you have had a spill ; never mind a tumble, as long as no bones are 
 broken." 
 
 " I am terribly shaken." " 4 
 " Must expect it. But how did it happen V 
 
 "I have been stopped and robbed, aid by that infernally black spectre, or what 
 you call him," replied Sir Herbert. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that ; we have been quiet here some two or three weeks, 
 and I was hoping that we were going to be relieved of his odious presence for ever." 
 
284 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " I can as.-ure you I intended to resist him, but he made such a sudden charge 
 upon me that I was overthrown, and down I went like a stone, and this is all I 
 saw of the matter." 
 
 " By Jove! it was a mercy you were not killed. I am glad to see you — very 
 glad to see you — come, though too late for dinner, we shall have supper, so sit 
 down, I dare say you are shaken." 
 
 " I am ; but permit them to look at the horse, and then I shall be satisfied, for 
 my horse is a valuable one, and a favourite." 
 
 " I wonder he did not get maimed." 
 
 " There can be no doubt about that. I must write to London for cash this 
 evening, if you will give me the means P" 
 
 "With pleasure/' said Mr. Middleton; " I have a few affairs to look too— 
 there are writing materials for you, and you can write while I set about other 
 matters — which will be convenient to both." 
 
 So saying Mr. Middleton quitted the apartment, and he was not seen for an hour 
 afterwards, when a sumptuous supper appeared, and then his host entered dressed 
 for the occasion. 
 
 " I understand," he said, <• that the black horseman is about in earnest, for he 
 has been heard of by several people." 
 
 " Indeed ! has any one else suffered in the same manner r" 
 
 41 Oh, yes; so you have the consolation of knowing that you are not alone in 
 your disaster. You have companj*, and you may be easily excuted for being upset 
 when two men were robbed at once." 
 
 " Indeed! and could they not resist?" 
 
 " They were two farmers and grazier?. I suppose they were able, but did not 
 possess the courage.''' 
 
 " Have you ever met him r " 
 Never.'' 
 
 " Then you have yet to be introduced to the gentleman's company ; but if ever 
 I see him again I wili shoot him without speaking a word, and so 1 shall have a 
 chance of settling him, that is, if he comes, if not, there's no chance." 
 
 " Exactly, that's very true; but I suppose my turn will come next — no matter 
 — I am well satisfied, so long as I have the good luck to escape, so that I need 
 not be in any danger of mortal fight with such a champion." 
 
 " It is as well, but I will not be punished in this way for no object than of 
 filling a highwayman's pocket. What is the motive of his putting on such a dress V 
 
 " I really don't know." 
 
 " It was "strange and unearthly ; you would imagine that it was some old monk 
 revived and set on horseback, or a more proper expression would be, the devil on 
 horseback." 
 
 " Some say about here it is the devil, for no human being could do the same 
 things that he is accused of doing ; he is quite a terror to these parts, ard he takes a 
 great deal of money, I am informed— and many will insist that he is supernatural." 
 
 " Pooh ! no more supernatural than you or I. I wish he had been ; I should 
 not have been iuii against so hard but for that ; had it been a thing of spirituality, 
 he would have come soft, but as it was there was too much blood and bone as any 
 one man would desire to be against him. I am resolved the next time we meet we 
 shall not part so easily as we did on this occasion." 
 
 Mr. Middleton smiled but made no reply ; he turned the conversation upon some 
 other matters, and expatiated upon the beauty of the country and the extent of his 
 estates, and the excellence of the hunting, shooting, and fishing, and promised 
 Sir Herbert some good sport and amusement. 
 
 "As for your disaster in coming here," he said, " I regret it, but it is a matter 
 beyond my control ; however, I will endeavour to make some amends to you for 
 that, by making your stay as pleasant as I can.'"* 
 
 " I shall not allow such a trifle to disturb my equanimity, I assure you," replied 
 Sir Hubert. * { I shall endeavour to make myself very comfortable, and I expect it 
 wili be my own fault if I be not." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 285 
 
 11 That is as may be, of course," replied Mr. Middleton ; but I will endeavour 
 to show you over the country to-morrow ; but, for the evening, I must now bid you 
 good night ! I dare say you are fatigued with your journey and adventure to-day." 
 
 " I am," said Sir Herbert, yawning. 
 
 *' You must have been up early? " remarked Middleton. 
 
 " I was unusually so for me ; I got up at nine and have ridden some miles and 
 have been upset by* a highwayman, and, taking all things into consideration, I am 
 of opinion that I have done enough for one day — I really am tired." 
 
 " Have one more glass and a bumper? " 
 
 " With all my heart," said Sir Herbert, " and a toast too." 
 
 Mr. Middleton filled up two large glasses with claret, and then, raising his glass 
 up, he said — "Success to the bold ! " 
 
 " With all my heart," said Sir Herbert, repeating the words ; "give me a rogue 
 any day before a fool." 
 
 " So say I. Good night ! " 
 
 The two gentlemen shook hands and then parted for the evening. 
 
 ****** * * 
 
 The sun had risen several hours next day, before either Sir Herbert or Mr. 
 Middleton, got up, but the former was the first to rise ; and to dissipate the yawns 
 he walked out into the grounds, and he could not but admire all he saw. 
 
 " Where is my horse ?" he inquired of the groom ; " 1 wish to look at him— he 
 had a bad fall yesterday." 
 
 " He is here, sir," said the groom, " in the stable, and is not hurt at all ; but 
 safe and sound." 
 
 " Let me see him," said Sir Herbert. 
 
 " Certainly, sir. Will you come this way?" 
 
 Sir Herbert followed the stableman whom he had asked the question concerning 
 his horse, to the large range of stables that had been built expressly with regard 
 to the health and comfort of the horses. 
 
 " You have fine stables here," said Sir Herbert. 
 
 i( Aye, we have indeed, Sir Herbert. Many a poor man would consider himself 
 lodged like a prince in them ; but they are good, and horses do well in this place. 
 They live well, and so they ought." 
 
 ** You have good locks " 
 
 " Yes, Sir Herbert, the keys are always taken into the house to master at seven 
 o'clock. Nobody enters the stable after that hour, unless master does so, or sends 
 one of us to go there, or something out of the usual way happens, so they never 
 get disturbed." 
 
 " A very excellent plan. I see the stable is surrounded by a plantation— at 
 least, behind." 
 
 w Yes, sir, it keeps the wind off." 
 So it does. Well, this is a handsome place," said Sir Herbert, entering the 
 stable, and looking around it. There were large stalls, and a walk down between 
 them ; the roof was high, well lighted, and good ventilation, by means of a 
 thorough draft through the top, leaving the lower part free from any current of air. 
 
 "Which is my horse?" inquired Sir Herbert. 
 
 " There, in the corner, as whole and sound as you could wish him to be." 
 
 Sir Herbert walked up to his horse and took the cloth off, and carefully examined 
 the animal, but he saw no mark whatever : he had not suffered in any way from 
 the fall he had received, though his master could not say as much for himself for 
 he was bruised sadly in many places, and expected he should not get over it for a 
 week or two. 
 
 "You have some fine horses here," said Sir Herbert. " I never saw better in all 
 my life. You have any colour you please, I see ; for you have all sorts." 
 " Yes, sir, our master will have good cattle." 
 
 " You have four or five blacks ; why, he's fond of Mack ; and yet it is a colour 
 that is not often coveted. I have seen but very fc*v i^.ses, except cavalry horses 
 that have been of this colour." 
 
286 
 
 NEWGATE 
 
 " No, sir; and yet, to my mind, black horses, somehow or other, don't do in 
 this stable." 
 
 " Why not?" inquired Sir Herbert. 
 
 " Don't know, sir, can't tell ; and yet I have a strong fancy upon the subject ; 
 there's alway's something wrong about them." 
 f Indeed ! What do you meanV 
 
 " I can't tell, sir ; some on 'em is always sure to have got into a sweat during 
 the night, and yet there isn't a cooler stable anywhere than we have here ; we have 
 plenty of light and air, and plenty of ioom, and yet, for all that, I have noticed, 
 when I come in of a morning, that some one of those black horses have been a 
 sweating." 
 
 " That is very strange." 
 
 " It is strange ; because, you see, it is sometimes one and sometimes another, 
 and they seem tired and fatigued, as though they had been ridden fast and far ; 
 sometimes it's one and sometimes another, and then they seem as if they had been 
 pricked in the side by a spur." 
 
 " That's very strange, too," remarked Sir Herbert, who walked towards the black 
 horses. 
 
 There's one on 'em now, sir," said the groom ; "or I should say two, one worse 
 than the other ; but they have sweated. There, this is the worst, though not bad." 
 
 " No, it is not bad, and has been cleaned since it was out of the stable ; it must 
 be a stable sweat." 
 
 " Yes, it must; but I can't understand why a black horse, that is, five black 
 horses, should sweat, sometimes one and sometimes another ; and at the same time 
 no other horse of any other colour should ever have a stable sweat, though, perhaps, 
 .standing in the next stall." 
 
 " Well, that is very odd ; that horse is a very poweiful one," said Sir Herbert, 
 " very powerful ; and I'll be sworn she is a good leaper, sir, and will jump at 
 anything; she has had a bit of a sweat, but not much ; that one has had a tidy 
 sweating during the night." 
 
 M So I see. Have you said anything to Mr. Middleton about it?" 
 
 " I did once, sir." 
 
 " And what did he appear to think of it V 
 
 " He laughed at it, and told me to mind my own business, and he would take 
 care of the health of his horses, at least, if they didn't do well here they wouldn't 
 do so anywhere." 
 
 " Well, that was reasonable enough, and yet sweating is not a good thing for a 
 horse in the stable." 
 
 " That's just what I say." 
 
 Sir Herbert looked long at the black horse, and then round the stable, and after 
 some thought he said to the groom — 
 
 " Is it not possible that the horse might be taken out after he is delivered up to 
 Mr. Middleton?" 
 
 "Lor', no, sir ; that wouldn't be at all likely, because some on us must know 
 it — they couldn't get a horse across the yard without some' on us knowing it — I 
 am sure of that — it's not to be done at any price — I can't make it out at all." 
 
 Sir Herbert seemed puzzled, and the man scratched his head, and after some 
 hesitation said — 
 
 " I'll tell you what, sir, is my opinion — you may laugh and think me foolish, 
 but I think it will be hard to find a better answer to this strange affair than 
 any other." 
 
 4< And what may your answer be, then ?" inquired Sir Herbert. j 
 * 6 I think it must be either the spectre horseman or the devil get into the 
 
 stable of a night and worry them to death ; that's my opinion, and 1 aiut the 
 
 only one as thinks so." 
 
 Sir Herbert looked at the horse and again at the stable, but seemed unable to 
 
 make any step towards a definite conclusion'; but he said nothing more upon the j 
 
 subject, and merely walked over the stable, and he looked at the cattle very j 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 carefully, and declared he never saw a finer collection of cattle, though he had seen 
 individual horses that might have excelled them, but not as a whole. 
 
 He then returned, and was met by a servant, who came with an especial message 
 from Mr. Middieton that breakfast was ready, and that he would be glad of his 
 company if at leisure. 
 
 At once, upon the receipt of this message, he went to the breakfast-room, a 
 handsomely fitted- up apartment, and there he met his host, who welcomed him with 
 much cordiality, and hoped he slept well. 
 
 " Very well, indeed ; but I rose a little earlier than usual, and have been to see 
 my horse, for 1 feared he had betn injured by the fall he had had yesterday ; but 
 fortune favoured me so far, he has not been hurt, and is as well as he could be." 
 
 " I'm glad of that ; it would have been more annoying to have a good horse 
 injured in such a manner than to lose money." 
 
 " Yes ; I would sooner lose money than horses; you may replace he one but 
 not the other, for a good horse is invaluable. I have paid dearly for an indifferent 
 horse before now." 
 
 " And so have 1," returned Mr. Middieton. " Not so much in pocket as person, 
 for I have had as many falls as most men ; and a fall from a bad horse is, 1 think, 
 worse than from a good one, though both are bad enough." 
 
 " They are. You have some fine black horses ?" 
 
 " I have all capital field horses." 
 
 " So I should say. They appear as if they could jump about — good wind and 
 limb, when you come to look at them." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I ride after the hounds with them ; they are safe and sure horses, 
 and will last well through ; they have not the speed of some of the others, else I 
 would never ride any other." 
 
 " I am surprised at that, too, for I should have imagined they were capable of 
 almost anything, either in pace or fence." 
 
 " They are good in both, or I would not have them," answered Mr. Middieton, 
 "being more famous at fencing than racing." 
 
 * * * # * * ' 
 
 The days passed by rapidly, and with much pleasure. The recollection of the 
 spectre horseman would have died away, but for the constant recurrence of his 
 name from every mouth, as there was scarce a person who had not more or less 
 suffered from him. He was a perfect terror of the whole neighbourhood. 
 
 After a time Sir Herbert expressed his thanks for his host's courtesy, and declared 
 he must return to London, where he had business to attend to, but he would return 
 again in a few days, 
 
 " I cannot imagine," he said, " why I have received no remittance. I have made 
 a purchase of a horse, and must go to town to obtain the money ; the fact is, I 
 have a couple of hundred in hard cash by me in a drawer, and I am anxious to 
 obtain it." 
 
 " You are welcome to my purse." 
 
 " Don't mention it. I will be back in three days." 
 
 "I shall be happy to see you, and shall expect you," replied Mr. Middieton ; 
 and, after some mutual congratulations, they parted, Mr. Middieton riding a part 
 of the way with him, until he got to the next town. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was towards sunset that Sir Herbert rode out from the town where, in his 
 progress to London, Mr. Middieton had accompanied him; but now he was on his 
 downward progress towardsMr. Middleton's mansion, where he purposed spending 
 several days at least. 
 
 Sir Herbert rode alone, but he was wary and cautious; he had money about 
 hirn, and he feared he should again encounter the black horseman, and rode well 
 armed. He was not disappointed in his expectations ; for, when within an hour's 
 ride of Mr. Middleton's/Sir Herbert, again encountered the black horseman ; but it 
 was lafe and dark, yet he could plainly enough see his enemy, and he gazed at him 
 ,ong and steadily. 
 
 28 7 
 
288 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " There is no resemblance in form or size," muttered Sir Herbert. 
 " Your money \" demanded the spectre, in the deep tones he had heard him 
 speak in before. 
 
 "I have none to part with this time," replied Sir Herbert, " and, at the same time, 
 he levelled and fired at his antagonist, who moved not a muscle, but merely said — 
 " That is u&eless against me. Give me your money." 
 
 The only answer Sir Herbert made was the discharge of the second barrel ; but as 
 his horse was not so steady as he was before the first shot, his aim was not so good ; 
 but he had scarcely done so before he received a shot which struck him, and then a 
 blow from the butt of a pistol laid him low, and the black horseman dismounted 
 and seized him. 
 
 Sir Herbert, however, did not give in ; but, as he lay, he inflicted a deep wound 
 with his knife in the sinews of the arm, and one across the face. 
 
 Another blow from ti:e butt of the pistol, and a shot through the ribs, was his 
 reward, and having taken his money, he remounted, and galloped off, leaving Sir 
 Herbert for dead on the road. 
 
 Sir Herbert, however, was shortly afterwards picked up and carried to an inn, 
 where he was duly attended to, and was pronounced to be badly hurt, but not very 
 dangerously so ; he was well enough to be carried to Mr. Middleton 1 !;, from which 
 he was not very far distant. 
 
 Mr. Middleton was ill, but sent his compliments to him, and was too unwell to 
 see him, as he had had a fall from a horse, and had received a kick, but should be 
 able to see him, he hoped, in a day or two. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 In a day or two more Mr. Middleton attended the bed-side of Sir Herbert, and 
 declared he was glad to see him ; that he was fast recovering himself, and hoped 
 Sir Herbert was too. 
 
 Mr. Middleton was slightly lame, and had a small scar upon his face, and that 
 was all, and it was fast wearing away, and he declared he was only slightly hurt by 
 a scrape of the horse shoe. 
 
 " Well," said Sir Heiberr, " I have had another encounter with the black 
 highwayman, and have had the-worst of it this time, but I'll have better luck if I 
 have the fortune to meet him again ; but of that I very much doubt." 
 
 " I hope you may. You would deserve the thanks of the country for the 
 service you will have performed ; he is quite a pest in this part of the world, and 
 he would be well rid of at any price." 
 
 * * * * * * ' * 
 
 Sir Herbert got slowly well, and he had a servant from London to attend upon 
 him. When he had been there about three weeks, he walked about, partially 
 restored to health, and he was often in the stables, making inquiries and searching 
 over the place, and round about the stables and at the back, in the wood, when he 
 discovered a door and horse-marks on the soil around. 
 
 Determined to ascertain the nature of the mystery he had so much evidence of, 
 he sent his groom with a note to a public-house, where a couple of powerful- 
 looking men were stationed ; the one took the note, and, after reading it, said he 
 would attend to it. 
 
 The same evening a party of four lay in some copse about the door of the stable 
 that led into it from the plantation. He waited and watched many hours, but 
 they saw nothing, and had almost given up the watch, when they heard the 
 approach of a single horseman. 
 
 w Now/' said Sir Herbert, " secure him when he dismounts." 
 
 The figure came riding along cautiously enough, and stopped at the door, which 
 it opened with a key ; but before he could enter the whole party were on him, and 
 after a most desperate struggle, and several shots were fired by the black horseman, 
 he succeeded in eluding them, leaving his dress and part of his apparel in their 
 hands. 
 
 They were sorely wounded, and he was seriously hurt, but he was identified, 
 and they had secured the horse, some pistols, and dress, and it was only by the 
 
NEWGATE 
 
 289 
 
 exertion of superhuman efforts that he could escaps from men as big and apparently 
 
 ^ There wa^no^sort of doubt as to who the black horseman was, and* that 
 knowledge was rendered more certain by the report of a pistol within the stable. 
 The household were alarmed, and the stables examined, where the body of the 
 unfortunate and misguided Mr. Middleton had breathed its last, for he had shot 
 himself through the head, and thus died the terror of the Bath-road, the Black 
 or Spectre Horseman. 
 
 > Now, suddenly Mary Phillips heard a footstep upon the staircase, and she 
 listened for a few moments attentively. 
 
 " 'Tis he, 'tis he," she exclaimed ; " he comes— Adam Beech !" 
 
 She flung down the book she had been reading, and sprang to the stair-head. 
 
 " Adam I" she cried, " Adam — Adam ! It is you !" 
 
 "The answer was an oath, and the tone of voice in which it was spoken at 
 once proclaimed a state, intimating which, alas ! it was not unusual for him now to 
 
 No. 37. 
 
290 NEWGATE- 
 
 return liome in. She tottered back into the room, and sitting down again, she 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 Adam Bee,ch stumbled up the staircase, coising at every step. Since he had 
 last been in the company of the reader he has pursued the most desparate career 
 that any individual in a short space of time could have continued. The demon of 
 Drink had completely laid hold of him, and from being the bold, adventurous, 
 scheming, quick-witted lad he was when we first presented him to observation, he 
 had become the drunken sot — the low ruffian, despised by those whom he might 
 have governed ; and so debased, mentally and physically, that there was now not 
 the smallest chance of his ever becoming other than what he was. 
 
 And who can paint the agony with which Mary Phillips had noted this change 
 in him? Who can detaii all that she, with a devoted affection that had been her 
 destruction, had done to rescue him from the dread abyss down which he madly 
 plunged? No one, no one — language could not convey one tittle cf the heart's 
 agony she endured ; the situation in which she is may say something for it, but 
 that is all. Friends have died ; she had deserted all for him, and what was 
 her reward? Poor, poor Mary Phillips, surely some evil star beamed upon your 
 birth, for in your destruction, the best and most beautiful of God's creatures fell. 
 
 Nearer, nearer comes the intoxicated burglar ; she can hear him stumbling on — ■ 
 she can hear the coarse and bitter oaths that he utters, and she trembles, — she 
 moves the chair on which she sits close to the pallet bed, that she may protect the 
 child ; and then, with her eyes riveted on the door, she waited the arrival of him 
 who had been the greatest and only enemy the world ever presented to her in the 
 guise of loving-kindnesg. Now he has reached the door, and after several blundering 
 efforts to do so he succeeded in opening it, and staggered into the wretched 
 apartment, which, however, might by the pure and holy light of gentle affection, 
 such as Mary Phillips would fain have shed around it, been made to appear 
 beautiful. But what could she do in the face of such a gigantic evil as 
 intemperance — an evil which incapacitates those who indulge in it to listen to the 
 voice- of affectionate remonstrance, and in the course of time annihilates every 
 faculty of the mind ? 
 
 " What, the devil have you got to eat ? * said Adam Beech, as he flung himself into 
 one of the chairs that were by the table. " No, damn it, I don't mean to eat, I 
 mean to drink — ah ! what have you got to drink? " 
 
 " Nothing, Adam," sobbed Mary, " nothing." 
 
 ''Nothing, be damned ! This is a nice way to receive a man when he comes 
 home, to tell him there's nothing! '' 
 
 " But, Adam, I have no means of getting anything, and I have, myself, fasted 
 since the middle of the day." 
 
 "Oh, yes, begin grumbling, do; that's the way always, of couise. Growl, 
 growl ; 1 knew you would begin as soon as I came in.'* 
 
 " Adam, Adam, have I ever uttered one word of complaint ? You know I have 
 not ; aud in your heart you cannot construe the remonstrances which I have urged 
 upon you to alter your course of life, into complaints. No, Adam, no ; you know 
 that 1 have not, for my own sake, said one word but for you, *idam, but for you 
 and that dear little one." 
 
 " Oh, don't bother me about the brat." 
 
 f* Adam, Adam, but that I see you, and know that it is you to whom I speak, I 
 should doubt the evidence of my own senses. Can you look back on what you once 
 were, and contrast it for a moment with what you now are, Adam Beech V 
 
 " Look back % I don't want to look back. Give me something to drink." 
 
 Mary had risen, but she shrunk back again, and kneeling by the side of the bed 
 she sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 
 " That's it," cried Beech, pas.-ionately ; "that's always the way now, if I come 
 home in the best of humours ; there's nothing but snivelling and crying. Hark 
 you, Mary, I won't have it. Do you understand me? There's half-a-crown ; 
 look pleasant, and go for some brandy." 
 
 " No, Adam," she cried, as she rose ; " no, I will not go for that bane to you 
 
NEWGATE. 231 
 
 — that unholy poison, which has made you what you are — which has transformed 
 you from the idol of my fondest affections into the wretch I now find you. I say, 
 Adam Beech* I cannot, will not, dare not tamper so far with my own conscience 
 as to fetch you what you require." 
 " You will not ?" 
 
 " I — I cannot, Adam. Oh ! you loved me once, and I have heard from your 
 lips tender and gentle accents ; Adam, I have seen you smile but to look upon me ; 
 you have called me by such endearing epithets that I have told myself the love that 
 could concoct them must surely be eternal. Adam, dear, dear Adam, you cannot 
 but remember the once happy past." 
 
 " Curses on the past, and you too 1" 
 
 u No, no, Adam, Adam, you do not mean that. Tell me you spoke hastily, or 
 that it was but a cruel jest, and I will think of it no more. Dear Adam, you do love 
 me still, and you will turn to a better mode of life than this. We will go some- 
 where that we are not known, and where, by honest, cheerful labour, Adam, we 
 may live so happy that we shall look back upon our present state only as some 
 dreadful dream, and thank Heaven that it has passed away." 
 
 She clung to him, she knelt by him, and looked up in his face beseechingly. 
 He raised his hand — God of Heaven, can it be? — Yes, yes — he struck her !" 
 
 She uttered not a word, but with a shudder she rose, and walked slowly to the 
 bed, on which still slept the babe ; she took it in her arms, and moved slowly to 
 the door. 
 
 " Oh ! you are going now," he said, " are you ? You have thought better of it, 
 and you are going at last." 
 
 " Yes ; I am going," she said, faintly. 
 
 In another moment the door closed upon her — she had gone with the babe. 
 Slowly and sorrowfully she crept down the staircase. She did not weep, but the 
 expression of her countenance was of that despair which is too deep for tears. 
 The rain was still descending rapidly, and as she walked out into it she gathered 
 her scanty shawl closely around the child, and still shuddering, but saying nothing, 
 she walked slowly on. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Adam Beech, the ruffian — he whom drink had transformed from what the ' 
 reader once knew him to what he now is — sat alone in the wretched attic awaiting 
 the return of Mary Phillips, but she came not. Half an hour, an hour passed 
 away, and still she came not. Then he began to think that in truth she had left 
 him. It was not the first time that he had actually raised his hand against her, and 
 when he began to sober down a little, and to reflect upon what he had done, and 
 upon the look she had given him as she passed out of the room, he felt convinced 
 that his suspicions were but too true, and that he had seen the last of her. 
 
 " Curses on me for a fool ! " he said ; " I've gone too far now — much too far. 
 What will she do ? — where will she go? — what — what will become of her? Stop, 
 s;uj5 — I had forgotten— quite forgotten — there's blood about me, I am certain! 
 Oh ! yes — here, upon the wristband of my shirt ! I know that I felt it come over 
 me. People should not resist a desperate man. When they do, they must take all 
 they get, of course. I must, however, destroy this evidence of — of — murder! 
 Well — murder! I am not afraid of a name! Call it murder ! What care IV' 
 
 He tore the wristband, which was positively soaked with human gore, off his 
 shirt-sleeve, and cast it into the fire, amongst the dying embers that were still 
 smouldering there ; and then he took a careful survey of himself, to ascertain if 
 there were any further positive marks about him of the deed of blood he had that 
 night committed. 
 
 " All's right/' he said, " all's right. That's settled, and I am set up with 
 money, at all events, for a few weeks longer. What's that ? — what's that ?— a 
 footstep on the stairs! Oh, she's altered her mind and come back, of course. It's 
 Mary Phillips. Her step is so light, it always sounds like some one creeping along 
 and tjying to make no noise." 
 
 Buihtiil he listened with some amount of anxiety. He felt how much conscience 
 
292 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 doth make cowards of us all ; and, when the sound of footsteps ceased, he became 
 more alarmed than at their continuance, and produced a pistol from his pocket as 
 he rose and faced the door. 
 
 « Who's there V he cried — " who's there V* 
 
 No one answered, and he felt a strong objection to going to look. 
 
 " Oh !" he said, " it must be Mary, perhaps playing with my fears. Who else 
 can it be ? I know I got off clear enough from where I have been — I'm quite sure 
 of that. There's no danger — not the least. I'm a fool to think there can be. 
 Damn it ! I wish I had some brandy to chase away these "vagaries with. How 
 the rain comes down, to be sure!" 
 
 But strange to say, although he thus abandoned his own fears, he yet 
 kept the pistol ready for immediate use, and never for a moment did he withdraw 
 his eyes from the door of the apartment, which he expected momentarily to open. 
 This was a state of suspense of too painful a character to be long endured, and he 
 found that his only way to end it would certainly be to go and look out into the 
 landing. 
 
 It took him some time — that man who had been bad enough and bold enough to 
 commit a murder — to screw his courage up sufficiently to enable him to go to the 
 room door and open it. A strong presentiment was upon his mind that something 
 was about to happen of a character not at all agreeable to him. But yet he suffered 
 so much from the dreadful anxiety of suspense, and besides he found the 
 absolute necessity for drink, that he must open the door, so he advanced for that 
 purpose. 
 
 The pistol was in his right hand, the door opened inwards, and he turned 
 the handle of the lock with his left, and flung it quite wide. On the moment, 
 a man rushed upon him, and clasped him round the middle, exclaiming— 
 
 " Now Godfrey, on with the darbies, and we have him." 
 
 "Not yet," shouted Beech ; and he turned the muzzle of the pistol against the 
 officer's side, and pulled the trigger. A shriek followed, and for a moment Adam 
 Beech was free ; but the second officer, seeing what had befallen his comrade, 
 raised a stick he had, at the end of which was a lump of lead of about a quarter of 
 a pound weight, and with one blow he struck down Adam Beech into a state of 
 perfect insensibility* 
 
 He then clapped a pair of handcuffs upon him, although such a precaution then 
 seemed to be quite a work of supererogation, for he did not stir hand or foot. His 
 next care was to look to his wounded comrade, who could not speak, but only 
 glared wildly about him, aud held both his hands clasped over a frightful wound in 
 his side. 
 
 " Don't move," laid the officer who was uninjured, " don't move, I'll run and 
 fetch a surgeon to you. There's not a soul in the house—I'll be as quick as 
 1 can." 
 
 The wounded man followed the other with his eyes to the door, and then he 
 slightly shuddered, and gave a gasping sort of sob, which brought up a quantity of 
 blood from his lungs. "God! oh God !" he said, and in another moment he was 
 a corpse. And there lay together in that wretched apartment the dead officer and 
 the insensible Adam Beech. 
 
 There lay the thief and his detector — the two antagonising principles in society — 
 each to all outward seeming dead, although one of them only in reality had passed 
 through the portals of the tomb. 
 
 Yet to all outward seeming Adam Beech looked dead. The blood was trickling 
 from his brow, and there was about the fixed and rigid aspect of his features much 
 that spoke of the presence of the destroyer. Half an hour nearly elapsed before 
 the sound of footsteps came upon the staircase, and then the door of the room 
 was carefully opened, and several men appeared upon the threshold. 
 
 There is always something about the presence of death which appals those who 
 do not scruple, in the mere ordinary routine of duty, to inflict it. It is strange, but 
 not less strange than true, that the same man who feared not the living lorm, will 
 shrink from it with a superstitious horror when it is no more. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 293 
 
 And this he will do, although he himself has let out from the corporeal frame 
 that divine spirit, that electric spark from Heaven, which has imparted vitality to 
 what without it is but a dull, heavy, inert mass. 
 
 " Come on," whispered one, " all is still — come on, come on — hang me if I 
 thought I had hit him hard enough to keep him quiet half this time." 
 
 Then shading a light with his hands this man, accompanied by the others, 
 walked fairly into the apartment of Adam Beech. They raised the head of the 
 dead man for a moment, and then they felt quite certain he was no more. They 
 tied a handkerchief over his face and laid him down gently upon the miserable 
 pallet bed that was in the apartment. 
 
 " He is gone," said one, " I didn't think this would have been the end of him ; 
 but if this fellow aint dead already, and I cannot bring myself to think that he is, 
 he'll swing for what he has done to-night." 
 
 At this moment it was that Adam Beech gave signs of recovery. He made a 
 vain but yet a frantic effort to free his hands from the handcuffs which held them, 
 and then he burst forth with such frightful oaths and imprecations, that even the 
 officers, who were certainly not accustomed to the most genteel society, stood aghast 
 to hear him. 
 
 But a few moments sufficed to let him see and understand his real position. 
 Along with a pain in his head from the blow he had received from the officers, that 
 "was almost enough to drive him mad, he became aware that he was a prisoner, and 
 then he knew that his career was completely at an end — that his doom was sealed, 
 and that the short, feverish life of crime that he had led, had nearly reached its to- 
 be-expected climax. 
 
 He was silent and passive, as the officers not very gently— for they felt resent- 
 ment for the death of their comrade — raised him to his feet. 
 " Can you walk V cried one. 
 
 An oath was the reply, accompanied by an attempt with his manacled hands to 
 strike the officer who asked the question. 
 
 '* Ah V said the latter, " you are a nice nut for the devil to crack, you are, Adam 
 Beech. We have had our eyes upon you for some time ; why, you haven't had 
 what we call a long innings — it aint a wonderful time ago since you cracked your 
 first crib." 
 
 " No," said another, " 1 recollect the row about it, it was Lamont's, the banker, 
 at Westminster, and it was thought that old Isaacson hid him somewhere." 
 
 A sudden thought seemed to strike Adam Beech, and his countenance changed as 
 he looked eagerly around the room. 
 
 " What now V* said one of the officers. 
 
 u Where — where is she ? Mary— Mary, come forth — where are you ? I was mad, 
 I think ; perhaps it was a dream. Mary, where are you? did— did I really lift my 
 hand against you?" 
 
 " Not a doubt about it, you're beauty enough foranything, you fre. But come 
 along, will you ? there's no Mary here, so you needn't think to gammon us in that 
 way." 
 
 " Mary ! Mary !" cried Adam Beech, frantically ; " tell me you forgive me. 
 Mary, do you want to drive me mad ? They are dragging me to the gallows ! one 
 word — one look of old kindness before we part for ever — Mary!" 
 
 " Damned if I don't think he's a saying something out o' some play. But we 
 can't waste our precious time, and I'm "as dry as dust, that's a fact/* 
 
 " Yes," said the officer who had originally come to apprehend Beech, " now, 
 the fact is, that this is a condemned house, and the storm of to -night has given it 
 such a shaking that even the rats have lett it. I met a dozen of them slinking 
 from the door-way." 
 
 "The devil you did ! Then the house won't hold together long." 
 
 Urged onwards by their own fears of the crazy nature of the building, the 
 officer now, in a few moments, led their prisoner into the street, and at a quick 
 pace took him to Newgate at once, where they intended lodging him for security, 
 as was frequently then the custom when a criminal was taken whose reputation 
 
294 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 for escape was great, and who could not be considered in safe keeping in any of 
 the numerous watch-houses in London. 
 
 During the walk a deep despondency seemed to come over Beech, his head 
 drooped upon his breast, and now and then he uttered a deep sigh, all of which 
 greatly surprised the officer, who, from such a man, expected a very different line of 
 conduct. 
 
 But they little knew what agonizing thoughts found a home in the breast of ' 
 the burglar. They knew not how, now that he stood so near eternity as he knew 
 he did, his thoughts had flown back to the past with a vehemence that almost 
 drove him mad. In his mind's eye he could see the destroyed, suffering, patient 
 Mary — he could see her clinging to him and praying for but one word of affection ; 
 and then he knew he had struck her, and he saw the last look, which she had cast 
 upon him, as the door of the apartment closed upon her. 
 
 He remembered what she was, and he remembered what he had made her — 
 dreadful retrospection ! 
 
 The usual formalities of a prisoner's introduction to Newgate were gone through, 
 and there was not an official in the place who did not press forward to take a 
 look at the housebreaker who, in an incredibly short space of time, had contrived 
 to make himself most notorious. 
 
 After undergoing this ordeal he was placed in a cell, and told, mockingly, that 
 he would be forgiven if he got out of it. Some prison fare was left him, and then 
 Adam Beech was alone. 
 
 The death of the officer was, undoubtedly, now the most clear and distinct 
 crime which Adam Beech could be charged of ; his criminality in that respect there 
 was ample and undeniable evidence, and as that was a crime which would be such 
 as he would have to answer for with his life, short work was likely to be made of 
 him at the Old Bailey. 
 
 But there he was alone, in darkness — in a cell, the walls of which he could touch 
 as he sat in the centre of it, by holding out his hands, which had been released from 
 the handcuffs, as the Newgate officials relied upon the strength of their walls. 
 There he was left to think — to drive himself mad, by a remembrance of the last 
 five years of his brief existence. 
 
 And now slowly there seemed to come past him, like some moving picture, all 
 the scenes of the past. He saw himself a boy taken to his uncle, in Long Acre, 
 to be industrious, and told that, if he was so, he would, when the old man was 
 gone, succeed to the business. Then he saw his first robbery, with all its acces- 
 sories. He plunged his hand into the till at the counter, and took an uncounted 
 mass of silver. 
 
 He saw himself then waiting for Mary Phillips, and watching the waning lights 
 in the windows of Madame Pompadour's house. He had bought with his first 
 robbery a piece of girlish finery, which he wished to present to her; and now, as 
 if she was present, he again heard the soft voice, in. which she told him she thanked 
 him, but could not take his gift. 
 
 But. time and perseverance wi!l do wonders. Adam Beech had waited for her 
 again and again, and, with such fervid eloquence told her that he loved her, that 
 she at last believed him ; and well did he now remember when first he pressed his 
 lips upon that velvet cheek. Oh! that remembrance was madness. 
 
 He sprung to his feet in that lonely cell. He raved — he shouted — " Mary, 
 Mary!" he cried, " one word — one look, as of old, and then let me die.'' 
 
 No one heard him ; then the echo of his own voice seemed to mock him, and 
 then dying away, all was still again, and the dreary captive wept. 
 
 Yes, he, Adam Beech, the bold, daring housebreaker, was subdued at last. 
 Bitter and long pent-up tears gushed from his eyes, and like a distressed child, he 
 sobbed long and bitterly ; but then he knew that he was alone — he knew that no 
 ear drunk in his sobs — he knew that no eye saw his tears, save that of Heaven. 
 Yes, Adam Beech did at that moment think of Heaven. 
 
 But this violent accession of feeling was snon to have an end— an end more 
 speedy, on account of its violence ; and soon he ceased weeping, and relapsed into 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 295 
 
 a sullen and despairing silence. He looked like a man who had given up aH hope 
 on eartli — all expectation in the world which- was to come. 
 
 But soon again his mind becune full of wild, disordered fancies — the lull of acute 
 agony was but of short duration, and then once more he spoke — 
 
 ''Mary, Mary ! thou slaughtered — thou murdered one — thou being so full of all 
 that is beautiful and good. How ha\e I requited the deep- enduring- tenderness of 
 thy noble nature ? — h ive I not wronged thee, thou dear one ? For me, was it not 
 that thou left all — home, kindred, reputation— all that to thy young heart must 
 surely have been most dear? Did thou not leave all for me? and how, I ask it again 
 of my maddened soul, how hare I requited thee ?" 
 
 He wrung his hands, and he sobbed again. " Oh !" he cried, "if but for one 
 moment I could look upon thee, in order that I might speak to thee, my Mary, 
 one word of consolation and of joy, I could die happier — happier than I shall ! 
 but there is at ray heart a fearful something, that tells me thou art no more. I 
 know it — 1 feel it. I have killed her — I have not struck the blow that has hurried 
 her from life, but yet have I killed her, Let me look again upon this frightful 
 career of mine, which has made me what I am." 
 
 It was not necessary for him to close his eyes to shut out any of the realities 
 with which he was surrounded. The darkness that reigned around him was amply 
 sufficient to accomplish that object ; and then again, even as he had done before, 
 he saw pass before him the scenes of his past life coming in gloomy procession, 
 and waiting but the terrific climax, which was too near at hand, to make all 
 complete. 
 
 He saw himself peering in at the window of the " Fleece,"' in Drury-lane, where 
 were then assembled some of those men belonging to a band now scattered by 
 death, with whom he had so much wished to associate himself with. 
 
 Then came not his first crime, but the first one which gave him a sort of eclat 
 among those persons with whom he associated — the robbery at the banker's, with 
 all its accompanying chcumstances of the defeat of Benjamin Brick, and the hand- 
 some compliments that had passed between him and Mrs. Lamont. 
 
 Then rose up before his mental vision the scene at the Jew's, where he had 
 swaggered and aped the man so much, and where he had so nearly ruu the 
 hazard of his life from the raging jealousy of Captain Gaskin. 
 
 But most of all did he linger over the recollection of that interview with Mary 
 Phillips, when, like his better angel, she had urged him, while yet there was time, 
 to forsake the career of infamy he had commenced, to seek to exchange with 
 society something better than fraud and violence for the comforts he expected ! 
 Oh, had he listened to her admonitions — had he but then turned aside from the 
 course he had commenced the pursuit of — he might have been happy; but angry 
 passions, one of which was wild ambition, hurried him on. And strange as it 
 may appear, ambition is a feeling which will develop itself in the most unfruitful 
 soil, and many a subtle spirit Lias taken to the full as much pains to be the 
 greatest among the low and the despicable, as might have placed him among the 
 high and reputable. It was the praises of the thieves, the wonder of the Jew, 
 who told him he was such a prodigy, that urged him on until he had gone too 
 far to retreat, and he and the laws were too much at variance ever to be reconciled 
 again, except at the expense of his destruction. And now he felt certain of the 
 fate that awaited him : the clear and distinct crime that he had committed was one 
 to which mercy never was shown, and, at the best, those days were not days of 
 mercy, so he knew well that ail his minor offences would be dropped — that, as the 
 sessions were on, he might expect on the ensuing Friday to be placed upon 
 his trial, for the murder of the officer in the discharge of his duty. There was no 
 hope about the issue, there could be no doubt ; all was clear and explicit, as far as 
 regarded the facts j the trial need not last twenty minutes — nothing cyuhj be denied, 
 nothing extenuated. 
 
 " Yes," he said, as he rose and lifted his hands above his head, " I am a doomed 
 man, and still, in age, but upon the very threshold of my life. If wasted energies, 
 discarded gifts of Heaven, could drive a man to madness, mad, then, ought I t 0 
 
296 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 be ; for well I feel that I shall have here to step out into the midst of the gaping 
 crowd, who come to see me die — can I disappoint them of the ghow ?" 
 
 He clasped his face in his hands, and resolved on a thousand schemes by which 
 to cheat the executioner of his victim. But all of them though cunning, most 
 subtle and full of art, required some sort of confederacy or preparation which it was 
 now too late to dream of. There he was in the toils, taken, trapped, and with no 
 means about him, even of self-destruction, but those inefficient ones with which 
 Nature arms all men. True, he might dash his head against the stone walls, with 
 which he was surrounded ; he might, by a great effort, succeed in producing some 
 sort of strangulation, but he shuddered at death in such forms as those. The 
 pistol, the knife, or some rapid poison, that hold such hatred to existence, as to 
 crush it on the instant that they meet, would have suited him well, but none of 
 these means were within his grasp. 
 
 "What am I to do? " he said ; 44 what am I to do? Pent up here like some 
 wild animal prepared for sacrifice, caged until the hour shall arrive when it shall 
 be deemed expedient to drag me forth to make my shivering limbs and convulsed 
 features a- show for the multitude ; can I endure so much ? and yet, what help have 
 I, except such as desperation may lend to me V 
 
 He clutched the iron bars that formed the grating of his window, and tugged at 
 them with a vehemence that proved their well-tried strength. He called aioud in 
 his despair for some one to come to him, but although the sound did reach the ears 
 of a lazy turnkey, he troubled himself not with them, but rested content that the 
 prisoner was secure, and could hurt no one but himself. Then Adam Beech flung 
 himself against the ponderous door, but it presented no symptoms of yielding ; he 
 might as well have essayed his strength against one of the massive walls, for all that 
 was likely to result from the endeavour. 
 
 Exhausted now, and shaking from top to toe, he muttered, in a low voice-— 
 
 " They must come to me sooner or later — they must take me from this place to 
 another of less security, in order that the forms of law may not be dispensed with ; 
 instead of being guarded with massive walls and iron bars, I shall be surrounded 
 \ with men, in such numbers as to prove that resistance is insanity.'* 
 
 He laughed at the strange howling tones as he spoke, and then he added — 
 
 <c But they shall find me insane enough for that — they may subdue me, but it 
 shall be by killing me — they shall find among them so desperate and maddened a 
 man, that they must kill him." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE VESTIBULE OF NEWGATE.— THE OLD KEY. 
 
 While Adam Beech was thus engaged in the cell to which he had been taken, a 
 kind of convocation, or meeting of turnkeys, or " key%" as they called each other, 
 took place in the vestibule of the prison. 
 
 These men were quite a sight to look upon — rough, hardened-featured, with those 
 small twinkling eyes, bespeaking more of cunning and long habits of petty manage- 
 ment, than any nobler or higher feelings — there they stood, most of them having 
 suspended by their girdles, or dangling in their hands, the insignia of their office 
 they held — huge bunches of keys, which were quite a burden to drag about with 
 hem, but which are now entirely superseded by greater simplicity and security 
 in lock- making. 
 
 This vestibule of Newgate is just within the common entrance — it ia that place in 
 which some stout and stalwart turnkey usually stands, to be insolent and violent to 
 the poor and friendless, cringing and humble to the rich and powerful. It is there 
 where the ribs of suspected persons are punched, to ascertain if tobacco is being 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 297 
 
 smuggled in within the sacred precincts of the gaol, and when any event of note had 
 occurred, such as the capture and lodgment in the prison of a notorious criminal, 
 or an execution there, those persons assembled to talk the matter over. 
 
 " I say, old Sam Keys," said one, " Newgate's been groaning for Adam Beech, 
 and now it's got him." 
 
 " Yes," said the individual addressed, c< and the gallows has been groaning for 
 him too, and that'll have him ; I don't think anything of him for my part;— who'd 
 be a thief now? I'm disgusted! Housebreakers aint what they was." 
 
 " Ah ! you're always railing away and fretting yourself to fiddlestrings, which I 
 take it is on account of too much book learning : now, I haven't got none nohow, 
 by no manner of means — and as long as I gets ray guts full and my pot o' half-and- 
 half, and my pipe, I'm as happy as a king and no mistake — I doesn't care about the 
 old times or the new times— they're all as one to me." 
 
 No. 38. 
 
298 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 4 Then they aint to me," said the ether. " Talk of Adam Beech and suchlike' 
 why I could teli you things as I've heard, that would make your hair stand on 
 an end/' 
 
 " You often say so — tell us one of 'em." 
 
 Old Sam Keys looked as knowing as a jackdaw looking into u marrowbone, and 
 then folding his arms across his breait, he spoke as follows : 
 
 There are many who boast of the exploits of the moderns — no matter in what 
 way — the field or the road ; but they are not, to my mind, equal to those who 
 have gone before us. Every age has its excellence, I know very well, but at the 
 same time, the present is but a repetition of the past and no improvement. 
 
 Talk about the highway — Lord ! there was a time when it required a strong as 
 well as a brave man to stop another on the road, and when every man wore a sword 
 or a pistol in his belt — he must always be ready for a hand-to-hand encounter ; but 
 then they used often to go in bodies and attack whole villages, and them they had 
 often to tight for. 
 
 But of all the marauding expeditions, those about the time of the Independents 
 — some of Comwell's men — the extreme religious fanatics — who never hesitated to 
 shed blood or rob, and who always did so with a good sound religious reason for so 
 doing. 
 
 Among them was one man named Gocd-reasoned Peter. This was an odd 
 name, but then it suited the times ; and there were many more odd names then 
 — they were not odd but common, which makes all the difference. 
 
 Well, Good-reasoned Peter, you must know, was a man who never did any act 
 without first praying for success and smoothing it over ; he was a man afcer Crom- 
 well's own heart — he would fight as devoutly as he would pray — not but fighting 
 was much more a thing con umore than praying : the latter was a habit purely, the 
 former was a matter of instinct improved by habit. 
 
 Good-reasoned Peter could lay his long rapier about them in the true Round- 
 head style : he never feared an enemy — brave certainly, and as certainly relentless 
 — he asked no mercy, and he showed none ; he gave the same as he expected to 
 receive. 
 
 Thus far all was fair ; but still verv uncomfortable — very much so indeed — 
 especially for any kind of person to fall into his hands who was attached to the 
 Cavaliers — because such person was almost sure to fall into the unfortunate class 
 who oaght to be sacrificed to the manes of the slaughtered heroes of the array. 
 
 He used to say that by killing a foeman you spared blood, and he was there- 
 fore the most merciful man in the whole army — which he made out thus : 
 
 By killing a foe you prevented a future effusion of blood and decreased the 
 number of enemies his party had to contend against, and hence, when that was the 
 case, the less likely were they to offer any opposition in arms. This was, of course, 
 a prevention of bloodshed, and Good-reasoned Peter was declared to be a merciful 
 man upon a broad principle. 
 
 If a wealthy man, however, fell iato his hands, he did not slay him, but he 
 would show him mercy, but protested he would not do so, save upon the same 
 principle that he slew his poorer neighbour, for, said he — 
 
 " If I slay him his wealth will go to others, perhaps my enemies, or some luke- 
 warm friend, who may use it to the disadvantage of the commonwealth, or to some 
 SHch purpose as supporting the enemies of the state, and thereby helping to shed 
 the blood of God's saints and soldiers/' 
 
 There was no denying -his. Goo ; -reasoned Peter had it all his «wn way, and 
 he had a few more of his way of thinking, to whom he could preach he Word 
 when he felt himself inspired. 
 
 This little kno*: of men were drawn together as much by the peculiar energy 
 of character and nature of their opinions as the stern and unyielding nature of 
 their fierce temper?. 
 
 " Friends," said Good-reasoned Peter, "the state is at rest, the soldier's weapon 
 sleeps in its scabh ird, wherefore is this? there is need for ail things under the sun, 
 therefore why is this?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 299 
 
 There was a pause and no answer. 
 
 " I will tell you, friends; it is because the enemy lies in lurking-holes and hides 
 himself till he shall be powerful enough to take the field against us again." 
 There were some loud marks of approval. 
 
 " Shall we the elect— the chosen — who have striven through many a battle — i 
 shall we abide while our weapons rust in their scabbards and grow weaker each day ; 
 shall we permit this? we who are God's saints — his chosen — shall we remain idle 
 when the work remains to be clone ? I say no." 
 
 Everybody seemed pretty much of the same opinion, but as the climax had not 
 yet come nothing was said, but some commotion was seen and murmurs heard. 
 
 " Are there not many who have riches and goods, that are wavering in their 
 faith both to their God and to man ; ought this to be ? He who is not for us is 
 against us, therefore I say let us slay — kill — let us make war upon the enemy." 
 
 Everybody agreed, but. one said — 
 
 " Peter, we are all of the faithful few. How are we to make war upon the 
 many V 
 
 " I will point out the way, if ye will follow it." 
 " We will !" 
 
 *f Ye have said, now listen : we can band together, and at night go forth and 
 take for the use of the elect what we find, and slay whosoever opposes us ; we 
 shall weaken the enemy daily and thus work out a good end without endangering 
 the safety or credit of the state." 
 
 This was highly relished, for these stern men loved the good things of this life. 
 Carnal comforts, as they used to call them, were in great request among them. 
 
 It was agreed among them that they should attack the house of a gentleman of 
 Cavalier principles, but who sat idly at home and who had not mixed in politics 
 since the fight at Worcester, and he staid at home in safety,, 
 
 Now the house was large and there were many sturdy servants in the house — 
 men who had stood the shock of a charge in the field of battle, and, being old 
 soldiers, were considered to have the greatest claim upon the owner. 
 
 Well, it was arranged that it should be done. 
 
 f* And now, friends," added Peter, " we must do these things secretly, and we 
 must take nothing but what can be turned to money — or money itself — other 
 matters we do not need, and if we did state reasons might induce those who hold 
 authority to interpose, if the matter could be fixed upon us." 
 
 This was a good reason, and every one admitted the force of it. 
 
 " But one miisi act as a leader," said one. 
 
 " We cannot go forth to battle,'' said another, " without we appoint one to give 
 the word of command, or we shall be a confused mass, each acting on his own 
 account, and success will no longer b<i our own ; we shall be destroyed." 
 
 " Then, as Peter has spoken of this matter to us, he shall' be our general, and -1 
 we will obey what he says and he who refuses is not one of us. 
 
 This was also agreed to, and Peter was forthwith appointed commander upon 
 the occasion of their forages. 
 
 During the next evening they all met in a wood not far distant, where they sat 
 down to pass away the hours, until that should arrive which would bring them to 
 the house which they intended to make their essay in the shape of robbery. 
 
 The time flew by, and the men were seen lying about, armed to their teeth, 
 being on the gra.-ss beneath the trees, and engaged in conversation, now and then 
 moistening their throats with some compound they carried in flasks, and their eye:? 
 seemed peculiarly excited. 
 
 "The hour is come," said Peter, who had been watching the moon, as she rose 
 up among the clouds until she attained a certain height, and the shadows fell in 
 one direction. 
 
 "The hour is come, and we must leave this place if we would do that which 
 we professed to do. Shall we proceed ? " 
 "We will." 
 
 Then cautiously and with order they left the wood, until they came to the high 
 
300 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 road, when they proceeded along at a rapid pace — a quick march, in the sam e 
 order, when they would have been taken for a party proceeding upon some specia^ 
 purpose of the state. 
 
 At length they turned down a by-lane, where there were some small trees, and 
 high hedge-rows on either side, so that they could neither see over nor under, 
 during the time they were in the lane, which was of some length. 
 
 When they had gone about a mile, they came to one of the old-fashioned 
 houses that had been built with a view to resist aggression of this sort. 
 
 It was strong, and capable of holding out against the attack of a larger body of 
 men than that which was now about to invest it. The doors were strong and the 
 windows barred, but the men now present were of too resolute a character to be 
 depressed by the fact that they had difficulties to encounter. 
 
 The reverse was the character of their feelings ; they came resolved that they 
 would get in some way or the other, and at length they stood still meditating a 
 general assault, when Good-reasoned Peter again spoke to the purpose. 
 
 " Friends, there is a place near the hinder part of the house, where we may 
 force it with less noise and less force : we may get in there, and then work our 
 will." 
 
 Accordingly they went round the house until they came to a small door, which 
 they forced open ; but they found that it only opened into an outer place, and 
 they had yet to force open other doors before they could get in. 
 
 " This will do," said Peter, as he seized a large iron bar that lay in one corner ; 
 " this will do, friends ; let us use it to open this outer door." ^ 
 
 "Then throw it in where the hinges are placed," said one, <l and it will lift out, 
 and cannot be shut upon us." 
 
 " Good," said Peter, " we can do that, but we should not be able to keep any 
 one out if we desired, and Ithink we may pull this staple out before those hinges." 
 
 This was tried, and it was accomplished in a moment, and then the house was 
 opes. 
 
 "Now," said Peter, ''let us go to the bed-rooms ; the upper rooms contain 
 money and valuables, come on— this way — I know the house of old." 
 
 So saying he led the men through several passages, until they came to the 
 main or principal staircase, when they were stopt by a voice, saying, — 
 
 " Hold there ! step but one foot forward, and you are dead men. Whence 
 come ye ? * 
 
 The fact was, their attempts had been heard to break the door, it being in the 
 house, and they were not too cautious, feeling secure in their own courage 
 and numbers ; but this had given the inhabitants time to arm and defend them- 
 selves. 
 
 " Cut those down who resist," called out Peter, who, drawing his pistol, fired it 
 in the dark, and cried out, — 
 
 u Do the like, friends, and follow me!" 
 
 He then rushed up the stairs, but before he could do so several reports followed 
 each other in quick succession from both parties, and some were wounded and 
 groaned, while amid all the smoke and noise the robbers rushed up to the attack, 
 and then came the clash of swords and the curses of men — the clashing; of armour 
 and the struggling of feet — the fall of one or the other of the party : all conduced 
 to cause great confusion. 
 
 The fight did not last long, not above ten minutes, and then all was over; but, 
 when the lights came, there were five men killed — one of the assailants, who had 
 received a sword cut that went through his steel cap and his head at the same time, 
 but the others were the defenders. 
 
 Several others were wounded. 
 
 "Now," said Peter, turning to one of those who were bound hand and foot on 
 the floor, " you are the owner of this place ?" 
 « I am." 
 
 c< Where is your strong-box ?" 
 " In France." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 301 
 
 "Friend," said Peter, " we do not eome here to trifle ; if you thought so, look 
 at these dead bodies. You will be as one of those in a twinkling, if you answer 
 not truly." 
 
 " I have answered truly." 
 
 " Well, then, what is the reason thy strong-box was sent to so great a distance 
 as France, where it is, of course, in the hands of the enemies of the common- 
 wealth." 
 
 " Is it so ? then I cannot help it, since it was sent there long before the battle 
 of Worcester, and I am not responsible for it." 
 
 " Well, show me thy plate, jewels, and money, and if you fail, you are a dead 
 man, and those beside thee are dead men too ; but, you die not till you have 
 tasted of the agony of the torture, and then only you die when you have sunk from 
 exhaustion to rise no more." 
 
 " Work your will, you robbers, an^ 'worse than robbers." 
 
 "Find out where the females are," said Peter ; " they, perhaps, may be able to 
 tell, when they have tasted of the torture, what these men may refuse to tell ; and, 
 if you cannot find them, set fire to the place in several places, and burn them 
 out." 
 
 The gray-headed Cavalier, whose bloody head showed he had not been far from 
 the combatants, looked up at the Roundhead, and said in a stern but contemptuous 
 voice : — 
 
 " You have less of men about you than demons — mere blood-thirsty savages, 
 whose sole delight is in shedding the blood of those who could not injure you." 
 
 " Oh, we want the money and jewels you have, and, since you value them so 
 highly as to endure torture and death, why you alone are answerable. I have no 
 cause to shrink if you have none. You and they must suffer." 
 
 Then he saw the unfortunate owner of the mansion groan at the thought 
 of seeing females delicately nurtured, left to the tender mercies of such men. The 
 man saw this, and failed not to improve the advantage. 
 
 " If we find them, their usage shall, perhaps, be gentle, but I cannot promise 
 you that either you or they will approve of it ; be assured that they will not be 
 spared." 
 
 "Wretch!" 
 
 " Nay, no names — aye, here they come — here is one maiden, she has what 
 worldly men would call beauty of lip and eye, and those lips must pay me penance 
 for the father's obstinacy." 
 
 "Hold!" said the aged Cavalier ; " touch not the females, you coward. They 
 can have done nothing to you or your infernal government, that you should misuse 
 them." 
 
 " I only want the plate, and jewels, and money." 
 " They are in France." 
 
 "Aye, but what you have in the house ; but I dp not care to talk with you, it 
 wastes time. Come, comrades, to your work, they are the prizes of our bows and 
 our spears, let them be used as such ; this is my prisoner, let every man choose his 
 own, and then place those obdurate rebels back to back, and set the whole place 
 on fire." 
 
 These orders were given in a peremptory tone, and the men bustled about, and 
 carried furniture and combustibles from one place to another, so that there was 
 no doubt remaining but that the threat would be carried into immediate execution. 
 
 " Hold ! if I give up the remainder of what I have, will that buy freedom from 
 further harm than what we have already suffered V* 
 
 " It shall, if there be no fraud played off towards us, else the bargain will be 
 broken by you, and not kept by us." 
 
 " Then, I will tell you ; but if you expect much you «annot get it, though you 
 commit any amount of violence." 
 
 " Be assured that what we say we mean ; and when you act as you should you 
 will do well, but woe to you if you attempt a fraud." 
 
 " I mean none. Open the trap-door upon which you [are standing, and there 
 
302 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 you will see a strong box ; in that is all the treasure I have left, take it, and leave 
 us life and honour.'* 
 
 The men pulled up a door, so carefully fitted that it was very difficult to discover 
 it. Beneath they found a strong box, that required six or seven men to lift it out 
 of its place of concealment. 
 
 However, the key was found, and thus they were enabled to open it without any 
 difficulty ; but they did not find the contents equal to their expectations — it was 
 scarce half filled, but still it was a valuable mass of solid silver of various 
 descriptions of table service. 
 
 " Is this all?" said Peter. 
 
 " Aye, every piece left me, and now that is gone. 1 * 
 "Not yet." 
 
 " Quite sufficiently so to make it a certain loss to me ; but no matter, you will 
 now leave the house." 
 
 "Aye, we will. Buty should we find you have played us false, we will come 
 again when you least expect it. You are never sure with us how long or how soon 
 may be the period of our return to punish any breach of faith." 
 
 They said no more, but took the spoil, and, having secured their prisoners, they 
 left the house and got clear off. 
 
 It so happened that, as they returned back to the place where they were to 
 divide the spoil, they met with a party of citizens who had been out to some distant 
 festivity. There were six or seven of them, as well as servants — they outnumbered 
 the robbers, who came against them, and they paused, and in another moment 
 shouted — 
 
 "Down with the rebels!" 
 
 At the same time furiously charging them, they were speedily cut to pieces, 
 leaving scarcely a man to tell the tale. Then Peter said — 
 " So the Lord hath delivered them into our hands." 
 
 This added much to their wealth, and they returned laden with spoil of great 
 value, for the citizens carried good round sums in their purses, believing themselves 
 safe so many in a body — it was quite an unforeseen event. 
 
 These were the times for men on the road—there was danger in stopping a man 
 then. Good-reasoned Peter on one occasion met with accidents that put his 
 courage to the test, but he was never found wanting in any respect. 
 
 One day he was out alone, and he found himself face to face with a stout country 
 gentleman, who was riding a pony, ambling along with much ease and comfort ; 
 from his side, however, hung a rapier of some length. 
 
 " Friend," said Good-reasoned Peter, " friend, I want thy purse — give it to me 
 without any strife." 
 
 " I'll see thee d — d first," said the choleric old gentleman, enraged at being so 
 asked to easily part with his personal property. 
 
 "Then I must have it," said Peter, " by force. I have demanded it, and you 
 have refused. Your biood be upon your own head! I have done all I could to 
 spare it, and now I will take it/' 
 
 Peter seized the bridle, and pressed it so hard against the horse that he reared 
 and was thrown on his haunches and then to the earth; but his rider dismounted 
 before he went over, and drew his rapier before Peter was prepared for him, but he 
 evaded the blow, and then, drawing his own sword, was soon engaged in a deadly 
 contest with the gentleman, whom he contrived to lay on his back, after a stout 
 resistance, ba lly wounded. 
 
 " There, I told you I wanted your purse," said Peter, "as he drew a long one 
 out of the pocket of the gentleman; "had you given it to me you would have 
 saved yourself much trouble, and have had a whole skin instead of a broken 
 on,." 
 
 There la 1 the unfortunate gentleman incapable of Haoying, and as no one came 
 by he bled to deal t 
 
 80 many robberies, however, being reported t'i bead-quarters of late, there was 
 a &dte strict, watch kept up, and the soldiery were ordered to be in their barracks 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 303 
 
 after certain hours ; but this was not enough to restrain Good-reasoned Peter from 
 his plan of operations, for be being a preacher and having interest as well, he could 
 get out when he pleased, and therefore the depredations went on as well as ever, 
 and he as successful. 
 
 The quantity of valuables these men got together was very great, and they were 
 rich men, and soon after retired from the army to enjoy their wealth. 
 
 There was once a saying, " that no man should ever think of resisting any of 
 the military robbers, for they never hesitated about cutting and slashing ; they 
 were used to it and thought, nothing of it, and their hardihood and contempt of 
 death. always gave them a superiority over other men in these or any other time ." 
 
 On another occasion there was some little danger attending the exploits, for he 
 came upon two who had themselves served in the wars, and there was something 
 to be apprehended from them, but Peter could not be circumvented, and he was 
 too good a master of fence to be easilv overcome. 
 
 They got off their horses and drew their swords and would have inevitably run 
 Peter through the body, but Peter was too quick, and contrived to attack one while 
 he was securing his horse, and thus disabled him from any further defence or 
 offence. 
 
 The other stood a sharp and resolute encounter with Peter, and after some 
 desperate fighting, in which he had none of the worst, his sword broke in two and 
 went ringing through the air, leaving the owner defenceless, and his foe before him . 
 who immediately laid him low on the earth, and then proceeded to rifle both him 
 and his companion. 
 
 This was the last, or nearly the last of the exploits of Peter, who became rich, 
 and thought that the pitcher that so often goes to the well would at last come 
 back broken, and to avoid such a catastrophe he determined that he would have 
 no more to do with the road but retire, and he did so. 
 
 He bought an estate, and they were to be had cheap enough at that time, 
 when there were many men ruined by the civil commotions, and glad to sell at 
 any price- 
 He bought one that was legally saleable by the government lands — declared 
 forfeited by acts of treason against the majesty of the commonwealth, but when 
 the restoration came there was a loss to Peter, who could see no good reason why 
 his estate should be taken from him, which, however, they did, and he had once 
 more to take to the road to procure the means of life, and he was tolerably 
 successful, I understand, but I cannot say how it ended or how he died. 
 " Is that all ?" said one. 
 
 (< Yes; and I should think enough too, only you are such a spoony you don't 
 understand half of it " 
 
 " Nor I don't want neither, that's more, you're always a growling. Now, as f 
 for your old times that you talk of so much, and the stage-coaches as used to be 
 robbed by a single footpad — " 
 
 £f A footpad! ahorsepad you mean, you fool." 
 
 " Why what's the horse to do with it? he didn't rob the coaches, and I tell you j 
 what it is, old Sam Keys, it strikes me as much of these here things as we hears j 
 on about the old times is all my eye and Betty Martin." 
 
 " What, you mean to say you don't believe 'em ?" 
 
 " No, and werry sorry I should be to believe 'em ; so put that in your pipe and ! 
 smoke it, old Sam Keys, and don't pitch us any more of your blessed gammon, j 
 It's my opinion as a good Bow-street runner, such as we have now-a-days, would j 
 have nabbed Jack Sheppard in a brace of shakes, and would have just popped j 
 him comfortably into limbo and he'd have been hung out of hand as decent and j 
 comfortable as any gentleman need be, and now I'll tell you a remarkable dream ! 
 as 1 had : I thought as I was laying along all of a heap, and I seed an iodividuei j 
 dressed in blue, and he says to me, says he, ' Nebuchadnazar Butt,' said he, ' you j 
 don't know what's to happen in the course of time.' ' No,' says I, ' who are you V J 
 Says he, i I'm a new policeman, and as sure as eggs is eggs, 1 shall be called a j 
 raw lobster ;' and then afore I could say a word he vanishes, leaving no track j 
 
304 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 behind him, as they says in the theatres. Now, what do you think of that, old 
 Sam Keys?" 
 
 " Gammon! Do you mean to tell me as ever runners will be done away with ? 
 But hilloa, what's all this ? there's a precious row coming along up the Bailey." 
 
 (t Is there, by Jove, I'll run out and see, I aint in the lock so it's no matt er. " 
 
 " No — cuss you — you very seldom are in the lock, somehow or another." 
 
 The turnkey, however, had not to run out to ascertain the cause of the con- 
 fusion, for a motley cavalcade of persons stopped at the door of Newgate, and 
 several began speaking at once, but insomuch as what they said would be 
 anticipating of something we have to relate, we prefer putting it off until a new 
 chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE FATE OF MARY PHILLIPS. 
 
 We have lingered long in following the fortunes of poor Mary Phillips ; and we 
 have done so because we have dreaded to follow her — knowing what mood of mind 
 she was in when she left Adam Beech, after he had, for the first time, raised his 
 hand otherwise than in kindness towards her. 
 
 It would be quite impossible for any pen to picture the state of 'feeling into 
 which she was now thrown ; not the most skilful delineator of human passion or 
 of human feeling, that the world ever saw could hope, were he to write a volume 
 in the vain expectation, to fairly represent the agony and the desolation which 
 tugged and sat brooding at the heart of that young and guileless creature. 
 
 She was of those who love but once, but who, when they do love, rest all their 
 fondest hopes upon the continuance and beauty of that one passion. 
 
 To have loved with discrimination — to have loved happily and fortunately — is to 
 have drawn one of the richest prizes of existence ; but if the choice be of an 
 unhappy character — if the object be unworthy — or, from the force of circumstances, 
 unhappiness succeeds the choice, all is lost, and the bitterness of despair can know 
 no possible extenuation. 
 
 How she had loved and how she had clung to Adam Beech the reader knows, 
 and the extent of that pure affection may be guessed at by her present position. 
 It must indeed have been an overwhelming feeling that had turned aside such a 
 creature as Mary Phillips from all that she had been educated to consider and 
 know to be right and just. 
 
 Whether Adam Beech tempted her sorely, or whether she clung to him and 
 would not again depart from him after he had wrested her from the thraldom of 
 Madame Pompadour, the records from which these pages are drawn inform us 
 not, nor need we be too curious to know. 
 
 It is not in the nature of such a being as Mary Phillips to do aught that could 
 degrade her really — she might dignify an act at which the moral world might point 
 the finger of scorn ; but those who might know all the particulars of her induce- 
 ments would indeed feel that she added one memorable proof to thousands of others, 
 that crime and immorality must ever stand or fall upon their own individual merits 
 — that there are no such things as precedents to the heart, and that the same actions 
 which, as the result of one set of feelings, would cover their perpetrator with odium 
 and contempt, if the result of other motives surround their actor with the halo of 
 sanctity. 
 
 Thus much for our own opinion of poor Mary Phillips. She may be unwise — 
 she may be too impulsive, from her small knowledge of the world and its ways — 
 she may trust too much, believe too much, but still is she great, and glorious, and 
 beautiful, and more in our opinion acceptable in the eyes of Heaven than those 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 305 
 
 who, with a rigidity of virtue, crucify their countenances to the expression of an 
 evangelical sanctity, that is as destitute of real believers and Christian charity, as 
 is the most arid African waste of the fertilizing streams that would make it 
 beautiful. 
 
 The storm had not abated — ever and anon the distant mutterings of the loud 
 thunder broke upon the silent ear of night, dashing showers of hail and rain 
 discharged their fury upon the head of the poor houseless wanderer. 
 
 The battle of wind, rain, thunder, and the forked lightning, might be really said 
 to be over, and these but the straggling contests that still took place among the 
 scattered hosts after the field had been lost and won. 
 
 But she knew nothing of the aspect of the heavens — she knew not if smiles or 
 frowns there predominated — the rain beat upon her face — gusts of blustrous wind 
 scattered the still long and beautiful ringlets of her hair-— she knew nothing, felt 
 nothing, but that her heart's affections were crushed— that her dearest love had 
 
 No. 39. 
 
306 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 become a mockery — and that the best part of her young existence had been ajgrea t 
 mistake. 
 
 It was insanity — it must have been insanity — we cannot, will not, dare not, call 
 it by any other name, because the child slept upon her breast, and she should have 
 lived for that. 
 
 But see how she glides along — she looks not to the right or to the left — she heeds 
 no one, although now and then a stray passenger will cast a curious glance after 
 the fair young creature, upon whose countenance sits the very personification of 
 despair. 
 
 On, on, she speeds — quickly, and yet without haste — firmly, but not hurriedly 
 — there is no wavering in her purpose — she has not reached it by any course of 
 reasoning that admits of argument, and may by neither course be contradicted and 
 defeated. No, it has sprung at once giant-like into existence — a stern, unalterable 
 resolve — the resolve to die. 
 
 And what resource, if she had asked herself the question, she would have said, 
 had she but to die? What now had life to offer to her? where were its hopes? — 
 where its expectations ? — where its charms? All — all lost. She felt that 
 benighted, benumbed sensation of the soul which must inevitably be the sure 
 prelude to self-destruction. 
 
 She did not speak — no sound whatever came from her lips : if she could have 
 wept — if she could have spoken of her griefs — if she could Jiave wrung her hands 
 and declaimed concerning her heart's deep dejecetion, all might have been well ; 
 but she could not, deeper, deeper than such ordinary manifestations, allay her 
 feelings ; and now she reaches the river's bank — she has penetrated down one of 
 those long and torturous streets, the lowermost houses of which are washed by the 
 advancing tide ; she hears the ripple and then the sudden splash of the waters. 
 
 There was a small iron gate — it opened by a latch a child might lift— and 
 beyond it is a flight of rude, wooden steps. 
 
 God of Heaven ! is there no hand to stay her — is there no voice to shout to 
 her a cry of warning — is there no special providence to save from such a deed one 
 of its fairest, best creatures ? Mary Phillips, were you sent into this living, 
 bustling world for such a fate as this? She has passed the gate — she does not 
 pause — she descends these steps — the tide has touched her feet — another instant 
 — it cannot be — save her — no — all is over — there is a sudden plunge — there is a 
 wailing shriek — the dark tide has opened for a moment to receive into the 
 oblivion of its embrace the fairest, best, noblest, we say it advisedly, most religious 
 heart that ever beat in human bosom. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 There is a boat manned by two lusty rowers ; it cleaves the dark and swollen 
 tide of the river, and rapidly nears the spot which has witnessed so dire a catas- 
 trophe as that which has deprived us of our beautiful heroine. They are too late 
 to save her ; the rolling tide has done its worst, but they see something white 
 amidst the rolling waters. 
 
 " What is that?" cried one to the other, as he shaded his eyes with his hands, 
 and looked earnestly in the direction of the floating mass, "what is that? Do 
 you see nothing ?** 
 
 " Yes, a bundle of weeds floating in the water." ' 
 
 "Nay, something more than weeds, or I'm much mistaken. Let's pull 
 towards it*" 
 
 "Be it so. Pull away, then." 
 
 The head of the boat was turned in the direction where the floating object was 
 dimly visible, and as both men plied their oars vigorously, they soon came suffi- 
 ciently close to it to be certain that it was not, as one of them had conjectured, 
 a mass of floating weeds. 
 
 " It's a body," cried one ; " I can see the clothing of a woman, too. There may- 
 be life in her. Pull away ; I'll have her into the boat directly." 
 
 A distant clock at that moment struck four, and there was a very faint light 
 visible in the eastern horizon as the man who had last spoke reached forward and 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 307 
 
 clutched the clothing with a firm grasp of what now, they neither of them could 
 doubt, was a drowned body in the river. 
 
 It was easily moved through the water, but it was a dead lift to get it into the 
 boat, and one which the man's strength was scarcely equal to, although he did 
 succeed, after some trouble, in effecting it. 
 
 " Good heavens !" he cried, " she has a child clasped in her arms. Saw you 
 ever the like of that ? and both dead, doubtless." 
 
 "Well, four o'clock has just struck, and we may leave our post, which 
 happens well, for we can take the bodies on shore at once. Pull on for South- 
 wark Bridge. We shall meet no river pirates to-night : it must have been a false 
 alarm." 
 
 " Yes, but you forget we hare to report ourselves at Newgate, and it will be an 
 awkward thing for us, encumbered as we are. It's as much as one's place is 
 worth not to be there within the half hour. You know well what a blade we have 
 to deal with in old Hugh Campbell, the governor. He won't take the shadow of an 
 excuse, so that we can't dispose of the bodyj but must leave it in the boat." 
 
 " Well, at this time of the morning, it would be a hard case to take it anywhere. 
 Let's get some of the idlers at the stairs we run in at, to bring it on. We shall be 
 late, at any rate, and we may as well show it to old Hugh Campbell, as an excuse, 
 or we may fare the worse. Are you sure she's dead ?" 
 
 " Quite. Pull away ; the sooner we get ashore the better, for I don't like such 
 a cargo. I've half a mind to throw them over again." 
 
 " If you do, you shall go over with them. What do you mean by being such a 
 brute ? How would you like, if so be as you were drowned yourself, and knock- 
 ing about like a lo£ on the water,' for nobody to pick you up and take you to 
 shore ?" 
 
 " Well, well, have it all your own way. I know what a lawyer you are in the 
 
 arguefving way, so I shan't interfere. You may do what you like, and I'll " 
 
 "What?" 
 " Pull away." 
 
 He plied the oars well as he spoke, and the boat shot through the water at a 
 quick rate, soon nearing a landing-place that conducted towards the place of their 
 destination, by the shortest cut that could be made towards it." 
 
 As the boat came close in shore, a ragged specimen of humanity, half man. half 
 boy, ran into the water, to lend his assistance. 
 
 " Hilloa, Barney," said one of the men, " are you here V 
 
 " Faith, then, it's here I am," said the individual addressed, in a broad brogue. 
 *' Are you afraid of a dead woman, Barney V* 
 
 "A dead woman ! Is it a dead woman you ask if I'm afeard? Sorra the bit 
 am I. A live woman's, worse luck fall on her, I am afraid of, and that's Mistress 
 Barney Hoogan. Oh, it's the born devil she is !" 
 
 " Not a doubt of that. Now, Barney, get a few hands together and a shutter, 
 for we have fished up a corpse on the river, and must take it along to Newgate. 
 We don't expect house-room for it there, but we can show ourselves, and then go 
 on with it 10 the nearest poor-house." 
 
 " Faith, then," said Barney, " you talk like a book. It's myself that will soon 
 wake up some boys that are sleeping under a doorway yonder.'" 
 
 Barney was as good as his word, and in a few minutes he returned with four men, 
 who brought an old door with them, as they had been told that the job which the 
 two men, belonging to the River Police, had for them, consisted in the removal of 
 a corpse which had been found in the Thames. And as the mortal remains of 
 poo:, ill-starred Mary Phillips and her child were placed together upon that rude 
 b;er, and the rotigh men, feeling a fcfild of awe in the presence of the deal, almost 
 unc.nsciousiy 10 themselves adopted the funeral pace; if they were the bearer^ 
 of some body to its lafet home. 
 
 In the neighbourhood where the officers had landed there were plenty of idlers, 
 both by day and by night, and probably there were many who, of the two, preferred 
 being abroad when the sun no longer enlightens our hemisphere with its scorch- 
 
303 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 ing and tell-tale rays, so that before the cavalcade had proceeded far, a strange, 
 motley assemblage of persons had graced it — why they knew not — but they followed 
 from mere listlessness, and a kind of instinctive curiosity that was not dependant 
 upon reflection. 
 
 The officers now hurried the bearers of the corpse, for they dreaded the reception 
 they might get from their choleric employer ; so that by the time the cavalcade 
 reached the Old Bailey, it was coming on at a sharper walk, and that it was which had 
 attracted the attention of the turnkeys in the vestibule, where they had been carry- 
 ing on so amusing a gossip among themselves. 
 
 The turnkey who, it will be recollected, volunteered to go and see what was the 
 cause of the disturbance, soon returned with the necessary amount of information. 
 
 " Who'd a thought it ?" he cried, as he re-appeared among his companions, "it's 
 Green and his mate ; they have picked up a body in the Thames, and for fear of 
 being bullied by old Campbell, on account of being too late with their report, I'll 
 be hanged if they haven't brought it on here at once." 
 
 ''And here he comes, too, in one of his amiable moods." 
 
 At the instant a side door was flung open, aand an old grizzly-bearded, brandy- 
 faced looking man now made his appearance. He tried to speak, but such was 
 the state of angry irritation he was always in that one-half he said was lost in 
 splutter and fume. 
 
 u What, what ! damn it, what now," he cried? " I am sure 1 heard a noise. 
 What's the meaning of all this? Have my men returned ? Curse you all !" 
 
 " Faith then," said Barney Hogan, who had ascended the steps, and was leaning 
 over the half-hatch which the turnkey had opened, " faith, then, the same to you 
 and many of them." 
 
 The rage of the comptroller of the river police nearly choked him, and he made 
 a rush forward to take summary vengeance upon Barney, when a voice behind him 
 made him pause — it was the voice of the governor of Newgate, who had hastily 
 thrown on some portion of his apparel on hearing a disturbance going on, and had 
 descended from his own sleeping-room to know what it was about. 
 
 " How is it, Mr. Campbell," he said, " that nine times out of ten, when there is 
 a row of any sort in the vestibule, I am certain to find you in the midst of it?" 
 
 " Me, sir V said Campbell, in a subdued tone. " Oh ! dear, no, sir, you must 
 mistake ; this is no brawl, sir, only two of my men have found a dead body in the 
 rivei, and they have brought it here, you see, sir." 
 
 " Well, it's an awkward time of night to take it anywhere else. Let it be placed 
 in the stone room to the left till morning." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 ADAM BEECH CHEATS THE HANGMAN. 
 
 This order of the governor was promptly obeyed, and Mr. Campbell succeeded 
 wonderfully, as all your high-mettled choleric men always do, in controlling his 
 passion in the presence of one whom he knew w r ould not put up with it, and did 
 the amiable in grand style. 
 
 When he looked upon the countenance of poor Mary, he even condescended to 
 remark, that it was quite a pity that such a young thing should come to such an 
 end. The governor hastened off to the resident surgeon of the gaol, and brought 
 him to look at the bodies of the mother and child, with the dim hope that he 
 might give an opinion favourable to the making some attempt to resuscitate them, 
 but the medical man, after placing his ear over the regions of the heart and listening 
 attentively, shook his head, saying, — 
 
 " It's of no use, sir, not the least use. They have been in the water too long, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 although I have no doubt they were both Jiving- a couple of hours ago. Never- 
 theless, if it be any satisfaction to you, 1 will try all the established means of 
 restoring animation." 
 
 " No, no, not unless you have some hope." 
 
 " I have none whatever." 
 
 " Then it would be but an useless waste of time, and I will not trouble you. 
 In the morning, the bodies can be removed to the nearest workhouse. Good night, 
 sir, I regret having disturbed you at all." 
 
 " Do not do that," said the surgeon ; " I only regret that I am compelled to feel 
 quite certain I can do nothing for the unfortunates." 
 
 So saying, the surgeon retired again to his own apartments ; and, after lingering 
 a little, to ste that all was right and quiet, the governor went away from the 
 vestibule, which was thus left again to the passionate, irascible, but cringing and 
 wonderfully discreet Campbell, who, the moment he found himself uncontrolled by 
 a higher authority than his own, burst forth into such a torrent of abuse against 
 the two men for bringing the body to Newgate at all, that they stood aghast and 
 quite unable to answer him, had they felt ever so much inclined. 
 
 "You wretches!" he said, "who told you to pick up dead bodies from the 
 Thames, I should like to know? Who gave you leave to do any such thing? 
 You know I hate the idea of a dead body, and yet you bring a couple here, to 
 fester under my very nose. Curse you both, you shall be discharged to-morrow !" 
 
 " You don't mean that, master ?" said one. 
 
 " If I don't, may I be hanged I" 
 
 " Come now, Mr. Campbell, you'll alter your mind, won't you, sir?" 
 
 " I swear I won't ; you have brought some damned carrion here on purpose to 
 annoy me, and away you shall both go. I have said it, and I'll do it, I swear as 
 sure as my name's Campbell. Now you may be off both of you, and thank your- 
 selves for the consequences of your night's work." 
 
 " May we, sir ? Well, if so be as it has turned out that we are discharged, 
 its along o' your nasty temper ; so here goes to knock some of it out of you. I 
 hope." 
 
 To the intense rage and astonishment of the great Mr. Campbell, the man 
 stepped forward and dealt him two such knock-down blows, that he fell all of a 
 heap on the stone flooring, exhibiting a couple of black eyes that were sure to last 
 him for a month to come. 
 
 " What a jolly lark!" said one of the turnkeys. " Cut away — the outlet is open . 
 Good luck to you both. Cut away V* 
 
 The two river police at once left Newgate. When Campbell had told them that 
 they were to be discharged, they knew well that in such a matter he would keep 
 his word, and that there was no hope for them whatever; but never before had 
 any one dared to take so prompt a revenge upon him ; and when he was picked 
 up by the grinning and delighted turnkeys, he could not speak one word, for he 
 was really half choked with rage, and his eyes were completely blinded by the two 
 scientific hits he had received upon them. 
 
 " Lor, sir,' 1 said one of the turnkeys, " what a pity !" 
 • " You aint hurt, I hope," said another. " The villain didn't hit you in the eve, 
 did-he, sir?" 
 
 " Well, he didn't go for to do it, you may depend, sir," added a third. 
 
 Campbell was furious, and broke away from them with a howl of rage and pain, 
 just managing to see glimmeringly the way to his own office, where it was his 
 duty to sit up all night to receive the reports of the River Police, of which he had 
 the control. 
 
 The morning was stealing on apace. A bright and a beautiful morning it was 
 too, for the storm of the preceding night had chased away all sorts of gloomy 
 vapours, and imparted a vitality and an elasticity to the air such as it [had not had 
 for many weeks. 
 
 The sweet, early sun shone upon the walls of Newgate, gilding even their rough 
 
310 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 outlines with beauty, even as some homely countenance is pleasant to look upon 
 when we can see upon it the impress of good feelings. 
 
 Adam Beech was roughly awakened from an uneasy slumber into which he had 
 fallen as the morning came. It was necessary that he should be conveyed to a 
 police-office, in order to be regularly committed for trial on the charge of murder- 
 ing the police-officer. A coarse and scanty breakfast was given to him, which he 
 partook of in sullen silence. 
 
 There were evident appearances of deep mental suffering upon his brow. No 
 one could pass such a night as he had passed without feeling most acutely its 
 effects. There are moments even of mental anguish, which stamp the record of 
 their presence indeliby upon the countenance ; and surely the misery of recollec- 
 tion that had been his during his sojourn in the cell, had comprehended many 
 such moments. He looked, as one of the turnkeys remarked, ten years older than 
 when he was brought in the night before. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter with you?" said one of the turnkeys to him ; " you 
 look as if you had seen something in the night." 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " The deuce you have ! What was it like V' 
 
 Beech only shuddered ; but he made no reply. It would, indeed, have been 
 too long a tale to tell to any casual inquirer what he had seen, or thought he saw, 
 within the narrow precincts of his dungeon during that most dreadful night. 
 
 And now, the hour had come when the officer, who had charge of Adam Beech, 
 thought it necessary to proceed with him to Bow-street, and, accordingly, he hurried 
 him to depart. Adam was most carefully and securely handcuffed, for the officer 
 was not without his suspicions that the mild and apparently subdued manner of 
 his prisoner might, after all, be only a cloak for some fierce and terrible design 
 that might be productive of much mischief to others, even if it did not succeed in 
 procuring the escape of Adam Beech. 
 
 This was a supposition not at all of an improbable nature ; the desperate cha- 
 racter of the individual was well known, and if, as was most probably the case, he 
 really contemplated his escape, it would be but natural for him, in the first 
 instance, to adopt some course of conduct calculated to dispel suspicion. The 
 officials of his prison could not have the least idea of those circumstances apart 
 from his criminality that exercised so powerful a control over his imagination. 
 And thus we shall perceive h'dw every circumstance aided and assisted in the 
 production of a result which amounted, by such slow yet certain means, as almost to 
 enforce a belief in a principle of fatality as regarded the career of that bold, bad 
 man, the shadowy outline of whose existence we have depicted to the reader. 
 
 The suspicions of the officers set them diligently to work to counteract 
 any meditated escape on the part ot their prisoner; but, although with an 
 ingenuity that did them infinite credit, they thought of a number of possible 
 schemes which he might put in practice, they could be certain of none of them. 
 
 They well knew, however, that all the interior arrangements of Newgate were 
 as well known to professional highwaymen, housebreakers, and other disturbers 
 of public morals, as they were to the official persons intimately connected with 
 those arrangements. It was no bad idea, therefore, on the part of the officers 
 j having charge of Adam Beech, to completely alter all the minor details connected 
 j with bringing him from the cell in which he had been placed into the open air. 
 
 " If," they reasoned, " he means anything, and has arranged any plan of defen- 
 l Hive operations, such . must be clearly and evidently contingent upon some known 
 j arrangement ; to alter those arrangements then, would he to defeat any such plan," 
 
 and thereto e was it that they al ered them, even down tu the smallest minutiae. 
 I They did not conduct him to the vestibule of Newgate by the ordinary route, 
 | but irj a circuitous manner, through a number of narrow, unfrequented passages, 
 upon the walls of which had collected damp of many years, and the atmosphere of 
 which w<is dark and heavy with unwholesome exhalations. 
 I They opened doors, the locks of which had not been made to yield within the 
 j memory of the oldest servitors of that gloomy prison-house ; and so they marched 
 
 t 1 — : ' ■ 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 on, one strong man before him and behind, each ready for anything that might 
 occur, calculated to indicate the prisoner was about to make the attempt they 
 believed he bad conceived and matured. 
 
 It manifested something - for the wide-spread reputation, the notoriety which 
 Adam Beech bad obtained, that eo much pains were taken with him ; for what 
 "was he yet in years but something little above boyhood ? the lapse of time was 
 but small since we presented him to the reader, in such a shape that men shrunk 
 from association with him, and it was not until his ready wit, his power to plan 
 and contrive, and his determined boldness in the execution of such plans and con- 
 trivances, gained him their respect, that they began to forget to what a mere lad 
 they were giving way, and allowing their older, but not better judgments to 
 succumb to. 
 
 But Adam Beech, as he thus, with such anxiety of caution, was conducted from 
 that gloomy cell, in which he had passed such frightful hours of mental retrospec- 
 tion, little heeded where he had been taken. 
 
 The officer who walked in front of him ever and anon turned and looked 
 curiously into his countenance 5 with an effort to ascertain what effect the change 
 had upon him. But he gathered from an inspection of Adam Beech's face no 
 matter for congratulation as regarded the alteration that had been made ; there was 
 upon him a look of fixed despair — that very apathy of hopelessness which is such a 
 mockery of tranquillity — such an expression upon any human countenance must 
 either be the result of such hours as Adam Beech had passed, or the very 
 perfection of art ; the officers decided it was the latter, and so they redoubled their 
 vigilance where no vigilance whatever was required, for a child" might at that time 
 have led Adam Beech where he pleased, or to any doom. 
 
 Now they arrived at the bottom of a flight of stone stairs, which seemed to 
 ascend from those subterraneous regions where they had been wandering, to the 
 ordinary level of the prison. These stairs were set at a steep angle, and Adam 
 Beech mechanically ascended them after stumbling against the first one, so busy 
 with the cares of thought which filled his disturbed brain that he scarcely heeded 
 the alteration of movement. These stone stairs were about fifty in number ; they 
 terminated upon a narrow landing, not much more than sufficient for the prisoner 
 and his two conductors to stand upon. 
 
 Any bold and daring man, caring nothing for personal consequences, might there 
 have obtained a frightful victory over his captors ; any struggle upon that confined 
 spot must have- immediately precipitated the whole party down that staircase, 
 which, at a glance from above, resembled some dark and deep abyss, the extent 
 of which could only be a subject of conjecture or of a frightful momentary 
 knowledge to any mangled wretch who might reach its bottom to expire. 
 
 Some feeling of the peril of such a situation must have crossed the mind of one of 
 the officers, for he made rapid and agitated efforts to unlock a door which imme- 
 diately faced the head of the stairs, and which certainly was not removed a greater 
 distance than three feet from the topmost step. 
 
 M Confound the lock !" he muttered ; " if I had given it a thought it should have 
 been open ready for use." 
 
 " I could have opened it," said his companion, 44 had. I known you w T ere coming 
 this way, but I did not think it, for this door leads into the stone-room, and you 
 know what sort of a lodger there is there. 
 
 " By Heavens ! yes," said the other." It did not strike me before. The^Governor 
 ordered the body of the dead woman and child to be laid in that room. We can't 
 go back now — come on." 
 
 "Well, there is one comfort," muttered the other, " we've no further to go, 
 I am half-choked with the damp air in the passages we have come along — give me 
 the key and let me have a try at the lock." 
 
 ■* No, no, wait a bit, I have got it now, it's only rusted in-— there, that's right, and 
 a troublesome job it's been this way." 
 
 They had been up to this moment carrying a light, for the passages they had 
 traversed were, with very few exceptions, enveloped in profound darkness, but now 
 
312 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 that door was opened— which was one of the communications between what is called 
 upper and lower Newgate, as dividing those parts of the building which are reared 
 above the ordinary level of the earth, from those which have been dug deep into 
 its bowels, and in a more barbarous age than ours were considered necessary places 
 of incarceration for the worst class of criminals— a sudden blaze of daylight burst 
 upon them. , • ••• ' . . 
 
 The room was really what might be called a dark one, but the contrast between 
 it and the gloomy passages which Adam Beech had so recently left, made it appear 
 quite refulgent with light. It was destitute of furniture, with the exception ol a 
 rough wooden table, which stood in its centre ; on that table, covered by a sheet, 
 which had shrunk close to the still proportions, lay, what at a glance was recog- 
 nizable to be a human form. The two men involuntarily paused, and Adam Beech, 
 with a start, seemed to awaken from the lethargic state in which he had been, 
 shuddered as he pointed to the table, and exclaimed hurriedly— 
 
 " What refinement of torture is this ? Wherefore do you bring me here t lake 
 me away from the dead! " 
 
 " You need not be afraid," said the officer who followed him, stepping forward; 
 " it's only a girl who was drowned in the river last night. Some of our men stopped 
 with her at the door, and the governor had her laid here till morning." 
 
 As the man spoke, he advanced and displaced a corner of the covering that was 
 over the face of the dead. Some invisible power seemed to urge Adam Beech for- 
 ward; with clasped hands and straining eyes rigidly set, while a short, convulsive 
 tremor shook every limb, he looked for an instant upon that face, so beautiful, 
 even in death. 
 
 " Mary," he said, <r we meet at last." 
 
 He made an effort to mutter something else — perhaps he did utter it — but it was 
 lost to the ears of the officers ; for two steps backward brought him to the head 
 of the stairs, and in another moment he disappeared headlong down that steep 
 declivity. 
 
 CHAPTER. XL. 
 
 MY SECOND VISIT TO NEWGATE IN SEARCH OF INFORMATION. 
 
 This story of Adam Beech, I must confess, to me ended somewhat abruptly, 
 and I turned over the last page of the MS., which had contained the tirecital, with 
 a strong feeling that not only should 1 like, but that I ought, to find something 
 more about him yet. 
 
 To be sure, Mar%^Phillips was dead, and so was the child, so that, as regards 
 them, I had certainly* arrived at a climax beyond which it would be difficult to get; 
 but it was in the matter of Adam Beech himself that I felt I knew not quite 
 enough, and that I should be glad to know more. 
 
 It was not enough for me that he had precipitated himself down, that staircase, 
 in such a manner that one could scarcety suppose it possible he could escape 
 death, but I certainly felt, perhaps, what some of my readers may call a morbid 
 curiosity, to know if he were killed on the instant, or lay there lingering in 
 pain. 
 
 I could well imagine the looks of the officers, when their prisoner thus left them. 
 I could well imagine the consternation that would depict itself upon their coun- 
 tenances, and with what straining and anxious eyes they would look down that 
 deep abyss, whence Adam Beech had precipitated himself. 
 
 But when I say I could imagine all this, I, at the time, congratulated myself 
 that I could do so, for it seemed as if I was not doomed to acquire any further 
 information upon the subject. 
 
 Still, among the mass of papers that was before me, I thought it possible enough 
 I might find something in the shape of a little sequel or addendum to Adam 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 313 
 
 Beech's story, which might give a completeness to the affair it certainly at present 
 wanted. 
 
 I was more encouraged to commence a search of this kind among the papers, 
 because I could not forget that, in the case of Captain Hawk, the highwayman, 
 I found several stray scraps which were interesting as fragmental portions of his 
 history. 
 
 I accordingly with care, so as not to displace the manuscripts before me, turned 
 them over, searching anxiously for the name of Adam Beech. 
 
 For a time my labour was in vain ; but at length I came to a double leaf of 
 paper, on the outside of which was written — 
 
 " Evidence for supposing that the authorities of Newgate were not very 
 particular in the disposal of the dead, and particularly with regard to the case of 
 Adam Beech." 
 
 No. 40. 
 
314 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Here, then," I said to myself, "is what I want," and hastily unfolding the 
 paper, I found it to contain the following statement : — 
 
 Coroners' inquisitions at Newgate are conducted rather roughly, at the same 
 time that they cannot be avoided, because it is the imperative law of the land, that 
 upon whoever dies in a prison there shall be an inquest, whether that death be the 
 result of natural causes or not.; there o. -% notwithstanding they thought it an 
 unnecessary trouble, an inquiry was forced to be instituted into the causes of 
 the death of Adam Beech. When he fell backwards down the flight of stairs in 
 the manner recorded in the history of his life and actions, the officers felt that it 
 was their duty to follow him, but they hesitated to do so for all that, feeling that 
 it was one of the most uncomfortable duties that for some time it had fallen to their 
 lot to execute. 
 
 They had such a lively recollection of the dreadful expression of Adam Beech's 
 face as he fell, that they dreaded to go after him, lest they should see a similar 
 expression exaggerated and made more hideous still, on the grim countenance of 
 death. 
 
 To be sure, there were two of them, but then, the stairs were so narrow 
 that they could not both descend together, and the difficulty seemed to be 
 who should go first. In this dilemma they decided upon neither of them going, 
 but together they repaired at once to the governor, to tell him what had happened. 
 He was not a man who was likely to entertain any fears upon the subject, and, 
 with an expression of regret, accompanied with one of censure against the officers 
 for bringing Beech through an apartment in which there was a dead body, he 
 hastened personally to see what mischief had been done. 
 
 Commanding the men to follow him, he, with a lamp in his hand, descended the 
 narrow staircase cautiously, holding the lamp in advance of him as he went. 
 The two officers hud their curiosity wound up to the highest pitcjh, and their fears 
 being considerably, abated by the fact of the presence of the governor, they kept 
 close behind him, peering over his shoulders, in order to obtain as early a glimpse 
 as possible of the dead body. 
 
 When the governor reached within six stairs of the bottom of the flight, he 
 paused, for the feet of Adam Beech were upon the last two steps, and had he been 
 advancing hurriedly, instead of with a caution that characterised his movements, he 
 would most probably have trodden upon the body of the man, who certainly might 
 have done better things than lead the life we have portrayed, and die the death we 
 have depicted. 
 
 " He is here," said the governor ; " Heaven knows if he he alive or dead, but it 
 is our duty to remove him. Lift him up carefully^ my men, and carry him to the 
 room above." 
 
 The turnkeys shrunk from their task ; but in Newgate the governor is a very 
 despotic personage, and doubtless it is highly necessary that he should be so, 
 as, however the men disliked the job, they did not dream for a moment of 
 rebelling against the order which gave it them to do, but after some moments of 
 hesitation as to which should take the head and which should take the feet, Adam 
 Beech was slowly lifted up that staircase to the same room where Mary Phillips 
 and her child lay in the embrace of death. 
 
 By the dead weight which he was, the man had no doubt but that life had com- 
 pletely deserted him, although, by that, dim and dubious lamp-light, they could not 
 well perceive the nature and extent of the injuries which he had received. 
 
 A few minutes sufficed to reach the stone apartment above ; and then they made 
 room for him on the same bier where lay the mortal remains of her who, but for 
 him, might have loved and died happily, the charm of some domestic circle, until 
 old age should creep gently upon her" like the calm and beautiful decline of a 
 summer's day. 
 
 A more minute examination now soon enabled the governor to pesceive that 
 death .must have been instantaneous, for the back of Adam Beech's head having 
 come in contact wifh some of the stone steps, was most frightfully fractured. 
 
 " Well," he said, " let him lie there; there must be an inquest upon him to- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 315 
 
 morrow ; and as such is the case, I do not see why the same jury should not, as it 
 conies within. the same coroner's jurisdiction, enter into an inquiry concerning the 
 death of this poor young creature you found in the Thames. Lock the door, and 
 let them both lie there in peace." 
 
 This was done ; and a strange and instructive sight it would have been for any 
 one who had known Adam Beech and Mary Phillips in life to see them there, 
 lying side by side in death. Both had met with a death violent and out of the 
 ordinary course of nature, and how strangely swift and fatal had been their 
 career ! Neither of them at that time had reached the age of twenty ; for when 
 first introduced to the reader, it will be recollected they were but as girl and boy, 
 and that a few short years had sufficed to complete the career of both. 
 . W here now was that holy and calm affection which had sufficed to support 
 Mary Phillips through all the pain and inconvenience of the life she led at Madame 
 Pompadour's? Where was now that gentle spirit which whispered such good and 
 beautiful counsel to Adam Beech? Where was the more than earthly beauty that 
 had attracted all eyes and all hearts, and made her the beloved of all except those 
 who were so cold-hearted and so selfish as to love nothing but their own wretched 
 existence ? 
 
 And Adam Beech— what now was he, with all his ambition, all his courage, and 
 marvellous resolution ? Nothing but a senseless corpse hastening to corruption and 
 the oblivion of the grave, by the side of her to whose existence he had been a blight 
 and a desolation. 
 
 The morning came bright, clear, and serene ; the storm of the preceding night, 
 during the continuance of which Mary Phillips had sought repose in the cold arms 
 of death, had cleared the atmosphere and chased away many hovering cloud?, that 
 for days past had obscured the sunshine. 
 
 But that bright and beautiful daylight came not for Adam Beech or for her 
 whom we must call his poor victim. Alike indifferent were they to the summer's 
 warmth or the winter's snow ; the grave had not closed over them, but the apathy 
 of death was at their hearts. 
 
 The governor, the first thing in the morning, gave notice to the coroner of the 
 fact of two dead bodies lying at Newgate, on which it would be necessary to hold 
 inquests, and for twelve o'clock on that day a jury was summoned to inquire into 
 the circumstances. 
 
 It was short work in both cases. The death of Adam Beech had no mystery 
 about it—all was clear and distinct ; so that in his case a verdict was at once 
 returned of " Accidental death." 
 
 Then in the case of Mary Phillips nothing was known except that she had been 
 picked up in the Thames, and that Adam Beech had called her Mary, really 
 knowing or fancying he knew her immediately previous to her decease, so a verdict 
 of " Found drowned " was returned as regarded her, and the bodies ordered to be 
 given up to the parents for burial. 
 
 It turned out, however, that a Dr. Fairfox, who was then in considerable practice 
 in the city of London, had a contract with most of the parishes, by which he 
 obtained possession of the dead bodies of those persons who died and had no 
 friends to claim them, or to make any disturbance about what became of their 
 remains. 
 
 Accordingly, when the beadle of the parish, who by law was bound to go to 
 the expense of burying Adam Beech and Mary Phillips, received information that 
 the bodies were lying at Newgate and must be removed, went to Dr. Fairfox and 
 stated the case, informing him that the bodies on that evening would be brought 
 to his house. 
 
 " That's extremely awkward," said Dr. Fairfox, " for I have this moment in 
 the house two very fine male bodies which I must use ; for you know, Mr. Beadle, 
 these sort of things don't keep well, so that you see I don't want the body .of the 
 man you speak of ; he would be an incumbrance to me, as my pupils will have 
 quite enougli to do with the two I have." 
 
316 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " What !'- exclaimed the beadle, " do you mean to tell me, doctor, as the blesse 
 parish is to be put to the expense of burying of him V 
 
 " The parish may eat him for all I care," said the doctor, " my bargain is to 
 take what I want and pay a certain price ; the female subject I do want, but the 
 male I do not, so there is an end of it." 
 
 " Well, I never," said the beadle, " I made sure as you would have took the 
 trouble off our hands of both of them, and now I shall be blamed." 
 
 " I can't help that, Mr. Beadle, notwithstanding I certainly have a great respect 
 for you, and this I will say, that when you can make it convenient to die, I will 
 take you whether I want a subject or not." 
 
 '* Take me ! Cut up a beadle and make him into a atomy ! I should say the 
 end of the world would come about then, doctor, and society at large will be pulled 
 up by the roots." 
 
 The doctor laughed, but he was immovable, and the beadle had the melancholy 
 satisfaction of thinking that, at all events, the parish would have the expense of 
 burying one of the parties upon whom the inquest had been held at Newgate. 
 
 But parishes have great ingenuity in avoiding responsibilities, and when the 
 beadle stated the difficulty to one of the board, he was at once promised half a 
 guinea to himself if he could get rid of Adam Beech's bod}', so that that functionary 
 had a great temptation to do his best in effecting its disposal. 
 
 It was towards evening, and just between lights, that is, lamp-light and day- 
 light, when he reached Newgate for the purpose of freeing that establishment of its 
 dead incumbrances, and quite up to that hour he had not been able to hit upon any 
 scheme for the disposal of Adam Beech. 
 
 This was a most grievous thing, for he saw the half guinea slipping through his 
 fingers. 
 
 He certainly might have disposed of it to some member of the medical profession, 
 but that he was forbidden to do, for the parish was fearful of dealing with any one 
 not specially known to them in such matters, inasmuch as the tide of popular feeling 
 was so strong against dissection, that a regular riot might have been the consequence 
 of a discovery of such a thing taking place. 
 
 With the officials of Newgate the beadle felt he need not be particular, and over 
 sundry pots of porter he bewailed his fate to the turnkeys, swearing that he would 
 not mind giving a crown to any one who could get him out of the difficulty. 
 
 No means, however, presented itself, and he accompanied the two turnkeys who 
 had brought the dead body of Adam Beech up the narrow staircase to the above 
 room where he and poor Mary Phillips lay. 
 
 " Here they are/' said one of the men; " your men, Mr. Beadle, had better 
 bring up the shells, put the bodies in, and be off at once." 
 
 " Now isn't it a hard thing," said the beadle, as he looked at Adam Beech, 
 " isn't it a precious hard thing that a parish is forced to go to the expense of 
 burying this fellow V 
 
 " It is," said one of the turnkeys, " but what is to be done 1" 
 
 *• Now listen to me," said the other ; " you say, Mr. Beadle, you can stand 
 five shillings to get rid of the body of the man?" 
 
 " Yes, I can." 
 
 " Then where's the odds ? I'll tell you what we will do. It will perhaps b e 
 many a year before any one goes up or down that staircase again ; you see it is at 
 the end of the passage, and there's no occasion to come into this room, for it leads 
 to nowhere ; we should not have come this way, only that we thought Adam 
 Beech was going to try to escape. 
 
 " What do you mean by all this?" said the other officer. "If you have got 
 anything to say, out with it." 
 
 " Well, then, I mean to say this — we can keep it all snug among ourselves, and 
 nobody need be a bit the wiser, if we pitch the body down the stairs again." 
 
 " What a beautiful idea," said the beadle, " now you are a genius ; I thought 
 of that, do you know, only somehow 1 did not like to propose it." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 317 
 
 *' It's very little matter who thought of it," said the officer. " Is it to be done, 
 that's the question V 
 
 " Well," said the other, i( I don't seem much to like it, although I know it can 
 be done in a minute, and there's really no harm in it." 
 
 " If there's no harm in it, why do you hesitate?" 
 
 " I don't say that I exactly hesitate. Let it be done then, for all I care. Jt 
 can't matter to the poor devil himself a straw what becomes of him now." 
 
 " Of course not," said the beadle, who was really delighted at the idea. " You 
 are sensible men, both of you. All I can say is, if 1 were dead, I'd rather, aye! 
 a great deal rather lay at the bottom of a flight of stairs, in quite a comfortable 
 airy situation, than be buried anywhere — that's my opinion, I can tell you." 
 
 " Well, well, don't make any more talk about it. Do it at once, and have 
 done with it, if it is to be done." 
 
 " Spoke like a sensible man," said the beadle. ft Do it at once, and I'll see 
 you both safe through it, and there's the five shillings down. Only think what a 
 comfort it is to know that there is five shillings' worth of beer to come in at different 
 times when you want it." 
 
 This argument had the desired effect. The turnkeys opened the little door in the 
 stone-room, and looked for a few moments down the dark staircase, which more 
 resembled a well than anything else. 
 
 Then they slowly advanced towards the bier, and one of them took the head and 
 the other the feet of Adam Beech. 
 
 Even then they hesitated, and the beadle, in a very taunting manner, wished to 
 know if they were afraid, and began to gather up the five shillings which he had 
 laid down for their use. 
 
 " Come on," said one of them, with sudden energy ; it's only a minute's work 
 after all ; come on, and let's do it at once." 
 
 They did so, for the body was lifted, carried to the head of the stairs, and while 
 they averted their heads from it, it was plunged down in * moment. 
 
 They heard it, fall with a dull and sickening sort of sound, and then they heard 
 it go from step to step, until all was still, and they looked at each other, and 
 shuddered. 
 
 " I wouldn't do another such a job/' said one, " for ten times the money; it's 
 frightful." 
 
 " Shut the door," said the other, " shut the door." 
 
 " Oh ! stuff," said the beadle ; i( say you wouldn't do it, indeed ? Wouldn't you 
 go and get him up again now for another five shillings V* 
 
 " No, we wouldn't ; but we will throw you after him for nothing, so here goes." 
 
 " Murder 1" cried the beadle, as the man laid hands upon him, "murder! a 
 joke is a joke, you know ; but don't carry it too far." 
 
 " Why, you great stupid, you don't suppose, do you, that any reasonable man 
 would get in trouble on your account ? Be off, and take the woman with you." 
 
 The beadle seemed rather glad to escape after this, for he did not half like the 
 looks of the turnkey, who had suggested the extremely practical but uncomfortable 
 idea of throwing him down the staircase. In five minutes he was gone. The 
 turnkeys locked up the little door leading from the stone-room, and with a feeling 
 of regret that they had listened to the fascinations of the beadle and his five 
 shillings, they walked slowly to the vestibule to drown some of their cares in 
 copious measures of porter from the Half-moon public-house in the immediate 
 vicinity. 
 
 Here the addendum to the story of Adam Beech ended, and I felt more satisfied 
 that I had come to the end of his adventures, both living and dead, than I had 
 done before. 
 
 There was one thought now, however, that came across me that I could not 
 help entertaining, and I said to myself — 
 
 After all, it is not many years since these things happened, and every year a 
 more humane policy has subsisted as regards prisoners. It is possible enough 
 
318 NEWGATE. 
 
 that that little door in the stone-rooin has never been opened since the occasion 
 recorded in these papers. 
 
 I've been longing for some impulse to repeat my visit to Newgate since that 
 time, which I had passed in the coffin cell, but 1 like not to visit it without a 
 motive stronger than the one of mere curiosity to wander about the gloomy pas- 
 sages and dream of the past. 
 
 " Now," I said, " 1 have an ample motive for it. Those gloomy passages have 
 not been traversed, nor that narrow staircase, so specially mentioned, ascended, 
 since the time of Adam Beech. I shall surely find some "remains of him at the 
 foot of the stairs." 
 
 I could well imagine that, if I did, it would be far from an agreeable sight to 
 look upon, but yet curiosity overcomes all consideration ; and, besides, it would be 
 something to verify the story of Adam Beech, as I had done that of Captain Hawk, 
 the celebrated highwayman. 
 
 In truth, it needed but little persuasion to induce me to attempt the adventure ; 
 and I thoroughly made up my mind that at the same hour which I had found 
 propitious for my former visit to Newgate, I would go there again, and explore 
 some of its secret recesses. 
 
 The idea, once formed, was just calculated to grow upon me every moment, and it 
 did so to that extent, that I became quite impatient to fulfil it, rmd waited with no 
 small degree of impatience for the hour to come at which I had determined to 
 start upon my expedition. 
 
 There seemed something extremely tempting in the next portion of manuscript 
 to that which had detailed the life of Adam Beech, but I controlled my impatience 
 as best as I could, and at about eleven o'clock at night, while a slight lain was 
 falling, I made my way again to Newgate-market. 
 
 Of course, I did not neglect to take with me all the necessary accessories to 
 a full exploration of some of the underground places which I was going to visit, 
 for I thought now, whether I was successful or not in my search for the staircase, 
 down which Adam Beech had fallen, I would make an extensive tour among 
 the passages and vaults of Newgate, to which it was manifestly in my power to 
 gam admission. 
 
 I shall be sure, I thought, to find enough to gratify my curiosity and repay me 
 for my toil. 
 
 I was particularly careful that no one should notice me as I descended into the 
 ofTal cellar, and then, as before, having the' fear of the well before my eyes, down 
 which the old mendicant, had fallen, and at the bottom of which he still lay, I 
 stopped upon the staircase until I had obtained a light, and then descended the 
 remainder of the way. 
 
 I produced my key, and opening the little secret door, in another moment I 
 knew I was in the precincts oi Newgate. 
 
 If possible I now regarded that building with a greater amount of interest than I 
 had bestowed upon it when I visited it for the purpose of finding out the coffin 
 cell; for now I had the additional stimulus of attempting to discover the remains of 
 Adam Beech. It was something very gratifying to me to feel that I, and only I, 
 had such a free admission to all the underground parts of Newgate, of which, no 
 doubt, the very officials of the present day are in a state of the most profound 
 ignorance. And no foot, I said to myself, has trodden for years in these passages 
 but my own ; they are sacred to me— I only seem to have the right of entry and 
 the ability to explore the secrets of this ancient and most stupendous prison-house. 
 
 And yet, although I knew that I was alone— yet, although I knew that I had 
 it all to myself, I could not help involuntarily pausing now and then to listen, as 
 if it were possible that some human sound would disturb the repose of that place. 
 
 But all was hushed as the very grave. Not the remotest semblance of a step 
 or of a whisper came across my ears, and I walked on, taking for some distance 
 the same route which I knew led me in the direction of the coffin cell, but hoping 
 that I should find some cross passage that would enable me to think that I had hit 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 319 
 
 upon the one which was terminated by the flight of stairs leading to the stone room, 
 which I should certainly like to see. 
 
 As I went on I found that I need not at all trouble myself about finding 
 out numerous passages of all sorts and descriptions, any one of which, if it did 
 but terminate properly, might in appearance answer well the description that the 
 manuscript had given of that which led to the narrow stairs. But I was dooKied to 
 much disappointment; for although I followed several of these passages most 
 perseveringly, I found no staircase terminating any one of them, and began to think 
 that I was somehow on the wrong scent altogether, and that some of the numerous 
 door-ways that I saw might possibly lead me into some other part of the 
 subterranean portion of the building that might reveal to me the object of my 
 search. 
 
 But as regarded those doors, it was much easier to project passing through 
 them than actually to do so ; for most of them were fast, and they were of so 
 massive a structure that I had no hope, unaided by powerful weapons, of succeeding 
 in opening those of them that were locked. Upon a critical examination, however, 
 of some of them, I found that both the door and its fastenings were so much 
 decayed by time that I could not anticipate any very great difficulty if, I had, for 
 instance, a crowbar with me, in breaking them open, and it struck me that upon 
 another occasion, if I chose to bring with me an implement of that description, I 
 might achieve much more in the way of exploring the innermost recesses of those 
 subterraneous places than by any other means 1 could possibly hope to use ; but 
 still I was not going upon that occasion to give up my expectations of arriving at a 
 satisfactory result, merely because I had not brought with me all the aids to its 
 achievement which I might have done. 
 
 I was well pleased, after trying a number of doors, to find that at last one of 
 them yielded, and admitted me into a cavernous sort of place, which the feeble 
 rays of the lamp which 1 carried were insufficient to show me the extent of. 
 
 I walked forward with caution ; the ground upon which I was, partook more of 
 a gravelly character than that of the passages, and altogether, from the extent of 
 the place and its general appearance, 1 was convinced it had not been used for the 
 purposes of confinement ; but what really might have been its use I had no means 
 of forming any conjecture. As near as I could guess it was about thirty feet in 
 length, and immediately opposite the door at which I had entered was another of 
 similar size and construction, which was likewise open, and upon passing through 
 it I found that it led to a number of narrow passages similar to those I had left. 
 
 It seemed to me, then, that this large apartment, if it might be so called, divided 
 underground Newgate into two portions; and if I did not succeed, in the one I had 
 been exploring, in discovering the little staircase leading to the stone room, I had 
 every hope that I should be able to do so now among these passages that were 
 quite new to me. So identical were they in general appearance to those which I 
 had left, that, had I not been fully aware that I had passed from one subterranean 
 labyrinth to another, I might have still supposed myself wandering about, as at 
 first, among the passages immediately contiguous to the offal cellar. 
 
 I soon found that, although in general building and appearance these passages 
 were the same as the others, yet they had a much more ancient look. Gigantic 
 spiders' webs hung from the ceilings, like faded banners in some ancient church, 
 which, from lapse of time, have all assumed the same sombre hue, and present no 
 indications of the nation to which they once belonged. 
 
 Suddenly, as I passed an entrance to a passage which was at right angles to the 
 one I was pursuing, I heard a strange, scuffling noise, which gave me a pang of 
 momentary alarm, and then an immense rat, the like of which f had never seen, 
 dashed out and scampered off, as if the object of my visit was the most directly 
 adverse thing to his interests that could possibly be imagined. 
 
 I had never seen such a monster, and the sight of him put me in mind of a rat 
 which, by-the-by, I had never seen, bu twhich inhabited a house in which I lodged 
 once, and whose tail, my landlady always insisted, was fully equal in length and 
 girth to a cart whip. 
 
320 NEWGATE. 
 
 I was glad I had seen her ; for now, if I heard any noise, it would not give me 
 any alarm, because I should attribute it entirely to the gambols of some of his 
 friends and relations. 
 
 1 paused a moment, debating within myself whether I should pursue this 
 smaller passage from whence the rat had emerged, or continue in the one I was, 
 and come back to it, if that presented me with no satisfactory termination. 
 
 I decided upon the former course, and went up the narrow passage. It was 
 long and winding, and once or twice I got my head and face so entangled in thick 
 cobwebs, that I had the greatest difficulty in getting myself free from them ; but I 
 persevered and went onward, although the lamp I carried burnt very dimly, 
 thereby convincing me that the air was not favourable for the support of animal 
 life. I felt, too, that it was oppressive and heavy ; but that circumstance, instead 
 of deterring me, gave me a hope that I was on the track I wished, inasmuch as 
 from the description of the narrow passage leading from the staircase and the 
 stone-room, there could be no effectual current of air to carry off noxious vapours. 
 
 The lamp burned dimmer still, but I found, if I stooped and held it towards the 
 ground, I got into a purer stratum of air, and could breathe with less inconveni- 
 ence. So on I went, full of hope that I should soon arrive at some consummation 
 of my wishes, as regarded the finding of some memorial of Adam Beech. 
 
 I found myself treading upon something which yielded and cracked a little under 
 my feet like an old wicker basket ; indeed I was so persuaded that that was what it 
 was, as to pass on for a few paces without taking any notice of it ; but then some- 
 thing possessed me to return, and I held the lamp close to the ground to examine 
 the object. 
 
 1 had been treading upon the rib of a mouldering and decayed skeleton. 
 
 "This, then, is Adam Beech," I cried, and, holding my light as high as I could, 
 I turned away, and saw before me a narrow flight of stairs, such as the addendum to 
 the narrative had described. 
 
 I placed the lamp upon the floor, and folding my arms I fixed my eye upon those 
 yellow and damp-looking remains of mortality, which, I felt certain, had at one 
 time made up the earthly structure of Adam Beech. 
 
 " And it has come to this/' 1 said ; 4i here is all that remains of the boy, whose 
 ambition to be bad was so great as to induce him to become a listener to the 
 counsels of the housebreakers, at the Old Fleet Tavern. 
 
 " This is the lad who, with unequalled daring, overcame the gigantic Benjamin, 
 who guarded the banker's house, and took away a sum of money of very large 
 amount. 
 
 rt There are the remains of the lad whom the cunning Isaacson declared to be a 
 prodigy. What is he now V* 
 
 The skeleton seemed still enveloped in some portions of ragged clothing, but 
 there were no remains of anything like flesh or integument. No, the Tats had had 
 a bountiA.U"meal, no doubt, for many a day, off Adam Beech, and perchance that 
 one which I had seen as having grown to so monstrous a size owed that circum- 
 stance to such a large supply of animal food. Was it not horrible, too, of rats 
 and other vermin feeding upon human remains ? It was horrible, most horrible ! 
 
 If, in life, and at a time when he believed he had the world before him, when 
 he fancied that he could command about him, and that they who intimated that his 
 years would be few, were but ill-omened croakers, then, at such a time as that, if 
 any one whispered to him, 
 
 "Adam Beech, you will die a violent and painful death, and your body will be 
 thrown, as food for rats, into a damp hole, never visited by the light of day, would 
 he not have laughed to scorn the prophesy V* 
 
 Most undoubtedly he would, and not for an instant would he have conceived it 
 possible that such a result would ensue. 
 
 And yet, such a prophecy, if it had been made, would have been literally fui- 
 fulled. He had been absolutely eaten up by rats, and all that remained of him was 
 the bony structure they could not devour. 
 
 I lifted up my lamp, and turned away s : ck!y from the sight. I should have liked 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 321 
 
 to have brought away some relic of Adam Beech, but there was nothing to be had 
 but a mouldy fetid bone, and such an object I had no inclination to take with me. 
 I left him, therefore, where he was, fully impressed with the truth of the revelations 
 that the old mendicant's manuscript contained, since I had met with such unequi- 
 vocal testimony in the ghastly remains of Beech. 
 
 After this incident, although I certainly had expected it, I somehow lost my 
 desire to make further searches on that occasion amongthe, vaults and passages, 
 
 and rather felt inclined to leave the place at present, and go homewards to search 
 tor fresh food for reflection in the old man's manuscript. 
 
 The sight of the skeleton form, not for any superstitious feelings, but because it 
 was simply of itself revolting, had indisposed ma for Anther adventures on that 
 evening, so I made my way very quickly to the offal cellar, and carefully closin* 
 the door behind me, that door which opened upon the hidden portions of New- 
 
 No, 41. 
 
. Jl 
 
 322 NEWGATE. - 
 
 gate, I put out my light, hastened up the steps, and stood once more in the open 
 air, which I breathed with quite a sensation of pleasure, after having been immured 
 for so long a time in the damp, unwholesome atmosphere emanating from those 
 passages, and from the gastly object which one of them contained, as well, as I 
 had no doubt, from the bodies of numerous reptiles who there came into existence, 
 lived, and died. 
 
 I was quite congratulating myself and drawing on my gloves when a man 
 darted out from a door-way, and seizing hold of me in that scientific manner 
 adopted by police officers, viz., by the cuff of the coat by the one hand, the collar 
 by another, he cried out in a triumphant sort of way, — 
 So I've get you at last, have I V 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE TROUBLESOME EXPLANATION. 
 
 I must own I was taken a little by surprise at being so suddenly laid hold of, 
 and told that I was caught at last, for such an expression seemed to imply that 
 some great efforts^had been made to catch me at first, which, having failed through 
 some cleverness of mine, enabled this mark when he did catch me, to be so very 
 triumphant about it. 
 
 " I have caught you at last, have IV' he said again. 
 
 *f Well," I said, " you know best, certainly." 
 
 " What do you mean by that 1 You needn't say anything, you know, for I 
 shall put down what you do say." 
 
 " You can put down what you like ; but as you say you have caught me at last, 
 I should like to know what you want to catch me at all for." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Hookey Walker !" cried the man. " Come ajong, my tulip." 
 
 After this very obscure attempt at au explanation, lie was for hurrying me along 
 without condescending to say anything more. 
 
 *■* Stop a bit," I said, and I made a dead stand. " I have a great respect for the 
 constituted authorities when they are doing the state good service, but my objection 
 to having any one's hand upon my collar is so great, that I must request you to 
 remove yours without delay." 
 
 He let go the cuff of my coat, and took from his pocket a little gilt staff, which 
 h^Jield within a hair's breadth of my nose, saying as he did so, — 
 Do you see that, my ancient Koman V 
 
 " I do see it," I said, " with difficulty ; for I have to squint awfully to do so." 
 
 u Well, then, come along." 
 
 Now, it was very well to say, (i corns along," but the sequence to my mind did 
 not seem to follow the proposition, and I said, in as polite a manner as I could, — 
 "You will permit me to decline." 
 
 " What ! you won't then '{ We shall soon see what we shall see." 
 
 Now, from the first I had made up my mind that I would not be taken if I 
 could help it, because that would be certain to involve all the trouble of an 
 explanation from first to last of how I got the key to Newgate, and what I had 
 seen there, as well as the singular death of the old man — all of which would have 
 dragged me into such public notoriety as would have been very annoying, and 
 could answer no good purpose whatever, as I was as innocent of all but curiosity, 
 and that of a most pardonable character, uuder the circumstances, as any one 
 could possibly be. 
 
 '* Pray tell me," I sahl, " of what I am accused, so that I may give you some 
 answer to it perhaps, and satisfy you that you have made some mistake." 
 
 " No mistake at alL Come along — I thought you'd come." 
 
 "Then you never made a better mistake in your life," I said, "fori will not 
 go; and, unless you are a stronger man than you look, or a better wrestler than 
 
A , 
 
 NEWGATE. 323 
 
 I take you for, I shall be under the necessity of laying you on the flat of 
 your back." 
 
 " Was there ever such impudence as that V* he said. 
 
 I was just about to close with him and try my chance, when somebody ran up 
 behind him and gave him such a blow on the top of the hat that it went down to 
 his chin in a moment, then the same ingenious individual laid hoi 1 of one of his 
 ankles with the end of a hooked stick, and gave him such a pull that down went 
 the officer without being able in the slightest degree to help himself. 
 
 M I believe I have rather managed that," said the stranger. " Cut away. 
 What lay are you on P I never saw you before." 
 
 " My friend," I said, " I am certainly obliged to you for rescuing me from the 
 officer. I assure you 1 am an innocent man and have done nothing." 
 
 "A what! an innocent man! And have I been taking all this trouble about 
 somebody as has done nothing ? What a sell !" 
 
 " What do you mean by a sell ?" 
 
 " Why a regular do, to be sure. I thought you had been cracking somebody's 
 crib by seeing who had got hold of^'ou. and now you turns out to be a respectable 
 cove as hasn't done nothing, Blowed, if I aint disgusted." 
 
 My new friend then' walked up to the officer, who lay kicking and sprawling 
 and making violent efforts to get his hat over his nose, and said to him — 
 
 i{ Well, what a fool you must be giving me all this trouble — take that !" 
 
 He gave him two or three sound kicks and then walked away, when I thought 
 it high time to do so likewise. 
 
 I quickened my pace and soon got clear of the market, and, although I did not 
 absolutely run, I certainly walked as though it had been for a wager, and felt a 
 sensation of great relief when I reached my own home after this the most perilous 
 adventuie I had yet had in connection with Newgate. 
 
 I had no doubt that some busy-body had watched me into the cellar, and that 
 all the while I was moralising so comfortably over the remains of Adam Beech, the 
 officer was quietly waiting to take me into custody the moment I again made my 
 appearance. 
 
 Of course, I cannot tell what would have been the result of any personal contest 
 with the officer, but when I came to think of it I felt well enough pleased that I had 
 been spared the necessity of it, and that the thief, for no doubt that was what he 
 was, had come so opportunely to my rescue. 
 
 It was a mortifying thing though now to think that I could not, without incurring 
 the risk of apprehension, visit Newgate, unless I thought of some notable scheme 
 of overcoming that difficulty, and that I did not despair of doing, although nothing 
 at the precise moment, which seemed calculated to insure that purpose, presented 
 itself to me. 
 
 The most direct scheme (but then that would have been a most expensive 
 plan) would have been for me to have taken the house to which the offal cellar 
 belonged, as it was to let, and no one seemed inclined to venture upon it, and in 
 that case, of course, I should be free of all interference, or the possibility of it ; 
 but then for me to take a great butcher's shop, which I certainly did not want, 
 would be rather a ridiculous proceeding, and one I could not very well bring my 
 mind to, to say nothing of the serious expense of such a proceeding, which I 
 hesitated at not a little. 
 
 There- is no hope, I told myself, unless I can hit upon some scheme entirely to 
 elude the vigilance of the police, or otherwise my visits to Newgate are over. 
 
 That I did hit upon a scheme, my readers will eventually perceive, and that I 
 Was enabled thereby to continue my researches to a much greater extent than I 
 had previously thought possible. 
 
 But for the present I was thrown back upon the manuscripts ; and I hoped, 
 although almost against probability, that nothing would occur in them to make 
 another visit to Newgate a proceeding upon which 1 should strongly set my mind, 
 
324 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 because I fully felt all the difficulties that were now attendant upon its 
 execution. 
 
 I exhausted some hours in conjecture, as to from what point I had been 
 observed, so as to give rise to the wish to have me apprehended, and at last I 
 retired to rest, fatigued both in body and mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE MORNING. — THE NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH, AND THE REWARD. 
 
 I did not awake until late on the following morning, as may be naturally 
 supposed, for I had to make up for my want of rest on the preceding evening, 
 which, although I do not consider myself a sluggard, required some extra hours, 
 for I do like a fair modicum of sleep. 
 
 I had no apprehension of having been watched home, because I had left the 
 officer upon the ground, and the fact that he had been overcome in the manner that 
 I have related, was quite sufficient to prove that he was alone in the transaction, 
 and that unless I awkwardly encountered him, aod he should happen to recognise 
 me, I was tolerably safe. 
 
 These thoughts passed through my mind as I dressed and descended to the 
 breakfast parlour, where, after partaking of some part of the morning meal, I 
 commenced skimming through the newspaper quickly, in order to see if there 
 was anything in it of a nature to interest me. 
 
 Let the reader judge of my consternation and astonishment on reading the 
 following paragraph : — 
 
 "Mysterious Circumstance, and supposed Murder. — The neighbourhood of 
 Newgate Market has been lately thrown into a state of considerable alarm and 
 excitement, in consequence of the mysterious disappearance of an individual well 
 known to many of the inhabitants. It appears that, a most eccentric character, 
 having all the appearance of a beggar, but who was never known to solicit alms 
 of any one, resided in a cellar at Newgate Market. 
 
 <r He was believed by many people to be a miser, and possessed of a large sum 
 of money ; but a short time since he disappeared most mysteriously, and no traces 
 of him have been discovered. 
 
 "A woman, however, who resides near the spot, stated that she saw a man, of 
 most suspicious and villanous-looking aspect, descend into the cellar lately 
 occupied by the supposed miser, and after remaining some time, emerge again, 
 and make off with great speed. 
 
 " It is believed that this man must be the murderer of the former occupant of 
 the cellar, and that active and intelligent officer named Crumbs was stationed to 
 watch this place, and apprehend the man if he again makes his appearance. 
 
 According to the statement of Crumbs, while on duty last night, he saw a 
 man answering to this description look cautiously around him for a time, and 
 then descend into the cellar. 
 
 "The active and enterprising Crumbs watched for two hours and a half, until 
 he came out, and then, after a most desperate struggle, succeeded in taking bim 
 into custody ; but as he was about to convey him to the nearest watch-house, 
 eight powerful men assaulted the officer, and rescued his prisoner from him. 
 
 "Crumbs is not seriously injured; there can be no doubt but that murder has 
 been committed, and it is expected that tke Secretary of State will offer a 
 handsome reward for the criminal." 
 
 " Now really," said I, as I laid down the newspaper, "this is really too bad: this 
 Crumbs is quite a second Sir John Falstaff in his way. The idea of magnifying 
 the one person who knocked his hat over his eyes, to eight strong men ! and 
 then, forsooth, I am called an ill-looking and suspicious ruffian, just because Mr. 
 
 I 
 
NEWGATE. 325 
 
 Crumbs had not the good fortune to apprehend me. Crumbs, Crumbs ! this is 
 too bad : you say nothing about the stick with the hook at the end of it, that 
 really did all the business, or the bonneting which crushed your energies." 
 
 But, although 1 could laugh at the exaggerations which the newspaper pre- 
 sented, yet they awakened me to the fact that, if the body of the old man was to 
 be found in the well, 1 really might have some difficulty in clearing myself from 
 the suspicion of having popped him in. 
 
 " Alter all," I said, " I am afraid I have acted an imprudent part in concealing 
 the fact of death, and the circumstances dependent upon it. It is just possible 
 that, in my all-absorbing anxiety to become intimately acquainted with the 
 subterranean portion of Newgate, I may have placed myself in a position to 
 know much more than I wish of its upper portion." I got positively uneasy, and 
 very much did I blame myself that I had not made a confidant of some one from 
 the first, who, in case of emergency, could have come forward as a witness in my 
 behalf.'' 
 
 " Is it now too late," I asked myself, " to do so, or shall I yet place the affair in the 
 hands of some judicious friend, in whose judgment I can depend ? But, then, will 
 it not look very odd to the judicious friend only to make a confidant of him 
 when I think there is any danger to myself, and will not the judicious friend be 
 very much inclined to say — It's all very fine,*my good fellow, but you have got 
 into a scrape without my assistance, and you may get out of it without it, and it 
 strikes me very forcibly that I should have heard none of your adventures in 
 Newgate or the offal cellar, hid not you and Mr. Crumbs come into collision 
 in the way you have." 
 
 When I came to think that that might be the answer of my judicious friend, I 
 certainly did not like the idea of exposing myself to it, so I thought that, after 
 all, I would stand or fall by my own actions, and defy Crumbs and his eight men 
 in buckram utterly and entirely. 
 
 The notion of the Secretary of State offering a reward for me, was cer- 
 tainly not one of those things calculated to increase any amicable feeling 
 towards the government, and so aggravated was I at the mere thought, that I had 
 half a mind to send something to the Secretary of State on the occasion, telling 
 him to mind his own business, and not make a fool of himself, but I abstained, for 
 I don't like to hurt anybody's feelings, not even a Secretary of State's. 
 
 And, then, I got myself seriously to think what plan I could adopt for the 
 purpose of getting over the difficulty, which was now thrown in the way of my 
 continued visits to Newgate, for continue these visits I was determined I would, 
 although all the world were up in arms against me. 
 
 I thought the matter over in every possible aspect, and at last I thought that 
 it would not be a bad thing if I could find out who was the owner of the house and 
 hire the cellar of him, which, surely, I might get for a trifle, seeing that it was 
 anything but a desirable investment in the ordinary sense of that term ; the only 
 difficulty was to think of some excuse to say what I wanted it for, and there 1 
 was completely at fault. 
 
 I would not say I wanted it for a mangle, because I flattered myself my ap- 
 pearance, notwithstanding that damnably malicious newspaper paragraph, was 
 something above keeping a mangle. 
 
 But, still, suppose 1 came the grand, and said I wished to take it in order 
 to set up some person in that enviable capacity ? 
 
 " Yes," I exclaimed, " that will do — yes, but — what, suppose Crumbs recognises 
 me, and swears that I'm the malefactor.* No, that won't do, and, after all, I think 
 I shall have to fall back upon my judicious friend, whether he likes the burden 
 or not." 
 
 1 was acquainted with a gentleman, he had been an actor, but he was a gentle- 
 man now, for he was nothing at all, and had long ceased to be in any way 
 useful or ornamental in society, so 1 presume him to be fully entitled to the 
 appellation. 
 
 I knew a gentleman, then, who was a good-tempered fellow, a witty one, and, 
 
326 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 yet withal, a wise one — a man who had gone through a wondeiful lot of escapades, 
 a man who feared nothing, and who doated on intrigue, because he was a good 
 hand at it. He was just the fellow to get me out of my difficulty. 
 
 " Yes," I exclaimed, " WagstafT's the man, I will explain all to him — tell him I 
 meant to tell him long ago, but forgot it, and enlist all his sympathies against the 
 audacious Crumbs." 
 
 I was convinced that this was a wise determination because 1 felt so un- 
 commonly comfortable after making it, and, as I was determined to run into no 
 unnecessary danger, I would not go to my friend Wagstaff, but wrote to him to 
 come to me. 
 
 To save time I sent my note by hand, and as he was luckily at home and never 
 had anything to do, he came off at once and was with me in half an hour. 
 
 " Wagstaff, my dear fellow," I said, " I've got something to communicate to you?" 
 
 " No doubt of it," said Wagstaff, " you've got into some mess or another I 
 can very well perceive, but, 1 tell you candidly beforehand, that I'll listen to it 
 all, and then leave you to get out of it the best way you can. Now, who is she ?" 
 
 " She ! I didn't say she at all." 
 
 " I know you didn't ; but 1 say A slie ! who is she ? It's about a woman, of 
 course." 
 
 " No, most redoubtable Wagstaff, it is not about a woman of course; there you 
 are at fault for once in a way. It's quite the reverse, for it's about a man : listen." 
 " ' Had I three ears I'd hear you. * 
 
 " Pshaw ! I suppose you don't know much about Newgate?" 
 
 " Don't I though ! There's Williams's boiled beef-shop, in the first place ; then 
 there's the Angel tap, and then — " 
 
 " Pshaw ! nonsense ! 1 don't want an enumeration of the public-houses with 
 which I know you to be most familiar, but listen, and I'll umold a tale shall make 
 your hair-—" 
 
 Pardon me, make thy young hair — " 
 
 <£ Very well — stand on end like a porcupine." 
 
 " Now, good God ! did you send for me here to drive me mad? if you must 
 quote — an abominable habit, by-the-by, and one more honoured in the breach 
 than in the observance — you never hear me do it although I'm ' to the manner 
 born, and native to the usage,'— be sure you quote correctly and then 'come, mind 
 come,— at least you'll die with harness on your back." ' 
 
 *'? Exactly. Well then to commence at the commencement, as Richard the 
 Third says, e stick your banner on the wall.' " 
 
 " Damn you, he never said any such thing.. This is most monstrous im- 
 position. You out-herod Herod." 
 
 " Well, it serves you right, you're always inflicting quotations upon me, and 
 when I begin a little you get jealous. Recollect Romeo's speech to the players 
 in • A Midsummer's Night's Dream/ when he says, ' I come to bury Caesar and 
 not to pay him.' " 
 
 Wagstaff jumped up and took up a chair. 
 
 " I tell you what it is," ha said, " I'll fracture your d— — d skull if you go on 
 that w ay." 
 
 " A truce there," said I, " don't you quote and I won't, but so sure as you do, 
 out 1 come with something." 
 
 " Agreed;" he said, and he sat down on the chair, <£ ' my hand upon it, noble 
 sir,' and though I do 4 but wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck it. 5 " 
 
 " What a capital song that is of Macbeth, ' when my heart's oppressed with 
 care and the gloom dispels when a woman appears.' I think 1 see Kichard the 
 Third, when he sends the children to the Tower, making that fine speech, ' the 
 cloud capped tower and may monuments — take water at the Temple.' * 
 
 " Liar and slave !" cried Wagstaff, <c ' I've set my life upon a cast and I must 
 take the hazard of the die.' Now, listen to me, most solemnly; don't you parody 
 and I won't quote. ' From out the chambers of my brain I'll heal each feud — ■ 
 and trivial record.' ' Now—now — go on." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 " I expect to be hung for murder!" 
 % Good ; go en again." 
 " Good' do you call it?" 
 
 *• Yes ; it's a good stage efitect you know, and the drop scene always commands 
 applause. A little tight-rope dancing too, at the end of the first act, is sure to 
 take, and damme if I don't think the sooner you're hung the better, for a man who 
 don't know Shak>pere by heart, and yet who pretends to anything like civilization, 
 is not fit to live." 
 
 " Well, that's your opinion, is it? And now I'll but tell you another word.' 1 
 " Don't then," he said, springing to his feet and making for the door — 
 
 " We part for ever. 
 
 And if in course of time we meet again, 
 
 'Twill be with more than strangeness. 
 
 The frozen courtesy of those who once were friends." 
 
 And away he went. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 1 RESUME THE MANUSCRIPTS. 
 
 This attempt at a conference was certainly unpropitious, and evidently was not 
 doomed to answer in the least. 
 
 I found, or fancied I found at the time, the truth of the saying that "people are 
 always willing to sacrifice their friend to their joke," and I was convinced that my 
 theatrical acquaintance, who was really, in his way, a very estimable man, Mould 
 have been just the sort of person for me to make a confidant of, had he not been so 
 enormously fond of quotations, and for which he was quite willing to sacrifice me. 
 
 " Well," I said " harm may come of it, or good may come of it, I cannot take 
 upon myself to say which, but whether it he one way or the other, I do not see that 
 I can help it, and certainly I shall not refuse myself the gratification in the mean- 
 time of reading the manuscript in the wallet." 
 
 Certainly the circumstances connected with my attempted arrest, upon emerging 
 from the offal cellar, were sufficient annoyances to give me uneasiness, hut I had 
 lived long enough in the world- to learn one useful maxim, and that was, to leave 
 things alone. The majority of persons, when they are surrounded by a set of 
 uncomfortable circumstances, fancy that it is highly incumbent upon them to do 
 something, when, as there are a great many wrong things to do, and. only one right, 
 the odds are, certainly, that they stumble on some of the former, when if they would 
 but leave the matter alone, it would put itself to rights, without their intervention, 
 comfortably enough. 
 
 Of course I was not so foolish as to run into danger, so I made up my inind 
 I would let a considerable time elapse before 1 did anything as regarded another 
 visit to Newgate, and in the meantime I would collect, materials for such a visit, by 
 a continued perusal of the manuscripts in my possession. I had no doubt 
 whatever but that much would arise to render repeated visits to the under-ground 
 portion of the building pleasant for me to think upon, inasmuch as I should get up 
 a world of association which my mind might dwell upon, tluring those subterranean 
 researches. 
 
 Hitherto, with only one exception, those episodes of real life, which I had found 
 in the wallet, had rendered certain spots about old Newgate deeply interesting to 
 me, and, as the reader is well aware, I had visited with a feeling almost approaching 
 to awe and veneration, the coffin cell which had been sanctified by the presence of 
 that rare and beautiful being, May Boyes. My discovery of the mortal remains of 
 Adam Beech had likewise much interested me ; so that, with one thing and another, 
 1 considered that it was no small dep ivation to be prohibited from visiting Newgate 
 just because some busybody had taken the trouble to watch me into the offal cellar 
 
328 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 I was pretty secure as regarded my personal liberty, because, I had got away 
 from the officer too quickly, and the light was too dim and uncertain for him to be 
 able well to recognize me, so that, if I went into danger now of my own accord, 
 I considered myself pretty safe, so far as regarded his seeking me. I fretted a good 
 deal about it though, before I could sit down comfortably to the papers, but at length 
 feeling that annoying myself could do no good as regarded the advancement of my 
 wishes, I prudently gave that up, and determined on that evening to sit down and 
 resume a perusal of those documentary papers which I would not have parted with 
 for any earthly consideration. Indeed, so deeply interested was I in them, and so 
 firmly was I impressed with a belief in the veracity of the statements they contained, 
 that while I perused them they seemed to carry me back exactly to the very age 
 of the events of the story. I could fancy I saw the people moving before me, and 
 I had in my mind's eye a perfect picture of every individual who had been 
 mentioned in any of those strange and eventful narratives. 
 
 Who could for &n instant believe that there was not a Sir John Boyes, with all 
 his pompous vanity and his cumbrous magnificence ; and, in order that we may 
 think well of human nature — in order that we may be on good terms with our 
 species, and believe that Heaven has created something that is good and beautiful, 
 in the guise of humanity, we would not doubt the existence of May Boyes, for the 
 richest jewel in the English crown." 
 
 And do our own thoughts painfully revert to the pedlar's wife, that strange 
 being of contrary tastes, habits, and fancies — that mixture of good and bad — of 
 firmness and vacillation — of clinging, beautiful tenderness, and yet a carelessness 
 approaching to criminality ? 
 
 Alas ! have we not a sigh for her, and likewise one for Mary Phillips ? Poor 
 Mary Phillips ! sacrificed so soon, while she yet stood upon the very threshold 
 of that existence, she was so highly calculated to adorn. 
 
 And here I cannot help remarking, that there was something singularly touching 
 and beautiful to me in those tales, inasmuch as they painted in such glowing 
 colours the truth and constancy of woman's affection. 
 
 It says mach for the kindly feelings of that poor, isolated creature, who had 
 collected together those fragments of human existence, and given them a tangible 
 form. 
 
 I longed for the night to come, for when I made myself the kind of promise I 
 had in this instance, to peruse the papers found in the mendicant's wallet, I 
 waited as anxiously as if its performance waited upon some one else, and 
 as if I might possibly b?. disappointed in the verification of the promise. 
 
 Therefore, when the night set in — when others had gone to rest, and I found 
 that a pleasant stillness began to pervade the house — I locked my door as usual, 
 and, throwing a large lump of crackling sea coal upon my fire, with the anticipation 
 of the pleasure in a short time of giving it a blow with the poker, and seeing it 
 burst in glittering fragments — I drew the manuscripts towards me, and reverentially 
 laying those aside which related to Adam Beech, I found that the next packet I 
 came to was a very small one, consisting but of a few sheets, and containing 
 some short anecdotal matter, which, however, I shall not scruple to lay before my 
 readers. 
 
 Those few papers which contained this complete short tale, were folded down at 
 the corner, so as to keep them together, and apart from the remainder of the bulk of 
 paper. 
 
 On the outside one was written the words, which were, I presume, intended to 
 serve as a title, as they were underscored, to show their importance. They were 
 these : — 
 
 She hangman's tSTotni)* 
 
 And the paper commenced as follows : — 
 
 Old Newgate was a very different building to the modern structure that now 
 rears its massive walls in the Old Bailey, as much unlike it as the old cross of St. 
 Paul's is like the monument on Fish-street Hill. 
 
NEWGATE. 829 
 
 All know the modern prison, there is nothing much connected with it of the 
 romantic, save m its prisoners, and there is ample room, indeed ; but, about the 
 Old Newgate, there were many matters that a few could speak of There wer e 
 many odd places m it-cells of artful construction, cunningly devised holes and 
 places where prisoners could be placed, if it were so ordered by the governor 
 against whom no complaint was ever heard. * & overnoi > 
 
 to S W f e f oI ? legends too, about some facts, where people have been starved 
 to death ; in fact, some horrid atrocities have been committed by those in power 
 and remembered and known only to those concerned in them, and for the most' 
 part, they have sunk m the grave with their perpetrators. 
 
 There are not more queer places than there are queer people, and in and about 
 
 o m nl W ? \ tT ™V^ da . nce of both but there were none more sir an 4 
 or more fearful than Gabriel Gutnne, the executioner. ° 
 
330 ** NEWGATE. 
 
 Yes, Gabriel Guthrie was the executioner. He had many years held one situa" 
 tion or another about Newgate, and was at length offered that post, and he 
 
 accepted it. 
 
 Tncio was some little Compunction at first, but there was also a little necessity 
 in the cask.;, an I that, ba it much or little, turned the scale, and he accepted of the 
 post. . .;. ' . 
 
 Well, Gabriel was a young mar. when lie be came the exe cutioner, and had never n 
 •m#ried, and, now that he was executioner, he despaired of ever being able to induce 
 any one of the fair sex to receive him as the object of her affections. 
 
 This was a matter upon which Gabriel had never thought before he became the 
 finisher of the law's decrees. Indeed, it was presumed that he had become a con- 
 firmed bachelor, but, some how or other, like the man who had lived sixty years in 
 a town without ever going out of i*", and had a pension conferred on him providing ( 
 he would never go out, he became possessed by an ungovernable desire to go 
 beyond the wall, and so lost his pension, and, when Gabriel became the official 
 finisher, he had taken what might tie considered a kind of vow to continue single, 
 and hence it was that he, Gabriel Guthrie, was thus seized by a strong desire to 
 enter into the marriage state. 
 
 This was owing, in some measure, to his feeling himself somewhat settled in life, 
 and that was one inducement to make a home of some kind. Perhaps, too, the 
 knowledge that his calling would narrow the circle of his acquaintance, induced 
 him to wish for those about him, to whom he could fly for a refuge from the con- 
 umely of the world. 
 
 Thus, with this desire, he became acquainted with the barmaid at a public-house 
 in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Gabriel was a smart, active, handsomely-built man ; but of a somewhat stern 
 and bony countenance — one who would, perhaps, not be termed quite good-looking 
 by a judge of physiognomy, but arrrorg his class he was a decent man. 
 
 It was known that his employment kept him very well, and that he always 
 bore a respectable appearance. Indeed, he was most especially careful that no 
 one should be acquainted wMi the nature of his calling./ 
 
 That was a secret. 
 
 The barmaid alluded to was a tidy little woman, somewhat about five or six , 
 and twenty, and one not unwilling to exchange the severe duties of her place for 
 those of a wife, in which, atle:ist, she could be her own mistress. 
 
 Here Gabriel would spend his money and talk to the barmaid, and she to him, 
 until the hours for shutting up came, and then came a lo\er's parting. 
 
 " Betsy, ' said Gabriel, as he stretched himself out before the fire, and there was 
 nobody about or in the room. 
 
 " Well,' Gabriel," said Betsy. 
 
 "When shall we put an end to all this and have a comfortable place of our own ? 
 j it would be much more comfortable than sitting here of a night." 
 " I dare say it would, Gabriel," said Betsy. 
 
 " Aye, but when shall we alter this kind of thing we have known one another 
 long enough, you know, to talk upon such a subject, eh ? Well, when is it to be?" 
 
 "As you please, I have nothing to do with it, Gabriel," said Betsy, coyishly. 
 
 "Oh, but you have, i want to know when you will change your name — will 
 you become Mrs. Guthrie?" 
 
 "If I thought you were serious, I would give \oua serious answer, but as it 
 is — why " 
 
 " I am serious — quite serious — you have known me long enough to know that. 
 1 have often told you 1 respected you aud loved you, and now I ask you, if you, 
 will become my wife ?" 
 
 " I have no objection," said Betsy, slowly. 
 
 "Then we have only to fix the day. I have a constant situation, and can keep 
 you comfortable, and have a pleasant home for us both. Now, at once, tell ui!e»; 
 which shall be our wedding-day, and trust all the rest to me. • I have money 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 331 
 
 enough to furnish a place, and have all ready to your hand, so you will have only to 
 step into it and say, ' This is mine.' " 
 
 " That will be very pleasant," said Betsy, whistfully. 
 
 '■' Tfeen name the day." 
 
 "My time is not up for a fortnight, and then I must give a month's warning." 
 "That will be something more than six weeks." 
 "It will." 
 
 "Well, well, if it can't be helped, why it is all well enough — we must put up 
 with it ; but mind, you are to give the warning." 
 " I will." 
 
 " And at that time, you know, you will consent to marry me?" said Gabriel. : 
 " 1 will,"" said Betsy. 
 
 "Then that is a bargain, and I shall hold you too it. I will begin to get my j 
 house ready from to-morrow — good night, Betsy, good night — what a happy time J 
 we shall have by-and-by !" 
 
 * # * * * * * 'i :.?:>'? . . "I 
 
 Gabriel Guthrie was now happy — happy by anticipation, for he was continually 
 thinking upon what was to be the future life which he had so long sought." 
 
 However, man is not a solitary animal, and Gabriel could not resist the ' tempta- 
 I tion of confiding in a friend the secret of his happiness, and informing him of the 
 fact of his having secured the affections of a young woman. 
 
 "And you, Gabriel, are going to get married, are you ? Very well, I wish you 
 happiness," 
 
 " Thank you, I hope so." 
 
 " But I have some curiosity to see her— to see your choice, for I can't very well 
 see what sort of person has chosen a hangman for her husband." 
 
 " Hush, for Heaven's sake, say nothing about it." 
 
 " Nothing at all— doesn't she know it?" 
 . " No, hardly ! nor will she know it, if 1 can help it. I shall have no occasion to 
 tell her." 
 
 " What is she wonh ?" 
 
 " I don't know. I never asked her if she had any money — nor do I care." 
 
 " When will you show her to me, Gabriel ? I should like to see her, if you have 
 no objection." . * 
 
 "You come with me to-night, and you shall see her. She's in a situation, and 
 will not be able to leave for some weeks, and then we are to be married." 
 
 " When you please— when you please, I shall be out this evening, and shall be 
 able to go with ycu." 
 
 •» •- &fl t * ■ *.* • v * • * * * 
 
 The evening came, and Gabriel Guthrie came with his friend to see the charming 
 Betsy, but alas ! he had better never have done so ; he had better stopped away, 
 and have permitted even his friends to be in ignorance of his intended marriage, 
 for then what followed never would have been; but we cannot .stop the hand of 
 i Fate. 
 
 There never would have been the dreadful horrors which we are compelled to 
 relate, enacted, but as it was, what took place must be t^d. 
 
 Gabriel Guthrie, and his friend, George Watson, went to the house, and there 
 spent an agreeable evening, the latter much admiring the charming Betsy, to such 
 an extent that Guthrie become at once jealous. 
 
 He was jealous, because his intended seemed to pay more attention to Watson 
 than he deemed at all consistent with propriety. 
 
 That evening Gabriel went home to his lodging in a very melancholy and moody 
 turn of mind ; he began to feel all the disagreeables of the life he was about to 
 | enter, and had a foretaste of matrimony. 
 
 There was but little chance, he thought, of Watson's going there again, and so 
 he consoled himself with the reflection that, if he had been vexed that night, it 
 would not be for long— perhaps the first was 'he list time. 
 
 It was not so, however ; for wtien h entered the room the second night, he saw 
 
332 NEWGATE. 
 
 Watson there before him, and Betsy there too ; she looked very red when he 
 entered, and foolish. 
 
 " Well," said Gabriel, " I did not expect to see you two." 
 
 " Perhaps not, it's the more gratifying, isn't it, Betsy V 
 
 Betsy said, "yes, it was," and simpered. • 
 
 "And besides," he added, "Mr. Guthrie is the more pleased, are you not, Guthrie?" 
 
 " Why, yes," said Guthrie, not very well knowing what to say. 
 
 ** There, I knew he would, I told you so, and now you hear him say so himself/' 
 
 This was very pleasant, and as long as Guthrie stopped, so did Watson ; and 
 when he spoke to her, he chimed in too, so upon the whole the unfortunate lover 
 was pretty miserable. 
 
 This went on day after day for nearly three weeks, when Guthrie determined to 
 have some words about the matter, and when they met as usual, he said — 
 
 " Betsy, I do not know whether it is that person whom you receive in the 
 character of your future husband." 
 
 " No, Watson," said Betsy. 
 
 " Yes," said Watson, "yes, she has changed her mind, and is going to have me 
 instead of you — aint you, Betsy V 
 f Indeed— is that true ?" 
 " Yes," said Betsy, looking at Watson. 
 
 " Good God, what have I done ?" said Gabriel in a tone of feeling ; " what have I 
 done to deserve such treatment as this ? Betsy, do you intend to desert me thus, 
 and that, too, after I have received your promise, and put up the banns?" 
 
 Betsy hesitated. 
 
 " Who am I that you should treat me so ? What have I done, and what am I, 
 that you should act thus 
 
 "You should recollect tl?t you're the public hangman," said Watson, " and not 
 fit to be in decent society." 
 
 " Oh, my goodness, and have I been talking to the hangman ?" exclaimed the 
 barmaid, staggering back, and showing an inclination to faint. Watson took her 
 in his arms, and bestowed a kiss upon her lips, which seemed to revive her. 
 
 Gabriel Guthrie saw how matters stood. Lifting his hand and shaking his head, 
 he said, — 
 
 "The time will come when you will all repent of this," and then he rushed 
 from the house. 
 
 * * » * • » 
 
 Day after day passed away, and the marriage that was to have taken place 
 between Guthrie and Betsy was now about to be consummated, save that Watson 
 was substituted for Guthrie. 
 
 The night before the marriage took place, Guthrie came to Watson, and said 
 to him : — 
 
 " Watssn, I come to say I forgive you the shabby trick you played me with that 
 girl you are about to marry." 
 
 " Oh ! very well, 'tis a pitv we should quarrel about so small a matter as this." 
 " It is." 
 
 " Well, I am glad of it— if you will come, I shall be glad to see you at our 
 wedding." 
 
 " I am obliged to you, and will come. It is not, however, a small matter in 
 my eyes ; but I would sooner she had left me before marriage than after." 
 " Of course — of course." 
 
 "And I am persuaded she would do so, if she had any inclination towards you 
 more than me ; and I have come to the conclusion that it is better that it should 
 happen." 
 
 " I think so too. Give us your hand, Gabriel, and let all unkindness cease." 
 
 " With all my heart/' &aid Gabriel, and the two shook hands very heartily ; 
 then Watson offered him some ale he was drinking, which Gabriel drank off, 
 saying-, — 
 
 " Well, I enjoyed that ; for I have been hard at work underneath the vaults." 
 
NEWGATE. 333 
 
 " Have you ?" 
 
 "Yes, i have, and I have found out something that, if we are true to one 
 another, we may make a good thing of, that is all ; but if we split, it will get into 
 other hands." 
 
 ''What is it?" 
 
 " Will you promise secresy ?" 
 
 " I will. Tell me what it is, and if anything is to be got by it, I will join you in 
 it with all my heart." 
 
 " There is plenty to be had. I have discovered a small vault, which seems to me 
 to be full of plate." 
 
 "Full of plate!" 
 
 *' Aye, chuck full. Why, there are many thousands of pounds' worth of gold and 
 silver." 
 
 " The devil ! Let us go and see if, if you please — we can then make our plans 
 afterwards. We can do so a great deal better then than we can now, before we are 
 acquainted with the place itself." 
 
 "Well, you mean what's right?" 
 
 " Of course 1 do — I will swear that. We will share and share alike, that will 
 be fair enough ; but come, we had better go now, as nobody will see or miss either 
 of us." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Guthrie. u Come with me ; I have the keys, and 
 know the way. I have a dark lantern also — we shall be all right." 
 
 They both quitted that part of the prison, and, going round by an unfrequented 
 route, they came to some vaults, into which they descended by means of some 
 old crumbling staircase, and then, after a small door having been passed through 
 and propped open by a brick or two, they went on till they came to another door, 
 which was propped open in like manner. 
 
 *' When shall we get there?" inquired Watson. 
 
 " In a few yards more," said Gabriel. 
 
 They now came to a door which seemed to be heavy and strong, and of some 
 dimensions. 
 
 " If the room is big in proportion to the door," said Watson, " this must be a 
 fine large one." 
 
 " Then you will be disappointed. Come, let me set my dark lantern down here," 
 said Gabriel. " I will open and keep this door open while you go through and 
 open the door beyond it. There is a great rush of air, and, if I carry the lantern 
 in there, it will be put out, and, we should have a bad chance of getting out before 
 daylight. There, go on !" . 
 
 As he spoke he pulled the door open, and displayed a small store-room with a 
 door on the other side. 
 
 " Is this the place ?" 
 
 "Open that door and you will see something that will gladden your eyes," 
 said Gabriel, pushing the door open. 
 
 Watson advanced into the little store-room. No sooner had he done so — no 
 sooner had he got fairly into the room — than Gabriel Guthrie stepped back and 
 allowed the door to swing to with all its force and velocity. 
 
 This done, he paused and sat down on a heap of bricks, and listened to the 
 sounds that proceeded from the prisoner. 
 
 " Gabriel," he said, after a pause of some moments', as if he had been too much 
 amazed to speak, " Gabriel, open the door, it is pitch dark, and I can't see to 
 move." 
 
 But Gabriel made no answer. 
 
 " Gabriel, Gabriel !" he called aloud, but his voice could only just be heard, for 
 the walls were so thick that sounds could very rarely penetrate them. 
 " Gabriel, Gabriel Guthrie ! let me out, let me out !" 
 
 " No," suddenly shouted Gabriel, through a small wicket secured by iron bars, 
 and only of the size of a hand ; " no, I have my revenge now. You played the 
 scoundrel with me, and now I leave you to your fate." 
 
I 334 NEWGATE. 
 
 I — 
 
 j " 1 shall be starved !" shrieked Watson. 
 
 "Aye, to be sure you will. I intend you should, and I'll now marry the girl, 
 out of revenge to her ai d to you." 
 
 " Mercy! God of Heaven ! yen cannot mean it. You cannot be so cruel — 
 you — you — " 
 
 " Stop, stop ! You have broken ali my hopes of happiness, for, though I may 
 marry the girl, yet ihope for no happiness now, none whatever; but i will punish 
 you for it. 
 
 " You — you'only mean to frighten me ?" 
 
 " I mean what I say, and I have said all mean, and now think of what I have 
 said." 
 
 As he spoke, he shut the plate of iron and secured it. He then took up his 
 lantern and left ti e place, paying no attention whatever to the screams of mercy 
 uttered by Watson, and securing the doors, one after another, until he emerged 
 into the upper part of the prison. 
 
 * * * • * * * * 
 
 For some days Gabriel heard Watson inquired after, but he replied he hadn't 
 seen him. Search was made for him both high and low, but he was not forth- 
 coming, and he began to be forgotten, and some one else was put in his place. 
 
 One evening, as Guthrie went to the house where he had been in the habit of 
 meeting with Betsy, he met her as she was coming out of it. 
 
 " Well, Betsy," he said, " are you married, eh ? 
 
 Betsy would not reply, but made an attempt to pass him, and said to him, in a 
 mocking teme — 
 
 " You would not have one who meant to have you, but you took to one who 
 has given you leave to look after him." 
 
 " Well," said Betsy, "you can enjoy the laugh now." 
 
 " Oh indeed ; I do not want to do that, but if you intend to wait till he comes 
 for him, I have nothing more to say; but if you'll have me, I'll keep my word 
 and marry you to-morrow." 
 
 " You?'"' 
 
 " Y T es, I will — I mean what I say. You are out of place, I suppose, and there 
 will b 3 nothing to prevent you." 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " ,W ell then, say the word and it shall be to-morrow; but no further play. 
 The banns vet stand yood, and I can give notice to-night, if vou will meet me." 
 "Yes, I will." 
 
 It was agreed, and they parted ; the next day they were married, and went to 
 their lodgings. 
 
 The first month passed off very well, but by degrees Guthrie ^began to grow 
 careless, and then dissipated ; and at length he came to down right ill-usage. 
 
 It was useless to complain of his Jate hours or harsh treatment, because that 
 brought flown ill treatment upon her immediately — blows and every species of j 
 hardships he could force her to endure, saying, — 
 
 " You played me a trick once, and now you shall suffer for it; I have my turn i 
 now : perhaps you would like Watson to come to your aid." 
 
 f I think he would have behaved better to me than you do," was the reply she 
 would make often to such a taunt, and it was immediately met with a knock-down 
 blow. 
 
 "There, he mi°ht not have done that, but he would play the fool, I daresay: 
 be more civil for the future." 
 
 And thus she dragged on a wretched life day after day, week after week, and 
 year after year, always in the same position exactly, neither better nor worse, but 
 perhaps a shade worse. 
 
 They had been married about fifteen years, and the murder had never been 
 found out nor even suspected. How the unfortunate man died no human being 
 can tell, but, of course, he did die there in horrid agonies. 
 
 After fifteen years of married life he fell ill, and came near his end, but. he 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 335 
 
 recovered : this made him a little serious : a dream he had afterwards gave him a 
 strong desire to see the body of Watson, and to ascertain its exact state. 
 
 He was impelled to this by some secret power that he could not resist ; why or 
 wherefore he stopped not to inquire ; he felt the hand of Fate and bowed to it ; 
 he determined to visit the room where he had left him to starve. 
 
 One night he started upon Lis starch, and after going through the same places 
 he propped open the doors, and ih n he came to the iron door which he knew 
 had not been opened these fit teen years ; he paused with a feeling of repugnance, 
 but in another moment he opened the door which screamed on its hinges. 
 
 lie I'arefully propped it open, and then entered the place with the lantern he 
 carried, and leoked about for the body. There was an earthy and horrible smell. 
 The body lay huddled up in a heap in one corner, a shapeless mass— the bones 
 falling away with the hands bent up and clenched as if in an agony. 
 
 Gabriel Guthrie looked upon this, and paused while he thought upon the pangs 
 that he must have suffered : there was a noise, a rush of wind, and then a fall of 
 a brick, and a dreadful bang came against the place — the door was shut ! 
 
 Gabriel sank on the earth in a stupor. The dreadful thought came upon him 
 that he too was now about to go through the same sufferings that the unfortunate 
 Watson had endured. 
 
 When he awoke from his stupor he found it too true : he could not escape — 
 there was no hope— he must remain there until he died the slow death of 
 starvation. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Some years afterwards the bodies of both were found. Among his papers was 
 found a memorandum of the deed he had done, as though he intended posterity 
 should know he had been successful in revenge. His wife gave up the paper to 
 the authorities, aud search was made. The result was a discovery of both bodies 
 lying in the room. They were privately buried, and nothing said about the 
 matter. 1 ana. among those who were cognizant of the above facts at the time of 
 their occurrence. 
 
 This was the last page, and I felt a little disappointed that the indications of the 
 spot where the cell was situated in which the hangman had found so singular a 
 tomb, were not more clearly defined, and I was just resolving that in inv mind 
 when t.iere came a loud knock at the street door of my house, which certainly gave 
 me some amount of perturbation. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 DETAILS HOW MY CONFIDENCE, AFTER ALL, WAS NOT MISPLACED, AND A ' 
 FRIGHTFUL ADVENTURE IN NEWGATE. 
 
 The sudden knock at my door at such a time of night, for it was past the mid- 
 night hour, gave me more uneasiness than it ought to have done, because I really 
 was quite in as good a situation as before, and the same reasoning which had 
 enabled me, so short a time since, to felicitate myself upon the fact, that danger would 
 not seek me if 1 did not seek it, ought now to have sufficed to keep up my courage. 
 
 As it was, however, I thought it prudent to gather together the contents of the 
 wallet, and. dispose of them in a place of safety. 
 
 Scarcely had I done so, when I heard footsteps upon the stairs, and then there 
 was a knock at my chamber door, and, afier a moment's hesitation, I rose and 
 opened it, when, to my surprise, I saw my theatrical friend upon the landing. 
 
 " How fares the noble *Thane of Cawdor?" he said. "You see, my dear 
 fellow I've come back to you. The fact is, I had my suspicions that it was all a 
 sell. I thought you looked once or twice askance, as though your * heart belied 
 your lips, and tyram custom taught your cheek to blush.' Don't be afraid of my 
 quoting, because I have given them up, and so I got suspicious." 
 
336 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 i( Which you had no right to be on earth." 
 " True ; but ' trifles light as air ' " 
 
 " Stop, I know the rest — 'are to those, who are not ready of belief, a powerful 
 as any ' " 
 
 " Damn you ! there you go again. Now, my dear friend, listen to me. There 
 was once one William Shakspere in existence, and to quote his writings betrays 
 a nimble intellect, and an active, aspiring mind ; but, to misquote them, is tne 
 very devil. I pray you avoid it." 
 
 " I will, as the ghost in Hamlet says, ' Where the bee sucks, there sleep I — 
 merrily, merrily down I lie.' " 
 
 " You do lie, you mean ; but I tell you, I have been to see the Offal Cellar." 
 
 "You have !" 
 
 " Unquestionably — I find there is such a place, and therefore I believe the rest. 
 I was hunted through Newgate Market, but escaped — popped into a theatrical 
 house, kept by an old chum — spoke some daggers about the multitude who 
 pursued me but saw more, and then came off to you at once, to proffer my 
 services." 
 
 " And so you've run all this risk, because you were afraid I was passing upon 
 you a silly joke ?" 
 
 " Why, such fellows as we are peculiarly sensitive of being sold ; we don't like 
 it. Our business is to deceive, even to represent the unsubstantial pageant, and 
 with glossing tinsel, and such fustian as art provides us with, to cloak reality ; 
 and therefore is it that we ever suspect all men are actors." 
 
 " You may well do so, for your great oracle has declared that ' all the world's 
 a stage.' " 
 
 6< And so it is, "and men and women only players.' But to be serious, will you 
 let me into the heart of your mystery ?" 
 " I will." 
 
 "Will you communicate to me the contents of your mendicant's wallet? and 
 last, but not least, will you^lake me into the interior of ancient Newgate? I shall do 
 George Barnwell better on Easter Monday, should it ever be my lot again to don 
 the sock and buskin, and fret my hour upon the stage." 
 
 " Yes, to the former proposition, I said ; and to the latter, a qualified affirmation, 
 and a powerful hint about the danger. Do you suppose it possible that I'm going 
 to get myself executed for the murder of the mendicant, just to gratify your 
 curiosity ?" 
 
 " I will have thee emboweled afterwards, and embalmed, and write upon thy 
 tomb, * I could have spared a better man. ' " 
 
 ,fi I'm much obliged for the extremely doubtful compliment, but I don't intend 
 to give you the opportunity." 
 
 '* Nor are you wanted — listen !" 
 
 I presume it was the force of habit, but he placed two chairs in the middle of 
 the room, and sat himself down in one, as they always do on the stage when any 
 interesting explanation is going to take place. 
 
 " Listen ! — I have an ancient female relative, some seventy-second cousin, thrice 
 removed, and until she be removed Once more by envious death, I provide her 
 with the means of employing her dignified leisure in working a longitudinal 
 machine, yclept a mangle, and in the preparation of such abominations sold to 
 juvenile specimens of poor humanity for half-pence : this woman I will so work 
 up by spells, that she shall live in the offal cellar, and we shall be her visitors." 
 
 " That's a good plan, if it can be carried out." 
 
 " If it can be carried out, and who doubts it. I Do not allow me ? as regards 
 you, to exclaim with Hotspur. — ' Oh that I should have stirred such a dish of 
 skimmed milk to an honourable enterprise.' I know that I -can do it, and by to- 
 morrow night, at the witching hour, she shall be there. All danger passed and 
 over, and our thoroughfare to ancient Newgate as clear as that which leads 
 sinners to you know where." 
 
 " Exactly, I believe there are a few players there." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 337 
 
 " I beg your pardon, that's a real warm, active life ; the drama certainly declines 
 in such a region, but now, as the small hours of the night have commenced, 
 I will leave you ; but remember that to-morrow night, I consider you bound 
 to take me into Newgate. My poor old relative is rather near-sighted, but I'll 
 get possession of the Offal Cellar for her, show her the entrance to it, and tell 
 her to make herself quite at home." 
 
 I made a conditional promise that if he succeeded in getting full authority for 
 the old woman to take possesion of the Offal Cellar, 1 should have no objection to 
 introduce him to the very penetralia of Newgate. I made this promise doubting 
 very much, while I did make it, that he Would have the power of accomplishing 
 what he said ; and especially in so short a space of time : it seemed not possible ; but 
 but yet there was a twinkle about my friend's eye, a look of confidence upon his face 
 
 No. 43. 
 
338 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 which made me thidk it just possible that he had some means of accomplishing 
 his purposes unknow to me." 
 
 " If that were the case i should be much delighted, and I waited with much 
 impatience for news of him on the following day." 
 
 It was late at night before he was announced to me, in fact, as late as eleven, and 
 I had almost given up hopes of seeing him. When he did come, however, one 
 glance of his face sufficed to tell me that he had been successful. 
 
 "Come along," he said; " the only precaution you need adopt will be not to 
 wear the same dress exactly that you did upon the occasion when the officer 
 attempted your arrest. I should recommend, indeed, that you appear in a suit of 
 black, and, if any one speaks to you, just give a kind of snuffle with the nose, and 
 say, with Mawworm, * that you preaches the gospel, and likes to be despised' — 
 a sanctified hypocrite, visiting a poor woman in a cellar is so usual a circumstance, 
 that no one thinks anything of it, and we shall pass unnoticed extremely well." 
 
 " And do you mean really to tell me that you have succeeded in installing your 
 ancient female relation in the offal cellar?" 
 
 " Yes ; the fact is I found out to whom the house belonged ; it was a man 
 ■who had been in business, and who used to serve my great aunt's sister's 
 husband's brother's wife's with meat ; upon that hint I acted, and by dint of a 
 ittle impudence " 
 
 <f Ahem ! not a little." 
 
 " As you please. I flatter myself that I always carry enough of that commodity 
 in my pocket to supply myself ad libitum, when it is required." 
 "And so you settled it all?" 
 
 " I did ; I parted with the old lady at the top of the steps of the offal cellar, 
 wished her good luck, and told her she couldn't miss her wav ; she's stone blind, by 
 Jove J" 
 
 " And did you think of cautioning her about the well ?" 
 
 " The what ? The devil !" 
 
 " No, the well ! 1 rold you there was a well." 
 
 " ' Angels and ministers of grace defend us r she's down it for a guinea. Damn 
 us all ! what shall we do now ?" 
 
 I felt my hair stand on end as I said, " Why gracious Providence, I told you the 
 old man had fallen down there." 
 
 He sat down upon a chair, and drew a long breath. 
 
 " Well," he said, " it's all over by this time if she kicked ever so, and after all 
 it's only another. - Here's a pretty fix ! I no more remembered the well than any- 
 thing in the world ; on the contrary, I told her it was all right, and not to be afraid. 
 ' Aye, aye,' said she, ' I'm not such a fool as people think I am,' and down she 
 went. There was a boy coming with her mangle on a truck in about half-an-hour, 
 and instead of finding her ready to receive it, the poor old devil's having a private 
 wash on her own account.' 
 
 «' But she may yet be saved." 
 
 " What! fish her out like truth? No, no, it's all over, I'm quite sure of that ; 
 she's been well received, and the only consolation I can give myself is, that what 
 1 did was well meant." 
 
 " Well, you take it coolly, to pun over the death of your aniient relative." 
 
 "* Alas ! I think I see her now, with one footon the brink,' and then comes the 
 sur<nng, sweeping plunge, and down she goes, leaving her mangle in all its deso- 
 lation — a gloomy memento of the past. ' Alas, alas ! Imperial Caesar ! dead and 
 turned to clay 
 
 " Excuse me, but perhaps she has some friends who may not take her death so 
 jocosely as you." 
 
 " If she have, they may please themselves : and if they really want to keep her 
 perpetually in mind/they can have her mangle set in a brooch." 
 
 " Well, but alter this, I think that the less we go near the offal cellar the 
 better." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 339 
 
 " Not at all ; come at once. It is just possible that with some strange instinct 
 she may have avoided that most, damnable precipice." 
 
 " If you put it in that light, it becomes a duty to go and see. I hope to Heaven 
 she has avoided it; so let us be off at once." 
 
 We started from my house, and the mere thought that it was possible yet to 
 save the old lady from the dreadful fate that awaited her, or that possibly had 
 overtaken her, inspired me with some degree of courage, so that, despising the 
 danger that I myself ran personally of being apprehended, I hastened at a quick 
 pace to Newgate-market. 
 
 We reached there in an incredibly short space of time, and my apprehensions of 
 the fatal result grew absolutely gigantic as we neared the offal cellar. 
 
 When we got to it I rushed forward, and called aloud, — 
 
 " Speak, speak ! is anyone there ?" 
 
 " What do you want V said a voice, " Is that you ?" 
 
 " Thank God," said I, " she's safe." 
 
 " The deuce she is ! There's an old woman more in the world than I thought, 
 for, by Jove, all's right, and she has a light, too ; come along." 
 
 We descended the steps carefully, and sure enough at the bottom of them there 
 stood an ancient-looking female. 
 
 She held up the light to guide us, and I said to her, — 
 
 " I suppose, notwithstanding my friend says you're so blind, you've found out 
 the well?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm very well," she said, "mind you don't have a fall, they're awkward 
 stairs ; and I was dreaming last night of going— merciful Providence!" 
 
 She took one step back as she spoke, and down she went. The mouth of the 
 well was exactly behind her, and — caiH f <i and all — she disappeared, leaving us in 
 total darkness. 
 
 We were both silent ; even my facetious friend found it impossible to utter a 
 word on this occasion ; and I must confess, that for myself I was struck dumb 
 with terror and amazement. 
 
 I think two or three minutes must have elapsed, and then I exclaimed, — 
 " This is too much ; it is horrible — it is terrific ! Good God ! can nothing be 
 done ?" 
 
 " Yes," said my friend, " let well alone, and cut." 
 
 " Hilloa, there," said a voice from the entrance, " you're our prisoners ; we've 
 nabbed you, have we ? you're dead men if you make the least resistance." 
 
 " The police f " 1 said, " the police ! and there's one comfort, you'll be hung 
 too, and we shall fall victims to an old man and an old woman." 
 
 "What! hung! why you don't mean dingle-dangle, do you ? Rather would I 
 that 4 this too, too, solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.' " 
 
 " Come on, my fine fellows," said a voice, <e you'd betier come up at once ; we 
 don't mean to stand any nonsense ; take you we must and will, so there's an end 
 to that." 
 
 " My friend the player sprung towards the staircase, or rather the steps, which 
 led down from the open streets to the offal cellar. It took but a slight effort to 
 displace them, and they fell with a crash, certainly contributing much to the safety 
 of the kind of fortress in which we might consider ourselves to be. 
 
 "That gives us time," he said; "at all events they won't jump down very 
 readily for people are not over-fond of doing that sort of thing when they don't 
 exactly know the depth to which they are going." 
 
 " This is a most uncomfortable situation," I said, "and it is one we shall not 
 escape from easily. This is all through your wonderful cleverness in bringing 
 your aucient female relative into the affair," 
 
 " Well, she is out of the affair , at all events, now." 
 
 " Come, my fine fellow," said the voice again from the head of the stairs " it's 
 of no use your trying to give us all this trouble — -we must and will have you — you 
 know that well enough — so come up, without any further trouble." 
 
 " What on earth are we to do ?" said I. 
 
340 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Why nothing is more simple," said my friend ;" you know the secret door 
 leading to Newgate, and they don't, and you have the key of it. It is cer- 
 tainly rather a novel place in which to take refuge from the officers of justice, 
 but I believe it is an amazingly good one, and one /hey will never think of 
 searching." 
 
 " It is," said I, " certainly a refuge, and we can come out again when the coast 
 is clear. Come on, I can find the door in the dark." 
 
 The situation of the little door leading into Newgate was so strongly impressed 
 upon my memory that 1 knew I should have no difficulty in finding it, and procuring 
 admittance by its means to those gloomy recesses which had around them, to me, 
 such a halo of romance." 
 
 " Follow me closely," said I, "and I think we shall soon be beyond the chance 
 of immediate capture." 
 
 Then, closely followed by my theatrical friend, I made my way towards the little 
 door, which was so well concealed in the wall that I felt confident any one not 
 knowing beforehand that there was such a thing to look for, would never observe 
 it. Just as we reached it, there came a gleam of light from the cellar head, pro- 
 bably from the lantern of some of the police, who were so anxious to effect our 
 capture, and then a voice said . — 
 
 " It's by no means deep. Come along, they know they must be taken, and only 
 wish to give us as much trouble as possible." 
 
 " Be quick," cried my friend, " or we are taken." 
 
 "As quick as possible," I replied ; " but the confounded key sticks in the lock.' 
 
 This was the case, for my nervousness and impatience to accomplish the object 
 which had become of momentary importance, I had, I suppose, put in the key the 
 wrong way, so that for about half a minute its wards were entangled in the lock, 
 and I not only looked upon ourselves as lost, but it annoyed me quite as much. I 
 considered that the secret of that obscure entrance to Newgate would now be 
 discovered, because, although they might miss seeing the door, they could not, 
 by any possibility, miss seeing a key sticking in it, if I were compelled there to 
 leave it. 
 
 Nothing is ever done well in a hurry, and at any other time, without doubt, I 
 should have got the door unlocked with the greatest ease, and been already within 
 the precincts of Newgate. 
 
 A kind of desperation, however, lent me strength. I succeeded, by a great 
 effort, in freeing the key, and then, placing it in the right manner in the lock, the 
 door yielded. 
 
 We were not a minute too soon, for even as we crossed the threshold, the sound 
 of men jumping into the offal cellar came plainly upon my ears, and I almost 
 doubted whether they had not seen our retreating forms as we passed through 
 the doorway. 
 
 ♦ This, however, had to be chanced, and as we were as safe the moment the door 
 was closed upon us as we could be by going farther into the recesses of Newgate, 
 we remained where we were, immediately on the inner side of it, and strove, by 
 listening attentively, to discover what our enemies thought of our sudden disap- 
 pearance. 
 
 We could hear the confused murmur of voices, but the real fact was, that the 
 door was too thick, and fitted too well, to enable us to make out more than a word 
 or two which might now and then be spoken in a higher tone than usual. 
 
 We were, therefore, puzzled to know what to do, although we of course 
 concluded, that if we could not hear those who were on the other side of 
 the door conversing freely, we might, where we were, at all events, talk in . whispers 
 with the most perfect confidence. 
 
 "They have not seen us," said I ; " and so far it is so good, I suppose, but how 
 long we shall be forced to remain here I think now becomes a most troublesome 
 and anxious question." 
 
 " Why, you don't suppose they will starve us out V 
 
 *' I don't know but they may ; and pray, my facetious friend, what do you 
 
NEWGATE. 341 
 
 think is to become of us if they should station somebody in the offal cellar to 
 watch for us V 
 
 " Oh ! that's nothing." 
 
 " Nothing, do you call it?" 
 
 " Certainly ; nothing in the world ; there's my old female relative, and your 
 old friend of the wallet, both occupying a genteel independence in the well, so 
 I don't see why the police officer should not keep them company." 
 
 "What, commit murder?" 
 
 "Oh ! it will be only another, you know." 
 
 " No, that won't do ; if I am to be taken up on a charge of murder, let me be 
 innocent — not guilty ; and if the worst comes to the worst, we must give in, 
 although I think it a great chance that they should leave any one in the offal 
 cellar to watch, because the mere fact of their not following us through this door- 
 way is, I consider, sufficient of itself to prove that they have not discovered it." 
 
 *' Well, I consider myself, of course, as under your direction ; it's more your 
 adventure than mine ; and if we are taken up, of course I must put it upon your 
 shoulders." 
 
 "The deuce you must ! how do you mean to get over the affair of your aunt, 
 or your cousin, or what relation the old woman was to you, who has found a pre- 
 mature grave in the well ?" 
 
 "Oh ! I'll invent some most damnable facts ; but as for calling it a premature 
 grave— considering she was hard on to 90 years of age — I must confess you get 
 the better of me ; but as we are here, and if we are to run any chance of being 
 hanged, let me at least have the gratification of seeing something of old Newgate 
 first." 
 
 " Well, come on, then, and I will show you some of those remarkable places 
 which lie beneath the surface, and which, I dare say, are scarcely suspected to 
 exist, even by the official persons most intimately connected wich Newgate." 
 
 It was most fortunate that I had not relied upon the old woman for any 
 assistance to procure a light, but had, as usual, gone fully provided with every 
 necessary adjunct to the exploration of the numerous passages and dark vaults we 
 might encounter, as if I were alone. 
 
 We moved some distance off, lest any lingering ray from the small pocket 
 lantern I lighted should find its way through any crevice unperceived by us into 
 the offal cellar, and so by chance, when we least expected it, betray the secret of 
 our place of refuge. 
 
 "Now," I said, " follow me, and, forgetting for a time the danger which awaits 
 us, and the difficulty we may find in emerging from this place, let us, at all events, 
 make a thorough examination of its secret recesses." 
 
 As my theatrical friend could have no sort of association connected with those 
 spots which I had formerly visited with so much interest, because he knew not 
 the circumstances that had invested them with that interest, I forbore to take him 
 to the coffin cell or to the staircase, where still lay some of the wretched remains 
 of Adam Beech. * 
 
 On the contrary, I was more intent upon making new discoveries myself, and 
 I had a hope, which, however, was an extremely dim one, of finding some other 
 mode of outlet from the vaults as well as that which communicated with the offal 
 cellar. 
 
 My friend seemed greatly delighted with the mysterious appearance of the 
 region in which he was. 
 
 M Ah !" he said, " this is something like ; now I enjoy this, and I only hope 
 that before we get out something of an exceedingly terrifying and frightful nature 
 will occur." 
 
 " That is a matter of taste," I said, "and for my part 1 would just as soon be 
 without it ; but come, here is the entrance of a narrow passage, which, in my 
 previous visits, I passed because I had a special object in view ; suppose we 
 explore it?" 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
342 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 This passage was so excessively narrow that, after proceeding a shoit distance 
 down it, we foopd it scarcely convenient to walk abreast, so 1 took the lead, 
 ca«rying the light, and looking carefully on each side of me, with the hope of 
 making some interesting discoveries. 
 
 We thus proceeded for a considerable distance, finding nothing to repay us for 
 the trouble we took; for the walls, which were of rough stone, presented through- 
 out the entire length the same jagged, rough appearance which they did at their 
 commencement. 
 
 Just as my friend had made a remark that the passage seemed to lead nowhere, 
 it suddenly terminated in a circular room, the diameter of which was somewhere 
 about twenty feet. 
 
 This apartment was paved with flat tiles, which here and there had sunk into 
 hollows, where water had collected in stagnant pools. 
 
 I held up the light so as to shade its rays in as diffused a manner as possible, 
 and then we perceived that this apartment was a sort of ante-room, for no less 
 than five doors communicated from it to what, from the narrow gratings above 
 each, I considered to be cells. 
 
 I pointed them out to my companions, and then we stood for some moments 
 surveying them in silence. 
 
 " This is, indeed," he said, " a most wretched place in which to confine any 
 human being. I should like to find the way into one of these cells." 
 
 " They may or may not be fast," I said; " let us try." 
 
 I tried two of the doors, but they were closed, and would not yield in the 
 slightest to the touch. Upon a closer examination, by the aid of the lantern, 
 I found that there was a ponderous lock upon each — such a lock, ndeed, as it 
 would be quite in vain to attempt to force without the most adequate means for so 
 doing: so that, as regarded these two, we gave up the attempt as hopeless. 
 
 The third that we tried, however, to our great satisfaction we found at once 
 available to the purposes of our intense curiosity, to know what the interior might 
 be, for it yielded to the slightest touch. I cried — 
 
 4t Come in, come in ; here is one open at all events, and now we shall see what 
 kind of accommodation the wisdom of our forefathers vouchsafed to give to the 
 unhappy persons who were found guilty of crimes that consigned them to this 
 dreary and miserable abode/' 
 
 We both hastily entered the cell, feeling most intensely curious concerning it, 
 and as we reached the middle of it, which we did in two steps, my friend, who 
 followed me, let go the door. 
 
 I thought I heard a suspicious clicking sound, and I hastily walked towards it. 
 A moment's examination was sufficient to convince me that the lock closed with 
 a spring, and that the door was fast, of course presenting on its inner surface not 
 the smallest facility for opening it. 
 
 " 'lhis is worth consideration/' I said ; " you were anxious for an adventure, 
 and have got one with a vengeance. How are we to get out of this ?" 
 
 " Out ot it ? Why, the same way we came in." 
 
 *' A reasonable enough proposition ; but still you must bear in mind the dif- 
 ference between a closed door and an open one. This is fast, and now, in addition 
 to knowing what kind of accommodation the unhappy prisoners confined here were 
 likely to experience, we can, from our own knowledge, arrive at something like a 
 correct notion of what their feelings must be when the door is closed upon them, 
 and they have no means of opening it." 
 
 "Why, you don't mean that? You don't mean we are shut in here and 
 can't get out?" 
 
 " Indeed but I do though, and a trial will prove it at once ; look for yourself, 
 and you will soon discover what 1 mean." 
 
 " Fast as a rock," he said, after he had tried the door, " fast as a rock ; and 
 here we are two prisoners, in a horrible dog-hole, not much bigger than a sentry- 
 box." 
 
 Our curiosity received a most disagreeable check from this circumstance; and 
 
r 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 343 
 
 although it required but little trouble indeed in the way of observation to show us 
 what kmd of place we were in, our attention was so painfully liveted upon our 
 situation, that we were not inclined to give even that little. 
 
 We naturally turned all our attention to the means of escaping from where we 
 were, and I turned to my friend somewhat anxiously, to ask if he had. any 
 implements about him that would suffice to effect our liberation. 
 
 " I have a clasped knife," he said, " which, with perseverance, may do a great 
 deal." 
 
 "And I have one," said I, " with a strong blade ; so let us set to work at 
 once upon the door." 
 
 M Which will be useless," he said, " for I see it is plated with iron ; we should 
 break our knives, and then be helpless." 
 
 " But what can we do ?" 
 
 " Why, our knives are useless against a hard material; but against a soft one 
 they will be efficacious. I propose that we pk-k up some of those flat tiles that 
 form the flooring, and then scrape away a jblace in the earth under the door suffi- 
 ciently deep to ailow us to got out by." 
 
 11 Agreed," I said. " Let us commence at once; that certainly is a more 
 tangible scheme than working at the door. 
 
 The atmosphere was close and pestiferous in that place, which could easily be 
 perceived, if any further evidence than our own lungs was wanting, by the dim and 
 uncertain manner in which the lamp burned, for once or twice it seemed upon the 
 point of actually expiring, which would have left us in an extremely uncomfortable 
 predicament indeed, for there was not the faintest borrowed light even in those 
 dismal places. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 HOW WE ESCAPED FROM NEWGATE. 
 
 We both stooped down, and in real earnest commenced the task of excavating 
 the mould from beneath the door; and never probably was work set about with 
 so much zeal as that which now occupied us. 
 
 We got up the tiles which formed the flooring without any difficulty, but it was 
 by no means so easy a task as it would appear to be to get rid of a sufficient 
 quantity of earth for our purpose. * 
 
 Besides, it was not only earth we had to remove, for there was such a con- 
 siderable quantity of brick, rubbish, stones, and hardened mortar mixed with it, 
 that in some parts it was almost as bad as getting through a brick wall, and 
 several times we were forced to work round great lumps of these materials, con- 
 centrated together in such a manner that our knives could not have separated 
 them, and nothing short of a pickaxe would have had the slightest effect. 
 
 It was no wonder that we spoke little during the progress of these toilsome 
 operations. After we had excavated a considerable hole, the only thing we cou'.d 
 do was to cut away a quantity of loose mould, and then lift it out with our hands, 
 and so we got a quantity removed from the inner side of the door. Then, by 
 undermining that on the outside to some extent, and working upwards, we got a 
 clear opening, through which, at the risk of almost breaking our backs, we did 
 contrive to drag ourselves. 
 
 I, as being the thinnest, got through first, so that when I was on the outer side 
 my friend pushed the light out to me, and i widened the opening for him. 
 
 When we both stood free of that cell, the feeling of satisfaction that pervaded 
 our minds was most intense. At all events i can speak for myself, and truly say 
 that I never felt a sensation of greater relief in all my life. 
 
 We drew a long breath each, and wiped the perspiration from our brows, for the 
 work we had engaged in was unusual for us, and had been really most laborious. 
 
 " Well," I said, " now you have had your adventure, how do you like it 
 
344 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Not at all ; there was the trouble and none of the romance. What the plague 
 do they put such locks upon the doors for?" 
 
 " All the doors of Newgate are so provided ; they are all spring locks, and only 
 to be opened on the outside." 
 
 " It's a most confounded arrangement, and one which might have cost us our lives. 
 It is half-past two in the morning by my watch, and it seems to me time that we 
 thought of getting away." 
 
 " Well, we can go to the offal cellar, and try if you are sickened of adventures, 
 for to-night; but if you like, I am quite willing to continue exploring these most 
 singular places, and I have an indistinct hope that we may by possibility discover 
 some other mode of outlet than that by the offal cellar." 
 
 " Come on, then — come on, I'm your man ; but you won't catch me, now, going 
 into any place with a door to it, without taking some active measures to prevent it 
 closing upon me." 
 
 We had seen quite enough of those cells, and, as another passage similar to the 
 one by which we had entered the horrid apartment, left it in the opposite direction, 
 we trimmed the lantern and proceeded. 
 
 We had not gone far without being sensible that the floor of this passage descended 
 considerably, and became more damp and slippery as it did so. Presently, too, 
 the paving ceased entirely, so that we merely trod upon the earth, and the roof 
 became so low, that in a short time it was as much as we could do to stand 
 upright. 
 
 " This is a strange state of things," said I ; " I wonder where this can possibly 
 lead to." 
 
 Even as I spoke, a singular noise came upon our ears, and we both paused. It 
 was a strange rumbling kind of sound, something like thunder over-head, and upon 
 holding up the lantern, I was surprised to see that the roof in that place was 
 composed of some heavy cross pieces of wood, at intervals, with flooring above that 
 again, the whole of which, now, was so blackened by time, that one could hardly 
 convince oneself it was wood, except by the touch. Before that we could make any 
 observation as to the strange sound that had met our ears, it came again, and after 
 that all was still, with the exception of one loud concussion, as if a door had been 
 banged and shut with violence. 
 
 " This is strange," said I, " we must be nearer human beings than we imagined." 
 
 "* It is the more strange too," said my companion, " because we have gone upon 
 the descent, and must be considerably below the average level of even the lowest 
 portion of any of the houses." 
 
 " It is strange/' I said, "but look here at the roof, and tell me if you don't Bee 
 one portion of it that appears of a different colour to the remainder." 
 
 He looked attentively, and then exclaimed : — 
 
 " Yes, it certainly is so. This reminds me of being under the stage of a theatre, 
 and if that be not a trap-door above, I never saw one in all my life." 
 
 As he spoke, he lifted up his arms and gave a vigorous push to that portion of the 
 roof. It yielded at once, and some rough, dirty saw-dust came down in our faces. 
 
 " It's all dark," he said, "above; but how we are to get up I don't know. 
 You, however, are the lightest considerably, and if you can scramble up by stepping 
 upon me in any way, pray do so at once : when you are up, you can render me 
 assistance." 
 
 "I could, without doubt," I said, "but the trap-door itself is the most trouble- 
 some part of the affair — it seems of some weight, and shutting down, I suppose I 
 shall have to prop it up with my head." 
 
 et Never mind that, so long as you do so we cannot tell where this may lead us 
 to — at all events it is the most likely thing in the shape of an adventure that we 
 have come across, and it would be rank cowardice in us now to neglect it." 
 
 " Be it so," I said ; (( stand firm." 
 
 He placed his hands upon his knees, and assumed a steady attitude, while I, not 
 wiithout some difficulty, scrambled on to his back. By a vigorous push then I suc- 
 ceeded in throwing the trap-door wide open, and scrambled through the aperture. 
 
_____ NEWGATE, S45 
 
 He then handed the light to me, and merely asking me to get out of the wav he 
 
 inTs^nl eI 2 P ^ VK ha ^ n ° W that the °Peninfwas clel, and we hothYtood 
 A,!! 5 g f P l 6 ' Whlch, 1 at the moment ' we could n °t se ^ the extent of. 
 
 flnnr onH ? I *° d ° Se } he tra P- door > and then we lifted the lamp from the 
 
 LTwe twllnS T r A T me ?, tS ' obse ^ation let us into allVe see et, 
 
 Some glasses, a pewter pot or two, and a number of pipes, lay about, while the 
 heavy wooden ball, which the players had been using, was quite sufficient to account 
 to us for the strange rumbling noise which we had heard' above, and which bore so 
 close a resemblance to thunder. 
 
 The roof was low, and formed entirely of wood-Vork, patched in all directions, 
 while at one end of the cellar, for such it was, the wall was padded with hay an 
 
346 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 °ld matting, for the purpose of breaking the concussion of the heavy skittle-ball 
 a gainst it. 
 
 Saw-dust was strewn thickly about, and projecting from the wall was a gas-burner, 
 which was quite warm to the touch, thereby convincing us that the publican 
 had had some late customers, and it had only been very, recently extinguished. 
 
 "You see," I remarked, " that these subterranea&passages of Newgate travel 
 under other houses, and dipping so deep as they do into the bowels of the earth, 
 go lower even than such cellars as these/' ' ' 
 
 <f Well, of all the extraordinary means of getting^ into a public-house, this is 
 certainly the most extraordinary." 
 
 " Yes, but it will be more extraordinary if we get out without a lodging in the 
 nearest watehhouse ; and after all, you see, we might just as well have been taken 
 in the offal cellar as in " 
 
 " The Goat and Compasses," said my friend, who read the name upon one of the 
 quart pots. <f I admit the proposition that we might just as well be taken in one 
 place as in another, but I don't intend that we should "be taken in either ; for I 
 think we can put in practice a little manoeuvre that will enable us to get out of this 
 place with credit, although, certainly, in so doing, we must astonish somebody. 
 Will you be guided by me ?" 
 
 " Unquestionably I will. Take your own course, and I will obey your directions.* 
 
 I looked on with some curiosity to see what he intended to do, and, to my 
 surprise, his first act was to re-light the gas that had been extinguished, and to 
 put out my little lantern, which he gave me again, requesting me to place it in 
 my pocket. 
 
 "Now," he said, "setup the skittles, and let's have a game. Make as much 
 noise as you can, and, when any one comes, leave it to me." 
 
 We set up the skittles, and then commenced playing away might and main, 
 making such a racket with the ball, and laughing and talking to such an extent that 
 must soon reach the ears of every one in the house. 
 
 About five minutes elapsed, certainly not a longer period, when a door, upon 
 which we had frequently bent our eyes, and which we had previously ascertained 
 was fast locked on the other side, was flung open, and a man appeared in a night- 
 gown and slippers, and carrying a chamber candlestick in his hand. 
 
 "The devil !" he said, what's the meaning of this V 
 
 My friend threw the ball at the skittles with a tremendous bang, and then turning 
 to the man, who looked petrified with astonishment, he said, — 
 
 "Damn it! are we to wait all night for that brandy and water and those cigars ? 
 What do you mean by it ? Is this the way you attend upon your best customers at 
 the * Goat and Compasses V " 
 
 " My eye !" said the man. " Well, I'm blowed, how came you here?" 
 
 "Why, on our feet, to be sure ; but where is the brandy and water?" 
 
 The man said not a word, but he turned and disappeared like a shot, and 
 presently we heard such a roaring and howling, that we could not conjecture what 
 it was about until he reappeared, dragging with him, by the hair of his head, a 
 great, lubberly-looking boy, with nothing on but his shirt. 
 
 "You damned rascal!" he said; " didn't you tell me you had cleared the 
 skittle-ground, and put out the gas? and here I find two gentlemen actually playing 
 and dying for brandy and water, you scamping vagabond !" 
 
 The boy's eyes were opened so wide, and his mouth likewise, that he was quite 
 a sight to see, and he looked at us as if we were certainly two of the greatest 
 curiosities the world ever produced. 
 
 "Well, there wasn't nobody here," he said; "hit one of your own size, master. 
 There wasn't nobody here, and I did put out the gash. Just leave me alone, 
 will you V 
 
 " Why, you infernal villain, you try to badger me out of my own senses, would 
 you % but mind, this is a trick I w*on't stand. You leave me to-morrow, mind that ! 
 To come and tell me that the gas was out, and nobody there ; and to bring me the 
 key of the door, too, after locking two gentlemen in as was a playing away like 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 347 
 
 mad, and ordering brandy and water and cigars like one o'clock. Oh, you villain ! 
 hanging is too good for you." 
 
 " Oh, let him off this time," said I ; "it is late, and we are going. We'll take 
 the brandy and water at the bar ; and as for the boy, he has only been asleep and 
 dreaming, so forgive him for this once, and I dare say he will be more vigilant in 
 future. You know, you rascal, you took our order for the brandy and water, and 
 one glass was to have a bit of lemon in>it, and one was not. ,, 
 
 1 never saw such a look of astonishment upon a human countenance in my 
 life, as that which the boy exhibited throughout the whole of this short dialogue. 
 Of course he felt quite confident that he had put out the gas in the skittle-ground, that 
 no one was there when he had done so, and that most unquestionably he had closed 
 the door and gone to bed, believing that everything was quite correct ; and now to 
 find the gas alight and two people there, who spoke to him circumstantially about 
 brandy and water that they had ordered, was most bewildering. 
 
 It was certainly too bad to get the boy into so much trouble, but self-preservation 
 absolutely required it ; and after all, the probability is, that, at the best, he was not 
 very clear-headed, and consequently not much more confused than usual, at the 
 singular circumstance that had taken place — a circumstance which, to an educated 
 person, would have been of great annoyance, inasmuch as all the possibilities and 
 probabilities concerning it would, for a long time, have taken possession of the 
 mind. 
 
 The landlord dismissed the boy to his bed again, with a parting shake, after 
 having consented, at our solicitation, not to discharge him ; and then we proceeded 
 to the bar, where the brandy and water, which was certainly grateful to us after 
 our long sojourn in the vaults of Newgate, was duly discussed. 
 
 The landlord was full of apologies, and assured us that, although the boy had 
 been with him for two years, he had never done such a foolish thing before, and 
 was quite profuse in his hopes that we would excuse it, and not imagine we were 
 always to meet with such treatment at the 'Goat and Compasses.' 
 
 I think we succeeded in quieting his mind upon the subject, and we left the 
 ' Goat and Compasses' not a little pleased ourselves with the fortunate accident that 
 twilight had opened to us a new mode of exit from Newgate ; and likewise so com- 
 pletely and effectually defeated the officers, who, no doubt, considered that they 
 had us entirely in their power, after watching our descent into the offal cellar. 
 
 " I do think," said my friend, as we walked arm-in-arm homeward, " I do 
 think that we have got out of that affair very handsomely." 
 
 " Most certainly we have," I replied ; u and much better than ever I thought it 
 possible we should : I give you all the credit of the affair. I am most decidedly of 
 opinion that, had I been alone, I must have given the matter up, and surrendered 
 quietly, endeavouring to make the best of it I could, by a candid statement of the 
 real facts of the case. 
 
 " Oh, I should never think of giving-in in that way ; and, if it had not been for the 
 infernal hole we had to dig in order to get out of the cell, the whole affair would 
 have been as satisfactory as anything of the sort possibly could be." 
 
 " Including, I presume, the disappearance of your ancient female relative down 
 the well V 
 
 " I must own it looks a little odd for me not to be more sympathetic on that 
 score, but the fact is, she was very old, and was sure to die, somehow or other, very 
 soon ; and besides, she was a most intolerable bore, and no mistake ; and as I don't 
 profess to be a hypocrite, although I certainly would, if I could, have saved the old 
 lady, I cannot pretend to be overwhelmed with sorrow upon the occasion of her 
 decease." 
 
 " No : if you did, nobody would believe you." 
 
 " And very right of them : she was a very respectable old pump, in her way ; 
 but what can you expect of an old woman, half blind, hard of hearing, and naturally 
 stupid r 
 
 " Well, well : that part of the affair is no business of mine, and I'dhrather see 
 
348 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 you laugh than cry at anything. I only hope that yet the affair may not prove to 
 us of serious consequence." 
 
 " Why, ycu don't suppose it will, do you?" 
 
 " I don't know what to suppose about it ; I only know that there are two dead 
 bodies in the well, and that, if they should happen to be fished out, the popular 
 belief will be most certainly that somebody pushed them in; and you won't get 
 people to believe anything else." 
 
 <c Well, then, we must tell a plain unvarnished tale, and so put away any 
 suspicion. But are you not delighted with the new means we have now of getting 
 into Newgate V 
 
 " Of getting out, you mean." 
 
 " Well, and of getting in too : what in the world is to prevent us from going to 
 the ' Goat and Compasses,' under the plea of playing at skittles, and, watching the 
 opportunity when no one is there, we can lift up the trap-door and pop down among 
 the vaults of Newgate, with the greatest ease." 
 
 u Decidedly hazardous ; you may depend upon it, if we were to make another 
 mysterious appearance or disappearance, the landlord would begin to think there 
 was something in it, and that, after all, the boy was not such a fool as he thought 
 him : so that we must not run too many risks, but leave well alone." 
 
 " I am not for running too many risks, but at the same time, I am not for avoid- 
 ing an agreeable enterprise because it may be attended with some dangerous 
 chances : you must recollect that ' from the nettled danger we plucked the flower 
 safety.' " 
 
 " Yes, I recollect that perfectly well; but I must wait, to see what amount of 
 temptation I may have to visit Newgate, for a perusal of the next documents that 
 may meet my attention, among those which I have, before I quite make up my mind 
 to do so. Without at all detracting from your ingenuity, I think that, up to the 
 present time, we have certainly been more lucky than wise." 
 
 f* It may be so— I cannot dispute it with you ; but tell me, when shall we meet 
 to peruse some of those manuscripts of which you give so flaming an account V 
 " When you please ; to-morrow night, if that will suit you." 
 n That will suit me well ; at what hour shall I be with you V 
 u Come at eleven, and then we can have some hours before us, during which we 
 can dip considerably into some tale, which, if it prove as interesting to you as those 
 which I have already perused have proved to me, will give you no cause to regret 
 the time you devote to it." 
 
 V Doubt not that I shall be punctual ; and, now that I am disengaged from an 
 affair which I was engaged in thoroughly sifting for a friend a short time since, 1 
 can pay undivided attention to your Newgate matters." 
 
 " Yes, I recollect you were telling me that you had engaged yourself in tracing 
 the particulars of some remarkable cases of poisoning here and on the continent. 
 Among others, too — for you mentioned to me names connected with several such 
 affairs — you said you were inquiring into the particulars of a story connected with a 
 woman named Blaise." 
 
 " I did ; but that is a very short affair, and I soon found out the whole par- 
 ticulars connected with it. It may be a singular fancy of mine, but nothing 
 excites my curiosity more than an inquiry into the many strange and singular 
 modes by which human beings, from time to time, for the gratification of their own 
 evil passions, destroy each other." , 
 " If the anecdote of Madame Blaise be so short, pray tell it me ** 
 " I will, as we proceed ; it is simply this." 
 I attended to him, and he spoke as "follows : — 
 
 The story of Madame Blaise presents many singular features, among which, and 
 not the least, is the remarkable strength of passion she possessed, and which she 
 felt towards one who eventually denounced her to justice, and brought her to 
 a scaffold for the very crime she committed, out of pure strength of affection for 
 him. \ 
 
 Madame Blaise, when young, had been married, by the agreement of her own 
 
 . ^ — , 
 
NEWGATE. 349 
 
 and her husband's parents. She was a native of France, and so was her husband. 
 He ran a life that was not to be commended, and they soon went through the 
 little fortune they began lite with, and, which, with due care and diligence, would 
 have made them, in a few years, perfectly independent and above labour for the 
 rest of their lives ; but this was not to be. 
 
 After going through some alternations they came to the determination to quit 
 France, and come to England, and try their fortunes here. 
 
 They came with the remnant of their fortunes, and here they set up lodging- 
 house-keepers and dress and habit makers, in which they were very fortunate, and 
 made money. 
 
 Blaise himself did but little, save take a general survey of the affairs and 
 superintend, them, receive the money, and spend a great portion of the same in his 
 own way — that was, •at the taverns and in the various matters that constitute, 
 or are suppose to constitute, the essentials of a man of the world. 
 
 After much trouble he contrived to dissipate much of that which the industry of 
 his wife procured ; at the same time he did but little himself that in any way 
 aided in the general prosperity of himself and wife. 
 
 After much wrangling and much quarrelling Madame Blaise contrived to secure 
 some portion of her earnings, which she retained for her own use, be that what it 
 might, and that was suspected to be hoarded up, lest at any time a second ruin 
 should come upon them, and that through the mismanagement of Monsieur 
 Blaise. 
 
 About this time — that is, after they had been in England about four or five 
 years — a young gentleman came to lodge at the house. He was poor, and was 
 waiting for some employment that was promised him by some person who had 
 influence enough at court to procure it for him. 
 
 Madame Blaise was at that time scarce three*-and- twenty years of age. She 
 had married before she was seventeen, and after the first year she quitted France. 
 She was exceedingly pretty, perhaps more ; her figure was sylph-like, and she 
 was neatness personified, and she tripped about with the most charming air. 
 
 The young lodger used to take particular notice of Madame Blaise ; he used 
 to remark her neat-turned foot, her laughing eye and dimpled cheek, the arch 
 look, and the smiling countenance, which betrayed a heart that was inclined to 
 mirth, and he himself could not but smile when she smiled, so infectious was the 
 example of Madame Blaise. 
 
 Day after day passed thus, and the lodger and Madame Blaise became more and 
 more intimate ; but as yet there was no harm in the intimacy ; not but Madame 
 felt something more than a warm partiality for the lodger, something more than 
 was prudent or proper, but which had grown insensibly upon her. 
 
 Monsieur Blaise continually neglected his wife, and spent his evenings at the 
 tavern, which he seldom left until he was turned out by the host as being too 
 late. 
 
 Thus disgust began at one end of this affair, and love or passion at the other. 
 
 The lodger was not averse to an intrigue with a pretty woman, especially such a 
 one as Madame Blaise, and they grew somewhat familiar; and on one occasion 
 he said, that, were it not for Monsieur Blaise, he would have no objection to accept 
 her as a housekeeper, and something more. 
 
 Monsieur Blaise became acquainted with the fact that something was going on 
 between his wife and the lodger which did not meet his approbation at all, but still 
 he could obtain no proof ; and as he could not refrain from his evening visits to the 
 tavern, and yet while there he could not- banish from his mind the recollection of 
 home, he became in a state between fury and intoxication. 
 
 When he came home there was a scene of strife and noise that frequently 
 beggared description. 
 
 " Madame Blaise," said Monsieur Blaise, " why is it that I am kept so long at 
 the door when I come home?" 
 
 " I really don't know, Monsieur Blaise." 
 
 _ ^_ . 
 
350 NEWGATE. 
 
 " But you do, madame; you have* some vile object of your own to serve in 
 keeping me out ; indeed, Madame Blaise, I think you have too good a reason to 
 wish me not to return home at all." 
 
 " You get so terribly intoxicated, Monsieur Blaise, that I have every reason to 
 hope you will not." % 
 
 " Intoxicated ! Bah!" 
 
 " No, it's positive you come home here mad, jealous, and in a bestial state, such 
 as no swineherd would like to be seen in." 
 " Madame, it is not for you to tell me this." 
 
 " You shun me, and I tell you what I see j indeed, Monsieur Blaise, your conduct 
 is just what would make anybody ill with looking at you; you are positively 
 bad." 
 
 " Bad, Madame Blaise ? " 
 
 " Yes, bad— extremely bad ; I said so, sir ; you have no respect for your 
 home, your wife, and infant ; you are going to ruin as you did before/' 
 " I, Madame Blaise, I ? " 
 
 " Yes, you, Monsieur Blaise, you — I said you ; I believe you are going to ruin ; 
 you are going on the same way you went before ; you do nothing — you are an 
 idle, good-for-nothing man, who only spends what he does not earn." 
 
 " Sacre, madame! you tell me this to my face ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly I do." 
 
 " I tell you what, madame, you have some object in thus rebelling against me : 
 I tell you what, you are a good-for-nothing huzzy ; you are too familiar with your 
 lodgers." 
 
 v "Oh! indeed, Monsieur Blaise.'' 
 
 "Yes, you are ; and I will be the death of you : you know you are unfaithful." 
 " You dare say that to me ! * 
 
 "Begar! you know that is the truth — everybody knows it, and everybody 
 says to me, 'Monsieur Blaise, Madame Blaise and your lodger are often alone at a 
 late hour.' " 
 
 "Then why are you not at home ? said madame. 
 
 " Begar, there is a question !" 
 
 " It is a very necessary question, and the accusation gives you an answer to 
 the question of why am I alone with the lodger ? — you are never alone, Monsieur 
 Blaise/' 
 
 ** Begar, madame ! — * 
 
 " Come, come, Monsieur Blaise ; go down stairs in the cellar, and there you 
 will see something that will surprise you." 
 
 Monsieur Blaise was amazed at what his wife said, and could not conceive 
 what she meant when she talked of the cellar, and then, after many endeavours 
 to obtain some information ot what was in the cellar, he consented to go. 
 
 He imagined she might have ordered the cellar to be filled with wine, or some- 
 thing of that sort, as a makepeace ; and Monsieur Blaise began to warm in his heart 
 towards madame his wife, at the mere thought of such goodness of disposition. 
 
 It was useless to remember the cellar was old and ruinous, and that even a 
 hand might be obtruded from the next hou?e to diminish the number of bottles — 
 it was useless to speculate at all ; so down he went into the cellar. 
 
 Madame Blaise followed with a candle, and, as she did so, concealed something 
 in her hand. When Monsieur Blaise got into the cellar, he looked about, but saw 
 nothing but bricks lying about as they had fallen down, and presenting a ruinous 
 mess. 
 
 " Well, madame, what made you bring me here? I see nothing but what I have 
 seen before. 1 ' 
 
 " Look up in that corner," said madame, holding the candle high. Monsieur 
 Blaise crept forward, and bent to look up in the corner ; and as he did so, madame 
 raised her concealed hand and displayed a heavy hammer, with which she struck 
 Monsieur Blaise a tremendous blow on the head. 
 
 Ct Well," said Madame Blaise, as she struck a second blow better aimed than 
 
 | 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 351 
 
 the first ; " well, this will be the last time you will require a word with me. I am 
 now free ! — free ! — free ! " 
 
 As she spoke she dealt a blow each time upon the skull of the helpless man, and 
 killed him outright. 
 
 When he received the first blow he was stunned, and rolled about without being 
 able to beg for mercy ; he did not utter one sound, and fell upon the bricks with 
 great force, and there died without a groan. 
 
 Madame Blaise then left the cellar, the door of which she secured, and went up 
 stairs, and saw the lodger, to whom she complained of the continued absence of 
 Monsieur Blaise, and threw herself into his arms, and besought him to protect her 
 from the ill-usage of one who cared nothing for her. 
 
 "I have-money," she said, "if you will come to my country, la bella France; 
 there we can live and be happy. I have about three thousand francs, and that 
 will make us happy in that country." 
 
 The lodger seemed to acquiesce, but said he could not go for some days, but he 
 thought he could go then. 
 
 Somewhat re-assured, madame seemed contented ; but the next day had nearly 
 passed over before he returned to the house ; but then he introduced the officers of 
 justice, and a search was made through the house for the body, and Madame Blaise 
 was arrested. 
 
 After some examination, it was discovered the lodger, who had been downstairs, 
 was attracted by the quarrel between the husband and wife, and, fearing the former 
 would exert violence, he followed them down stairs, being curious to know what 
 was to be seen, and there he saw the murder committed. He was so thunderstricken 
 that he could not move to attempt to save the unfortunate man, but when he saw 
 the mischief was done he went up stairs, where she came to him. 
 
 The next day he divulged the whole affair to the police, and denounced her ; 
 while she in turn, out of revenge, denounced him, and said he was her accomplice, 
 and he was also put on his trial, but permitted to give evidence. 
 
 However, there was another witness of whom they knew nothing, and that was 
 the miserable occupant of the next cellar, who, seeing what was going on, 
 contented himself with putting his hand through the hole, while he cut off a bit of 
 her gown. 
 
 The piece was produced, and thegown also to which it fitted, and then the evidence 
 against her was conclusive ; while the same witness swore that there was no one 
 else present but Madame and Monsieur Blaise. 
 
 Thus he was honourably dismissed ; while the unfortunate Madame Blaise was 
 found guilty, condemned, and hanged, amid many spectators, who assembled to 
 witness her execution. 
 
 We had now reached my door, and, renewing the understanding we had made 
 to meet again at eleven o'clock on the next night, we parted with, I am sure, quite 
 a strong feeling of mutual congratulation at the positive escape we had experienced 
 from capture and imprisonment, upon a charge that it would have been one of the 
 most difficult things in the ■world to have cleaied ourselves of. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 THE NEXT MEETING, AND THE TALE OF FRANK HAYWAUD THE FOOTPAD. 
 
 My theatrical friend was true to his appointment, and, almost precisely as the 
 clock struck eleven, he was announced to me. 
 
 Previous to his coming, 1 had turned over some of the. pages of the mendicant's 
 wallet, and I found a slip of paper on which were the following words : — 
 
 " Should these papers come into the hands of any one who may feel a desire, to 
 make them public, that individual must use entirely his own discretion as regards 
 this story of Frank Hayward, which will be found in a distinct packet by itself 
 
352 NEWGATE. 
 
 immediately under this slip of paper. There are circumstances connected with 
 who he was that might give great offence in certain high quarters ; but if it should 
 happen that he who edits these papers for the press, should they ever be so edited, 
 cares as little for high quarters as he who compiled them from authentic sources of 
 information, .there can be no reason why the whole particulars should not be 
 published." 
 
 * y * * ♦ * * * 
 
 This announcement excited my curiosity a little, and I wondered what those 
 particulars were, concerning which one was to use a discretion not called for by any 
 other of the circumstances connected with the papers I have already perused. 
 
 But still I felt no hesitation, for I just happened to be one of those persons who 
 care, indeed, so little for high quarters, that the amount, if it had to be measured, 
 would come to nothing at all. 
 
 I showed the indorsement to my theatrical friend, who laughed, as he said — 
 | "This is nothing but a piece of grave irony. You may depend that the story 
 contains some curious particulars which we shall discover upon its perusal. So, 
 pray, set to work atonce, and let us see what you make of it." 
 
 " Agreed ! Draw your chair closer to the fire, and lend your most serious 
 attention to what I have a presentiment will turn out to be a highly interesting 
 history; and, as I attach much importance to the incidents therein contained, I 
 feel persuaded you will, for once in a way, cast aside merriment, if I proceed 
 forthwith to relate the story now referred to." 
 
 " Yes," said my theatrical friend ; " the bell rings, and now raise the curtain — 
 the audience waits: — " 
 
 On a delicious afternoon in June, the Very Rev. Dr. Muggsworth, rector of Lit- 
 tleton, in the county of Surrey, was sitting in his study. 
 
 The rev. gentleman was of that order of created beings which seem always 
 to have a propensity to assimilate the breadth with the length, or, in other words, 
 the learned doctor, being of a very limited extent in altitude, had, from a long life 
 of indulgence in good things, become so corpulent, that when he was dressed in 
 his full canonicals he looked like a great round black ball, which by some peculiar 
 means was capable of locomotion in some sort of vmy. 
 
 He was a great favourite with his bishop, and, generally speaking, a popular 
 man in his neighbourhood, and he kept what he called the Collegiate School of 
 Littleton. 
 
 Everything had thriven with this corpulent divine. The rectory was a 'good 
 thing; the school had thriven ; and some farming operations in which the doc- 
 tor engaged, all turned out well; so that a more comfortable, easy-going, pleasant 
 sort of old customer than the Rev-. Peter Muggsworth could not very well have 
 been found. 
 
 But there will be clouds in the sunniest skies, and it was quite evident that 
 something discomposed the doctor, for he shook his head to and fro occasionally, 
 and heaved some uncommonly deep sighs. 
 
 There came a low tap at his study door — one of those taps which betoken an 
 amazing amount of respect for the occupant of the room on the part of him who 
 requests admission. 
 
 It was repeated before the learned doctor condescended to take any notice of it ; 
 but when he did say 'come in,' there entered the apartment, with a gliding, snake- 
 like movement, a youngish man, attired in a suit of rusty black, and wno, at a 
 glance, could be seen to be one of the school-assistants who conducted Littleton 
 academy for their reverend employer. 
 
 "Oh!" said the doctor, it's you, is it, Mr. Waudle? you may take a seat." 
 
 " I humbly thank you, sir," said Mr. Waudle, sitting upon the extreme edge of 
 the chair that was nearest the door; " I humbly thank you, sir." 
 
 . " Well, Mr. Waudle, I presume that you have made inquiry into the general 
 conduct of Hay ward V 
 
 ft I have, sir, since you honoured me by desiring that I shoulcL dp so. I mean 
 commanding — of course, I mean commanding ! I have discovered much con- 
 
NEWGATE. 353 
 
 ceruing him ; and I only wonder, doctor, that you don't get rid of a boy, 
 who — 
 
 t( And pray, sir," said the doctor, inflating his cheeks, * 4 and pray, sir, do I 
 give you twelve pounds a-year, and find you in everything, for you to wonder at 
 my conduct?" 
 
 u I humbly ask pardon, sir ! I — I did not exactly mean to say I wondered, 
 but in a manner of speaking— -I — I meant to say, or rather- to— to state, that I 
 was surprised a little — " 
 
 "And how dare you, sir, take upon yourself to be surprised ever so little?" 
 
 " I humbly beg pardon, sir ! and certainly will not presume to be surprised 
 again, as long as I live." 
 
 "Ah!" said the doctor; "things come to a pretty pass when people to whom 
 we give twelve pounds a-year dare even to think. ,, 
 
 i( I shall certainly not presume to think, doctor, for the future." 
 
 No. 4$. 
 
354 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Well, well ! proceed. What have you learnt of Francis Hayward iff 
 " Why, sir, it appears, in the first place, that he has robbed all the orchards in 
 the neighbourhood, and has become the terror of the whole district, He went 
 into Farmer Minden's house and eat a quantity of preserves, kissed Miss Lucy 
 Minden, flung the cat out of the window, frightened poor old Mrs. Minden into 
 hysterics, and then walked away as if nothing had happened." 
 "Dreadful! dreadful! Go on." 
 
 " He cut the bell-rope in the church-steeple, and then fastened it together with 
 a piece of pack-thread, so that when fat Thomas Jingle, the new ringer, laid hold 
 of it, it came in two at once, and down lie went right away from the belfry into 
 the churchwardens' pew." 
 
 " Frightful, Mr. Waudle, frightful ! Go on." 
 
 " He went into the Bell and Crown, sir ; and while the barmaid was looking an- 
 other way, he took up a two-gallon jar of strong brandy, and, carrying it outside, 
 he emptied it into the horse-trough." 
 
 " The villain V 9 
 
 e * Yes, sir, and Jem the carrier's horse got drunk, and walked on his hind legs 
 through the village, while all the parcels rolled out of the back of the cart." 
 
 " Dreadful ! dreadful ! I must get rid of him !. I must expel him the school 
 with ignominy and contempt. No, no, I must not — I dare not." 
 
 " Sir!" said the astonished Mr. Waudle. 
 
 « Eh V 
 
 " Sir, I thought you said that you dare not expel him." 
 
 " And how dare you, sir, think what I said, or even be presumptuous enough to 
 hear what I said, when it was not addressed to you. I said no such thing, sir." 
 ** I was humbly mistaken, and beg your pardon, sir." 
 
 u Go, Mr. Waudle, and tell that boy that I must speak to him. Something 
 must be done, and that immediately too." 
 
 Mr. Waudle departed on his errand ; and when the Doctor was alone he 
 sighed again, and appeared to be in great mental tribulation. 
 
 " What can I do ?" he said. (< He is too old for me to manage : they ought to 
 send him to sea, but they won't.. I dare not send him away, for what if she were 
 to be offended and say something disagreeable to my bishop ? The school would 
 fall off, and I should have no hopes of being made an arch deacon, a royal chaplain, 
 perhaps, eventually, a bishop. No, I must not send him away, for she might be 
 offended. I wish they had never sent him here ; it has done me some good, of 
 course, in the way of recommendation ; and if the fellow had turned out a gentle- 
 man instead of such a scamp, all might have been well, but as it is, I " 
 
 The Rev. Peter Muggsworth stopped short, for he heard a footstep approaching, 
 and presently there came another tap upon the door, which heralded the re-ap- 
 pearance of Mr. Waudle, who, when he got into the room, had a very mysterious 
 look. 
 
 Jf Well, Mr. Waudle, did you desire Hayward to come to me ?" 
 
 " I certainly did, sir, but he won't come;, and I do shrink from repeating to you, 
 sir, what he said." 
 
 "Tell me at once, Waudle ; what did he say % I insist upon knowing." 
 
 "Well, then, sir, if you insist upon knowing, it is my duty to tell you. I said 
 to him, * Hayward, the Doctor desires to see you in his study ; go to him at 
 once.' To which he replied, ' You may tell old guts that I will see him damned 
 first/" 
 
 The Doctor looked at Mr. Waudle, and Mr. Waudle looked at the Doctor, for 
 the space of several minutes in utter silence. Then the reverend gentleman moved 
 his hands up and down like the fins of a turtle, and made a curious noise With his 
 mouth, as if he wished to call a number of chickens around him. 
 
 "Gracious Providence !" he said, " this is dreadful !" 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Mr. Wardle, " it is dreadful ; that's just what I said to myself 
 at the time. ' Gracious Providence, this is dreadful ? The idea, sir, of calling you 
 old guts, actually old guts — not guts alone, you mind, sir, but old guts." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 355 
 
 " Mr. Waudle," roared the reverend gentleman, " it seems to me, sir, that you 
 take a pleasure, sir, in repeating it, sir, as if you enjoyed it, sir, really enjoyed it." 
 
 " I — I, sir ? Oh, Heavens ! and the idea, sir, of saying that you might be 
 damned ! you, sir, a clergyman of the Church of England, as by law established ; 
 as if such a thing were possible, sir, ' You can tell old guts/ says he, 1 I'll see him 
 damned first.' " 
 
 The countenance of the Rev. Peter Muggsworth grew extremely red, and ke 
 cried, in a voice struggling with passion, — 
 
 " Mr. Waudle, if those words pass your lips again you can take your discharge, 
 sir, and you can sue me for your quarter's wages if you like, and you may starve 
 before you get them ; and rather than help you I'll see you damned — [ m«nn 
 blessed first." 
 
 At this moment the door of the study was flung open, and a lad of about 
 eighteen made his appearance, to the astonishment of both Mr. Waudle and the 
 doctor, for it was no other than Francis Hayward himself. 
 
 " Well, Doctor," said the boy, " you sent this crawling hound here to say you 
 wanted me. What is it all about ? whose cat has kittened now V 
 
 "Mr. Waudle," said the doctor, "you may leave/' 
 
 The usher reluctantly left the apartment, and when they were alone the doctor 
 summoned up all the importance he could in his looks, and addressed the boy who 
 stood before him. 
 
 Francis Hayward was tall for his age, and stout withal. Nature had been kind 
 enough, for the benefit of all those whom it might concern, to write 6 scamp ' upon 
 his countenance ; for never was there a face, the general expression of which more 
 decidedly proclaimed that fact. There was far more of cunning than of intellect 
 in his appearance, and there was an air of insolent audacity about his ge*.°rrl 
 bearing that was perfectly insufferable. 
 
 " Francis Hayward," said the doctor, " I regret to state that I have heard tilings 
 concerning you which are extremely prejudicial to your moral character." 
 
 " What do I care what you have heard ? I should not have come mow to you but 
 that I have some questions to ask of you, which I desire you to answer me without 
 reservation ; and when you have answered them, you may spare yourself any further 
 trouble, for I'm going to leave." 
 
 " Going to leave ? Leave the school ?" 
 
 "Yes, to be sure; you seem thunderstruck. Why ■should I not leave the school 
 I wonder? but, first of all, answer me what I have to ; s aid the first of those 
 questions is, Who am I?" 
 
 The doctor looked astounded, and it seemed a? if.hs took several moments 
 before he could comprehend the precise nature of the question that had been put 
 to him. 
 
 "Who am I?" cried Francis Hayward; < ' that's what I want to know, and 
 that's what I will know, if I punch it out of you." 
 "Punch!" Jjfc 
 
 " Yes, now you understand me. There is a mystery connected with my birth ; 
 you know it, and so must L I have made up my mind to be a blackguard, or at 
 least such as you would call one ; and I want to know who I shall have the plea- 
 sure of disgracing ?" 
 
 This speech was evidently one for which the reverend gentleman was totally 
 unprepared, and he glared in the face of his questioner with such a look of stolid 
 astonishment, as under any other circumstances would have partaken most largely 
 of the ludicrous. 
 
 After^a few moments thus spent, he made a very faint effort to recover himself, 
 and assume the necessary dignity of the pedagogue, but it was a very inefficacious' 
 attempt indeed, and, as will be seen, most totally and completely failed. 
 
 " Young man, young man," he said, u don't tell me that you are going to leave 
 this academy. If you don't knew -who you are, I must let you know what you 
 are; and that is, a school-boy, sir, a mere school-boy, and one'whom 1 cannot and 
 
356 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 will not permit to take upon himself the manners of a man. How dare you ask 
 me any questions?" 
 
 " That is all nonsense/' said the boy. " I have astonished you, and that is 
 sufficient. It is for you to answer ; and I ask you again who am I ?" 
 
 " You are Francis Hayward, and the most troublesome little wretch I ever had 
 to deal with. You have been here five years, and from the first day that you came 
 into the establishment I have never ceased to regret that fact." 
 
 " Why did you keep me.? Surely it was in your own power to get rid of so trou- 
 blesome a pupil." 
 
 u Why, in a manner of speaking, it was, and yet again it was not ; but I now 
 tell you, these irregularities cannot be allowed. You must mend your course of 
 conduct, or I shall be compelled to recommend that you be sent to some public 
 school renowned for taming such spirits as yours ; and there are few such, I can 
 assure you, Master Hayward." 
 
 H You may spare yourself that trouble," said the lad. "After to-day, I have 
 nothing to do with schools ; and now, to come back to where we started from, I 
 again ask you who I am ?" 
 
 " You are Francis Hayward ?" x 
 
 " That is not true, and you know it. I want to know who the lady is who once 
 cawie in a private chariot to see me, and who you were so humble to, that, if she 
 had required it, you would have laid down and let her tread upon you." 
 
 ** Who told you • 
 
 " No matter who told me. I know that there is a mystery connected with my 
 birth, and I ask you to explain it; so you have nothing to do with who told me 
 anything, or who did not. I must and will know it, and you had better tell 
 me by fair means than by foul." 
 
 " Get out of my study here, you young rascal ! I will tell nothing but that you 
 are more plague than ever you will be worth, and those who belong to you will find 
 that out before long, I prophesy." 
 
 " And so, Doctor, you have made up your mind to tell me nothing?" 
 
 "Certainly, you young scamp ! and besides, I have nothing to tell you. If, 
 however, you think this insolence is to pass unnoticed and unpunished, you are 
 much mistaken. I will make you remember me, you may depend." 
 
 u Then I am sure I won't be behindhand," said the lad ; " and so, as I am going 
 to-night, I will make you remember me." 
 
 As he spoke he doubled his fists, and first of all gave the doctor a severe 
 admonitory touch upon the nose ; then, with the other hand, he planted such a 
 straightforward blow in the capacious stomach of the learned gentleman, that his 
 power of breathing deserted him, and, after two or three ineffectual gasps, he rolled 
 off his seat on the study floor with a concussion that was sensibly felt over the 
 whole premises, and which below sounded most alarming. 
 
 "There," said Hayward, "now good by to you ; that's to pay you<out for the 
 trouble I have had here. You will remember me, I'll be bound ; and now for a 
 merry life : if it's a short one : I don't care which, but work I won't, study I can- 
 not. I have a great partiality for everything that money can produce, and mean 
 to have it somehow, by hook or by crook. I don't know who I am, and I don't 
 much care. Ned Lyal thinks that I am some great person's son, being swindled 
 out of my rights some way. I should like to find that out certainly, and be 
 revenged upon somebody ; but, if I can't, why it shall not disturb me, and I'll 
 warrant that I make a living, if I have to cry * Stand and deliver !' on the king's 
 high-way." 
 
 So saying, Hayward turned hastily and left the apartment j but, the moment he 
 opened the door, he nearly fell over Mr. Waudle, who was down upon his knees 
 immediately upon the outside of it, with his ear placed against the panelling, to 
 listen to what was going on. 
 
 tie had not time to rise before Hayward was upon him, and, while he was in 
 that helpless position, he received two such stunning blows upon the head, that he 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 357 
 
 was incapacitated from defending himself, and measured his full length upon the 
 passage floor in a moment. 
 
 Without waiting then for any reinforcement to come, or to do further mischief, 
 Hayward left the place by means of one of the dining-room windows, which 
 opened on to the lawn, and, as that apartmenent immediately joined the study of 
 the doctor, he was off and away before the slightest alarm could be given, or any 
 idea entertained of what he was about. 
 
 Our readers my imagine how Mr. Waudle gathered himself up in due course of 
 time from the passage, and how, upon going into the study, and finding the Rev. 
 Peter Muggsworth in a state of such insensibility and stupidity that he was evidently 
 unconscious of who Mr. Waudle was, he paid him out for some of the indignities 
 he had received at his hands, by giving him two savage kicks, saying, as he 
 did so, — 
 
 "Take that, and that, my dear sir, if you please, from your very humble 
 servant, you tyrannical old scoundrel ! I never expected 1 should have had such an 
 opportunity of serving you out." 
 
 * »#**** 
 
 Francis Hayward found that the night had stolen upon him, and that a young 
 moon was only giving a faint light from the night sky as he left Littleton academy. 
 
 There was no one whom he feared particularly upon the establishment, so he 
 walked across the lawn with tolerable deliberation, taking care as he did so to tread 
 through all the choicest flower-beds belonging to the Rev. Peter Muggsworth. 
 
 A wheelbarrow, which he found in his path, he lifted and flung with some diffi- 
 culty completely into a conservatory, smashing some pounds' worth of plate g'ass, 
 and a number of rare exotics. 
 
 There was another thing too which Francis Hayward did before he got clear of 
 the premises, and it happens to be a thing which enables us pleasantly to pursue 
 the career of this hopeful youth, without being troubled with anything like 
 sympathy for him, let his ultimate destination be what it may. 
 
 A small Italian greyhound, which belonged to the house, which was about as 
 harmless and affectionate a creature as ever lived, came fawning up to him. He 
 killed it with a hedge-stake, and then- passed on with a laugh, concerning which, 
 or the deed which preceded it, we need make no remark. 
 
 He then took his way through a wilderness of trees which skirted the grounds 
 belonging to Littleton Academy, and then crossing the high road, and leaving the 
 village of Littleton to his left, he struck into the open country, and took his way 
 towards a beautiful valley, at about a mile and a half distance, through which ran 
 a tributary of the Thames, celebrated for its fish. 
 
 On the bank of this stream, a considerable distance from any other habitation 
 whatever, was a miserable-looking wooden hut, which from time to time had been so 
 patched and mended with old boards, matting, &c, that from time to time had 
 been given to or stolen by its inhabitant, that it would have been difficult indeed 
 to have told of what it originally consisted. 
 
 In this hut. dwelt the man who had been named by Frank Hayward as Ned 
 Lyal. 
 
 This dissolute and most equivocal character affected to get a living by selling 
 fishing-tackle and other materials to sportsmen frequenting the river ; but there 
 cannot be the smallest doubt that he considered any pursuit whatever, no matter 
 what might be its character, so that it turned in money, as quite in his line of 
 business, and perfectly justifiable. 
 
 He was a tall, athletic-looking fellow, with something of a gipsy cast about 
 him ; but whether or not he belonged to those singular people, no one knew, for 
 certain it is, that at that time he had no communication with them, but led a 
 solitary life in that hut, which few of the surrounding villagers cared to go 
 near after night-fall, althought no one could attribute any distinct crime to Ned 
 Lyal. 
 
 There can be no doubt but that, he derived a great deal of profit from Littleton 
 Academy ; for, although there was an express prohibition from the Rev. Peter 
 
358 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 M uggsworth' against ti e boys Laving anything to Co in the v, &\ cf dc g wili 
 or even speaking to Ned Lyal, yet there were a thousand ways of evading it, and 
 he was unquestionably caterer in general of fishing-tackle to Littleton Academy. 
 
 Of course, from what the reader knows already of Hayward, he may well fancy 
 that Ned Lyal was just the individual to stand first and foremost in his esteem, 
 and the probability is, that much of the insubordinate conduct and many of the 
 malicious tricks of which it was asserted Hayward had been guilty, were prompted 
 by such a bad adviser as Ned Lyal. 
 
 It was evident that Hayward knew the road well, and that there were gaps in the 
 -Jiedges with which he was well acquainted that presented great facilities in the 
 route between Littleton school and Ned Lyal's establishment, for Hayward 
 arrived at it in an incredibly short space of time, and certainly in about half the 
 period that must have elapsed^ had he taken the more regular and usually 
 frequented path. 
 
 A faint light gleamed from one of the latticed windows of the hut, and, as 
 Hayward nearedit, first of all, there came the low growl, and then the loud, impatient 
 bark of a large and ferocious dog which Lyal kept, and which always thus 
 warned him of the approach of friend or foe. 
 
 That he had some of the latter he knew, for upon several occasions when 
 robberies had been committed, the magistracy had thought it just possible that 
 something might be gained by an unexpected call upon Mr. Lyal, and an examina- 
 tion of the contents of his establishment ; they had never, however, succeeded in 
 finding anything to warrant their suspicions, and, consequently, Ned Lyal had 
 always treated them to a great amount of insulting jeers upon the occasion. 
 
 It said something for the intimacy of Francis Hayward with such a pleasant 
 character, that, upon his calling out to the dog in a loud voice, the creature 
 evidently knew him, and no longer testified displeasure at his approach. 
 
 This was quite a sufficient hint to Lyal that the person approaching was a friend, 
 and he came to the door of his hut accordingly, perhaps with a very tolerable notion 
 of who it was likely to be. 
 
 " Hilloa ! Ned ; it's I," said Hayward. 
 Oh ! it's ^ou, is it, Master Hayward V said Lyal ; " come on. I'll be hanged 
 if I didn't expect t© see you. What's the news 1 Has the old parson and you 
 had any brush ? " 
 
 'I Yes, the most serious and the last," said Hayward ; " and I have come to you 
 for advice. I will tell you more inside, for I don't know that I am quite safe out 
 here." 
 
 " Not safe » why, what have you been at ? " 
 
 "Nothing very particular, and yet enough, I suppose, for a great row to be made 
 about it; but I will tell you all about it, and then you shall judge for yourself; 
 in the mean time, I am thirsty — can you understand that? " 
 
 "I should think so, Master Hayward ; come in and have some of the prime 
 stuff." 
 
 " That pays no duty, I suppose." 
 
 " I am sure I can't say, but it don't matter to me a bit, for I stole it just as it 
 is. You see I don't mind telling you, Master Hayward, what I would not tell 
 everybody." 
 
 " The boy was flattered by the confidence of the thief, and had not sense or 
 reflection sufficient to feel what a very doubtful compliment it was that he could 
 be made the depository of criminal secrets without any consequences arising. 
 
 They both entered the hut together, and after Ned Lyal had carefully secured 
 the door by placing a heavy bar of wood across it — a simple but most secure 
 fastening — they sat down together in one of the strangest apartments, if not the 
 strangest, the whole country could exhibit. 
 
 It was much larger than from the outside could at all have been surmised, and 
 the only thing that gave it rather a mean appearance was the lowness of the 
 roof. 
 
 It was all made of rough boarding, and the walls were perfectly covered with 
 
NEWGATE. 359 
 
 . ; . 1 ; 
 
 angling implements, while here and there a stuffed pike or other fish occupied a 
 glass case, as a testimony to what might be done upon occasion by anglers in that 
 stream. 
 
 The roof too was hung with a similar assortment of material, while over the 
 mantel-shelf of the rudely constructed fire-place hung a suspicious-looking long- 
 barrelled gun, which made it just possible to suppose that Mr. Lyal varied his 
 amusements, by now and then having a shot or two upon somebody else's 
 preserves. 
 
 Still, however, on a winter's night, with a log fire blazing and crackling upon 
 that ample hearth, the place must have had an air of rude and picturesque com- 
 fort about it ; and its inhabitant was well in keeping with his home, for he looked 
 like a man completely out of the pale of society, aud one who was accustomed to 
 depend more entirely than common upon his own resources. 
 
 It was said, and probably with truth too, that even his clothing was made by 
 himself, so that he owed as little as possible to society in any way ; and to 
 look at his costume, one might well enough suppose such to be the case, for 
 it had about it a look of originality which no mortal tailor would have liked to 
 give to it. 
 
 But be this as it may, most certainly this Ned Lyal, if he were accomplished 
 at nothing else, was as accomplished a villain as ever stepped; just about one of 
 the most dangerous of men to get hold of so apt a pupil as Master Francis 
 Hay ward presented to him. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE "WAY TO LIVE UPON NOTHING A-YEAB. 
 
 The outcast, for such was the proper* enough name by which Ned Lyal might 
 be called, sat silent for some few minutes, and looked inquiringly in the face of his 
 visitor, after which he said, in a tone of certainty, — 
 
 (i So you have left the school for good?'" 
 
 "For good or for bad, I have certainly left it," said Francis Hayward, "for I 
 have come away with a determination not again to cross its threshold, if I know it." 
 
 " Well spoken ! But how did you and old Muggsworth part, my lad ? I 
 suppose, though, he knows nothing of it as yet?" 
 
 y You are wrong there, wrong completely ; Old Muggsworth does know, and 
 knows perfectly well, that I have come away. He know-s it to his cost too, for I 
 left him on the floor of his study, with, I should think, not sense enough left him 
 to know exactly how to get up." 
 
 " You don't mean to tell me you struck the old fellow? Why the whole place 
 will be in an uproar, and the village won't hold you— though I will say that, if you 
 live knocked down the Rev. Peter Muggsworth, I give you some credit for the 
 deed, for it is not what every lad would like to undertake. But that's neither 
 here nor there — fill your glass, and tell me all about it." 
 
 With some additions of his own, which made the affair look much more extraor- 
 dinary than it previously was, Frank Hayward related to his bad associate all that 
 had occurred in the study of the rev. gentleman, and he concluded by saying, — 
 
 " Aud now, Ned, that T have completely and entirely cut with the school- 
 master, I want a little of your advice as" to what 1 should do. I must live 
 somehow or another; but how that's to be set about I admit I don't see very 
 clearly — but I will have money from some quarter, and when T have said tl at I don't 
 know a more likely man than you to put me in the way of getting it." 
 
 " You flatter me, Master Hayward ; but has it never struck you that you must, 
 'have some sort of governor ?" 
 
sea 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 "There is a, mystery, as you well know, connected with my birth. If old Peter 
 Muggsworth had answered my questions, and told me who I am, I should not 
 have upset him as I did ; but he would not, so he took the consequences." 
 
 " Ah, my boy, you may depend there is a secret worth knowing — a secret the 
 rev. gentleman would let you have pretty quick, if he didn't get more for keeping it 
 to himself." 
 
 " You think so V 
 
 " I think so? Can I have any doubts upon the subject? Of course it is so— 
 and from him you never will get the secret. He is bound to keep it in a hundred 
 different ways, you may depend, and he no more dare tell you than he dare attempt 
 to fly over his own house ; but I have had my eyes open, and when other people 
 were sleeping I have been wide awake, I can tell you — I have seen what I have 
 seen, and I know what I know." 
 
 " Tell me all at once — tell me, Ned, if you really know who I am ! By Heavens ! 
 I don't much care whether I am the son of a beggar or of a prince, so long as I do 
 know something about it." 
 
 " Why, my bey, you yourself told me that a lady came once to see you in 
 a private carriage, and that the Rev. Peter Muggsworth evidently showed, by his 
 manner, that she was a person of no small importance." 
 
 "He did so, most certainly, and this very evening he used some expressions equally 
 convincing that he was under obligations which completely prevented him doing what 
 he liked as regarded me. He said that he would turn me away from the 6chool, 
 that he would expel me with contempt, but that he dared not do it." 
 
 " Of course he dare not, and why dare he not ? You know as well as I that he 
 thinks of nothing but money ; and if he dare not expel you from the school, not- 
 withstanding all his inclination to do so, what other reason can there be than that he 
 would lose money by so doing ? and of course that goes to prove that the people 
 who belong to you are rich, revelling in wealth, and here you are, I suppose, with 
 scarce a shilling.'* 
 
 li That's true ; but what am I to do ? I had no clue whatever." 
 
 " Well, I think I have." 
 
 "You have?" 
 
 <c Take another glass, and listen. About five weeks ago I was sauntering home past 
 the Wilderness, about a mile from the school, when a mounted man pulled up his 
 horse, and inquired for Littleton Academy. The moon shone brightly, and you 
 could see everything as plain as at midday. I had been wishing f or clouds, for, to 
 tell the truth, I had been out on an expedition that a dark night would have done 
 much better for than bright moonlight." 
 
 " But it turned out well because it enabled you to see the man." 
 
 Yes, as it happened, it did turn out well. I took a good look at him, and should 
 know him again amongst a thousand. He was a good-looking fellow, with hair 
 as black as a coal, and a pair of small moustachios upon his lip. He was dressed 
 in a half-military costume, and looked, what I have no doubt he was, an officer of 
 high rank, so that I naturally wondered what he did there, and stared at him as 
 hard as I could for about a minute, during which he was not slow in taking notice 
 of me. He had on a blue frock-coat, handsomely braided." 
 
 " Yes, and he asked you the way to the school ?" 
 
 " He did ; I was coming to that. * Hilloa !' he said, 1 my man, can you direct 
 me to Littleton Academy ? * — ( I can, sir,' I said : 'if you ride ano thermile the same 
 road you are going, you will come to a pair of old iron gates, and they belong to 
 the house you want.' " 
 
 <e And was that all that passed ? " 
 
 " Not quite ; he continued on a little, and then suddenly turned his horse's head 
 and came back to me. ' Do you reside in this neighbourhood? ' he said. — ' I do,' 
 said I. Then he added, ' Perhaps you can tell me if at Littleton Academy there is 
 a lad of the name of Hay ward ? ' — ' Of course I can,' I replied ; ' there is such a lad, 
 1 know him well.' " 
 
 (< * You know him ? ' he said ; and he bent his his eyes upon me, as if he was 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 361 
 
 going to kick up a row. Then he seemed to be considering a few moments, after 
 which he muttered to himself, * It was correct, then, and it is true this is a discovery 
 worth the making.' " 
 
 " Did you ask him no question, Lyal % " 
 
 "Certainly not; in the first place, if I had, I don't suppose he would have 
 answered me; and, in the second place, he rode off so quickly that there was no time 
 t« do anything of the sort." 
 
 c< He went to the sehool % " 
 
 " Not at all ; he turned his liorse's head to the high road to London. You may 
 depend, he only wanted to find out if you were at the school or not, and wh»n he 
 had made that discovery, he was perfectly satisfied and went back." 
 
 " And do you think, Ned Lyal, that that was my father? " 
 
 « I don't know what to think ; there certainly was no likeness between you, for 
 his hair and eyes were as dark as night, and your hair, you know, Frank Hayward, 
 
 No, 46. 
 
362 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 is about the colour of a dusty road in autumn, and your eyes are undeniably light 
 . grey." 
 
 " Then there is no hope in that quarter." 
 
 u I don't know that a child is bound to be like his father. Perhaps you take 
 after your mother, you know, and in that case all may yet be right ; but there is 
 one thing certain, whoever that fellow is, with the black hair and dark moustachios 
 he knows who you are, and who knows but, if we find out, our fortunes will be 
 made ? " 
 
 " Our fortunes ! Why, you don't think you are his son, do you? " 
 
 "No, Master Hayward; but do you think I would desert you. I say I 
 because I mean to stick by you and assist you. I know the world, and you don't ; 
 and I tell you, this much, that I have taken quite a sufficient fancy to you, to shut 
 up my little crib of a house here, and be off with you to London, in search of this 
 very fellow with the moustachios and the black hair, who, I tell you, I should know 
 again among a thousand men." 
 
 " To London, Lyal? Did you say to London ? " 
 
 " I did ; that's the place for you, and if you are to get any news of who you arc, 
 or what you are, that is where it's to be got and nowhere else, you may depend." 
 
 "It's what I wish. London is the place for me, of all other:' ; it's just what 1 
 w ish; and I tell you this much, Ned, that if I do make imy own fortune, yours 
 gljallnot.be far distant ; but how the deuce are we<io get there without money?" 
 
 Leave me to manage that ; you rim on a mile or two on the London road and 
 then linger a little, when I'll come up to you ; ^ you don't, know how soon there may 
 | be a hue and cry after you from the school. I'll throw them off the scent, and then 
 ioin you." 
 
 " So be it, and when we do reach London, we'll see some life, as well as finding 
 out the fellow with the moustachios, and if I find that I have any rights that 
 anybody has deprived me of, I will ring a peal in their ears that shall make them 
 wish themselves dead before they meddled with me or my fortunes. I'll go on 
 about two miles to the cross roads, by Braintree Wood, and then I'll wait for you." 
 
 "Do so, 1% not tee P y° u lon & > but mind > don,t P ick U P an Y acquaintances by 
 the way. Should any one speak to you, return no answer, but wait for me." 
 
 Hayward promised to be cautious, and then, leaving the hovel, he took a rapid 
 : cut across the country, and reached the highway which led direct to London 
 
 Ned Lyal looked after him from the door of his hut, and a peculiar kind of smile 
 crossed his countenance. 
 
 "I thought it would come to this," he said; " I shall be very much mistaken 
 indeed, if this don't turn out the best job I ever undertook ; it must and will, I am - 
 certain of it. I'll go with him to London, and find out who his connexions are ; 
 he shall pay me well for keeping the secret and throwing him on a wrong scent, or 
 he shall pay me well for telling it, the highest bidder has me ; and I don't mean 
 yet, Master Hayward, to let you know that, in taking a gratuity from his pocket to 
 aive me, that military-looking fellow, with the black hair, dropped his hand- 
 kerchief ; there are letters worked in the corner of it, and they will not a little 
 assist me in finding him out ; and now to throw the doctor or! the scent. 
 
 Ned Lyal walked at once to Littleton Academy, and, ringing at the gate-bell, he 
 desired to see the doctor, but the very audacity of the request from such a man 
 made the footman stare again, and be positively declined to take the message. 
 
 « Besides," he added, '' the doctor is very ill and has gone to beU He has been 
 very nearly murdered by Francis Hayward, dreadfully kicked and knocked down." j 
 
 « Kicke4," thought Ned Lyal, "he didn't say anything to me about kicking the j 
 •doctor, but I suppose he forgot it." Then turning to the fooiman, he added, " You 
 can tell your master that I merely come to say Francis Hayward had called upon ! 
 me, tried to borrow some money, and said he was going to make his way to one of f 
 the'coast-towns of Kent, for that he had made up his mind to go to sea." 
 
 " And the very best place for him too," said the footman, " for of all the young i 
 devils thai ever were, and we do know a few here, he is just about the worst ever I | 
 ame across. Let's hope we shall never see his face again." I 
 
 1 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 363 
 
 "Ah, well," said Ned, " it don't matter tome ; I have told you what. I know 
 about it, and you may settle your affairs among you.'' 
 
 So saying, he whistled to his dog, and took for some distance the road towards 
 his own home ; but he had no real intention of going there, for he had made every 
 disposition for a lengthened absence, and had stowed away in secret places^ known 
 only to himself, all that his hut contained of portable value, fully anticipating 
 that, by accompanying Hayward to London, he should be able to place himself in 
 the way, perhaps, of making a sum of money larger than ever he had anticipated 
 being the possessor of. 
 
 CEUPTER XLVIII. 
 
 THE PROPHETIC GREETING! TO FRANCIS HAYWARD. 
 
 Hayward made the best of his way towards the spot where he had intended to 
 wait for Ned Lyal ; and being fleet of foot, he soon came to the cross roads of 
 which he had made mention, one of which led to Braintree Wood, which was the 
 remains of one of those forests that, in early ages, were tolerably well diffused over 
 England. 
 
 As the night had advanced, the young moon had shown more power, and there 
 was a tolerably bright aspect through the air and upon all objects as Hayward 
 reached the place of assignation. 
 
 Not a soulwas visible ; and although he listened intently, 'he could hear no sound 
 indicative of either the presence or of the near approach of any human being. 
 There was a high stile which led into the meadow, and near it grew a pollard oak, 
 which cast a very broad shadow immediately upon the other side of it ; but as 
 Hayward leant upon the top rail of the stile, his head was sufficiently high above 
 the shadows to catch the moon's rays, which fell full upon his face. 
 
 He fell into what was very unusual for him, a ^kind of reverie, for about ten 
 minutes or a quarter of an hour, during which he muttered several disjointed 
 sentences to himself, indicative of his hopes and wishes of the future. He believed 
 himself, of course, to be alone, but when suddenly there came, apparently from the 
 very earth, immediately upon the other side of the stile, a low, chuckling laugh, he 
 gave so sudden a start that he moved several paces distant on the moment. 
 
 " Who's there P" he cried ; " confound you, who's there V' 
 
 Even as he spoke, a strange, gaunt-looking figure, apparently of a female, rose 
 up, and pointing with the fore-finger of her right hand, as she clung Avith her left 
 for support to the stile, she cried, — 
 
 " It is one who knows you, Francis Hayward, but whom you know not. It is 
 one who, by a new-moon light, has read your face ; I know you better than you 
 know yourself. Shall I tell you what I saw there 
 
 " Saw where, you old hag ?" 
 
 " Saw pictured upon your face, bastard V* 
 
 66 That word !" exclaimed Hayward, and, advancing, he raised his arm in an atti- 
 tude to strike, but the wretched-looking object before him raised such a shrill laugh 
 of derision, that he shrank back appalled at the singular sound, which seemed as if 
 it could come from no earthly lips. 
 
 * Indeed !" she cried, indeed, Francis Hayward, the bastard I you would strike 
 me, would you? Well, you shall have^your reward, and I will tell you that 
 what I saw written upon your face was the gallows ! That is to be your end ; you. 
 cannot, and you will not escape it ! Make the most of the six months you have 
 to live f* 
 
 "Six months?" 
 
 * Yes ; this day six months is your birth-day ; you will then be nineteen years 
 of age, and on that day you bid adieu to life. I have said it." 
 
364 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Tis out of revenge, because I have been uncivil ; I suppose, if I were to cross 
 your hand with a crown-piece, I should be promised a long life and a merry one, 
 ou infernal old hypocritical hag." 
 
 "Ha, ha !" laughed the old woman, as she hobbled away along the inner side of 
 the hedge that skirted the meadow. 
 
 " If I were not otherwise engaged," cried Hayward, " I'd give the parish beadle a 
 crown to put you in the stocks for an hour." 
 
 " The stocks !" she said, as she turned and bent her fierce eyes upon him. *' The 
 stocks! Well, well, 1 should prefer the stocks to the hempen collar which is waiting 
 for you at Newgate. The yarn is plucked, and the rope is made that will fit your 
 neck ; and nothing shall save you !" 
 
 Francis Hayward looked after fcer passionately, and then he seemed inclined to 
 follow her, but just as he placed his foot upon one of the bars of the stile to do so, 
 a hand was laid upon*his shoulder, and hejheard the voice of Ned Lyal say,— - 
 
 " Why, what's all this? are you quarrelling with an old woman already ? Come 
 on ; there is no time to lose ; there is no reason why we should not reach London 
 by daybreak, no reason on earth, provided we push forward. But we shall never 
 get there if you stop to wrangle with every old witch you meet on your path. What 
 did she say to you that put you in such a towering rage ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing particular ; but I do detest such fagots, awaking all sorts 
 of evil if you don't pay them well, and if you do there's no end of the good fortune 
 they are willing to shower down upon you." 
 
 " Oh, it's always the case ; but now let us speak seriously. I have enough 
 money to carry us to London, but no more. Are you parjjcular as to the means 
 by which we replenish our purses ?" 
 
 "No; it's all the same to me. I have made up my miv ' that society at 
 large shall keep me; and if they won't do it by fair means, they shall do it by 
 foul." 
 
 " Spoken like a trump ! Then I tell you what we will do : we will go out 
 together on some unfrequented road, for yon see, if we encounter four or five 
 people in a few hours, and get a pound or two from each, it will answer our 
 purpose." 
 
 " You mean robbery ?" e of 
 
 "Well, you may call it robbery if you like ; I don't quarrel about the nam ons 
 things, but live we must, so Fdon't see any reason to prevent us raising subscripti en £ 
 in the way I mentioned. The way we will manage shall be this : I will pres 
 my gun at the party we want a loan of, and you request that they accommod ate 
 you with their purse." 
 
 "Your gun! where is it? You seem to me to have nothing but a thick stick 
 with you." 
 
 " This is half my gun ; the stock screws off, and I have it in this pocket. In a 
 moment I can make the weapon fit for service, and I think we may make a deal of 
 money by going out disguised in the evenings on the outskirts of London, always 
 taking a different route each night, and in the daytime spend it like princes in 
 endeavouring to discover who you are, and w ho are your friends and connexions." 
 
 u Well, I don't mind that. Only tell me, Lyal, do they hang people for that 
 sort of thing now." 
 
 "Well, it's very illiberal, but I believe they do sometimes ; but you know they 
 have got to catch them first — that's the grand difficulty, and a difficulty it shall 
 prove as regards us, so that there really may be said to be no danger in such a 
 pleasant mode of making up a handsome income. You see, being two of us, 
 we shall be powerful enough to work with perfect safetv ; and, if we do find that 
 there is a great fuss being made about it, and that there is any out-of-the-way danger, 
 we can at any time shift our quarters to some other place until the affair lias died 
 away." 
 
 "I don't dislike the plan. Of course, without means I know it would be 
 impossible to. make any discoveries. But stop, let us stand aside, I hear horse's 
 feet." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 365 
 
 " Yes; but not in pursuit, for they come the contrary way, and it won't do for us 
 to attack a horseman." 
 
 * He seems in a confounded hurry." 
 0 He does, indeed." 
 
 They took the side of the road, so as to allow the horseman ample space to pass 
 in; and, when he was quite near, they paused a moment from a mere feeling of 
 curiosity, because the spot on which they were was more open than the remainder 
 of the road, and consequently they could see more clearly the countenance of any 
 one who came past. 
 
 When the horseman approached, Francis Hay ward started, and, touching Lyal 
 upon the arm, he said — 
 
 w Why, that's just the sort of man you described to me as having asked you the 
 way to Littleton Academy." 
 
 " It's like him," said Ned Lyal, as he took a long look at the horseman. " It's 
 like him, but yet not the same." 
 
 " But there is the black hair, the moustache, and the half military costume. 
 Surely it must be he." 
 
 " I tell you no, I ought to know ; and, besides, he has seen me before, and if he 
 were the man, as you suppose, he would not recognise me. I tell you it's not the 
 same person, although there is something of a likeness between them." 
 
 " Then I can only say it is very odd." 
 
 " Oh, it is as odd as you like ; but come on, we have no time to lose." 
 
 Early dawn found them within a mile or two of London, and, as they proceeded 
 along a lane, with here and there a garden wall abutting upon it, and occasionally 
 a house, Lyal spoke, saying, — 
 
 " A short distance on we get clear of all houses, and for more than a mile you 
 will see nothing but meadows on each side: It's not very likely that we should 
 meet with any one worth robbing, but if so, have your mind made up to try the 
 first experiment." 
 
 " I should like it above all things ; and, indeed, if you have only the small sum 
 you hint at, it is absolutely necessary that we should attempt at something of the 
 sort." 
 
 " Be it so. Then push on, and let us get past this habitable portion of the 
 lane." 
 
 They did so, and soon got clear of the houses and garden walls ; immediately 
 contiguous to which it would have been positively dangerous to attempt a robbery, 
 because everybody has not sufficient presence of mind to be quiet,when the muzzle of 
 a musket is presented towards them, and they may purchase their lives at the cost, 
 perhaps, of a few pounds which they may have about them. 
 
 As Ned Lyal had stated, they came upon a part of the road which was perfectly 
 clear of houses, but there seemed to be no prospect of meeting with any one who 
 would repay the trouble and risk of stopping them. 
 
 They made this remark to each other, and, as they did so, they heard a sound 
 behind them at some distance, like the closing of some gate. 
 
 Upon looking around, they perceived that, from the last of the garden walls 
 which they had passed with a gate in it, there had just emerged a man, who 
 was locking it upon the outer side, and who then came on at a rapid pace towards 
 town. 
 
 " There is a chance," cried Lyal, " and I am determined we will try it. There 
 could not be a better spot ; and if we get only a pound or two to pay our day's 
 expenses we shall be all right." 
 
 "Agreed," said Francis Hay ward. 
 
 About a minute sufficed to enable Lyal to prepare his gun for service, and then 
 he stayed behind a little, intending to let the stranger pass him, so that he should 
 be between them both, when the attack commenced. 
 
 As the person who was thus destined to be robbed in this cool and unblushing 
 manner came near, it was easy to perceive that he was an elderly man. Great 
 anxiety was depicted upon his countenance, and there was a nervous bustle about 
 
36« 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 him, which seemed to say that the mission he was bound upon was one of 
 importance. 
 
 " Now for it," said Lyal, and, when the stranger passed him, Francis Hayward 
 turned abruptly and faced him. 
 
 " Don't interrupt me," said the man, "I must get to town before six— don't 
 interrupt me, for it's a matter of life and death." 
 
 "Sorry to incommode you," said Hayward, "but my friend behind there with 
 the gun is a dead shot, and he asks me to request you to do him the favour of 
 lending him what you have about you." 
 
 " Good God r said the stranger ; "robbers, let me pass, I implore you. At any 
 other time it would scarcely have cost me a thought to part with money. My life, 
 however, now is of not so much account as the sum I have with me." 
 
 "That don't matter to us," said Hayward. " Large or small, we must have it, 
 and we will have it." 
 
 " Hear me for a moment," said the stranger. " I have a son, whose reputation, 
 liberty, perhaps, even his life depends upon my getting to town at an early hour 
 with the money I have in my possession. Heaven only knows the agony it has 
 cost me to procure. I have known no rest the whole of this night, and the house 
 from which I have last come is that where I got sufficient to make up the required 
 amount. Let me pass, I implore you, for I am desperate." 
 
 " That's very handy for us," said Hayward. " You have been collecting money 
 all night long, and we have been wanting it all night long; and now, just 
 as you have collected, you say, all that you can, we have the good fortune to meet." 
 
 "For the love of Heaven, 1 implore you to let me pass !" 
 
 " For the love of ourselves, we will, when you have given up the cash !" 
 
 " Can there be such heartlessness in one so young?" said the stranger. "Villain, 
 you shall not stay me." 
 
 As he spoke, he sprung upon Hayward and seized him by the throat, so unex- 
 pectly, that for a moment he was paralysed, but quickly recovering, he called out 
 aloud, — 
 
 " Shoot him, Lyal, shoot him !" 
 
 "Yes," said Lyal, " and you too, if I were to try it.'' 
 
 He sprung up, however, and seizing the stranger by the waist, he forcibly 
 dragged him from his hold of Hayward ; and, hurling him to the ground, he held 
 him with a firm clutch by his throat, saying as he did so, with great coolness, — 
 
 " Rifle his pockets — we'll soon settle this affair." 
 
 " Are you going to kill him V* 
 
 " Kill him ! what's the use of killing him ? There now, he has hit his head 
 against a stone, and made himself insensible. I should not at. all wonder now, if 
 he were to say that I did that. Get up — get up — what a bungler you are, Hay- 
 ward ! Here is the money, and it's a good bag of notes and gold ; but it's the 
 latter we want, and the former he may keep, they are too dangerous a possession." 
 
 Rapidly transferring to his pockets all the gold which the stranger had in the bag 
 which was found upon him, Lyal returned the notes into the same pocket from 
 whence he had taken the whole amount. 
 
 " Come on, come on," he then cried to Hayward ; " let's run for it to the end 
 of the lane, and ten to one then, but we shall get a coach of some sort going to 
 London." 
 
 " How much money is there?" 
 
 " A couple of hundred, if there is a farthing. This is a piece of luck that might 
 not happen to us once in an age. It looks indeed as if fortune were smiling upon 
 us. To-morrow will see us in a different position ; and, with anything like discre- 
 tion, we'll make this money last us a month." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 367 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE REMARKABLE CHANGE IN NED LYAl/s MODE OP LIFE. 
 
 The morrow did indeed make a difference in the appearance of the adventurers— 
 a most marked and wonderful difference. 
 
 Imagine that it is twelve o'clock in the day, and that, in one of the handsome 
 rooms of a first-rate hotel, a breakfast is laid out comprising all the delicacies of 
 the season and consisting of so much of a pleasant and delightful character that 
 the most lazy appetite would sure to be tempted to partake of such delicate viands. 
 The apartment itself is perfectly gorgeous in its decorations ; the heaviest footstep 
 could not have been heard upon that thick and warm carpeting j and the hangiugs 
 were so disposed that, while the sunshine was excluded, a rich, subdued light found 
 its way into the apartment. 
 
 On each side of the table is a couch, and each couch is occupied by an indi- 
 vidual wrapped up in a morning robe of great richness. These individuals are 
 respectively Ned Lyal and Francis Hayward. 
 
 How tremendous a transformation had taken place within a comparatively short 
 space of time! 
 
 Lyal spoke, but in a very under tone, as he leant across the table to Hayward. 
 
 " You will be very cautious what you say here," he remarked ; "walls may not 
 have ears, but waiters have, and tolerably long ones, too — that don't answer us 
 iustnow. I hear one coming." 
 
 A liveried servant of the hotel — for such it was — entered the room with a 
 morning newspaper, the edges of which were nicely cut, and the paper itself dried 
 and ironed for perusal. 
 
 « The paper, sir, if you please," he Said, respectfully, as he laid it before Ned 
 Lyal; "the paper, sir, if you please, which you requested." 
 
 Lyal merely gave a nod, and the waiter bowed himself out of the room. 
 
 H Now, Hayward," he said," we will see what the public prints say of cur iiitle 
 i affair, which has in its results contributed so much to our comfort." 
 
 " I'm curious to know," said Hayward ; " extremely curious to know." 
 
 u You shall hear it. What do you think of this ? It's rich, by Heavens. Ha, 
 ha, ha ! — daring outrage. That is good." 
 
 "Is that concerning it V\ 
 
 ?f It is. Listen! f At an early hour yesterday morning one of the most daring 
 and heartless robberies, attended with violence, that it has been our duty to record 
 for a considerable time past, was committed in a lane on the other side of the 
 water leading into the Kennington-road. The spot is a very lonely one in some 
 places ; and a Mr. Roberts was proceeding to town with the sum of five hundred 
 pounds in his pocket in notes and gold, when he was stopped by t wo men, of 
 1 ferocious aspect, one of whom was armed with a gun, and who both set upon him 
 and demanded his money. After a short struggle he was left insensible, and no 
 doubt, as the ruffians thought, murdered upon the ground, having been robbed of 
 the gold, but not of the notes, which latter the. ruffians doubtless left because 
 they considered they might lead to their detection. The most distressing part of 
 this affair consists in the fact that old Mr. Roberts has a son in a banking-house, 
 and that he, having mislaid or lost the sum of five hundred pounds, waa threat- 
 ened with a prosecution and dismissal if the money was not paid by a particular 
 hour ; and Mr. Roberts, senior, had collected it from a variety of sources, and 
 would, unquestionably, have been in time had he not thus been cruelly deprived 
 of a large portion of it. We sincerely hope that the perpetrators of this offence 
 will be speedily brought to justice ; and we rejoice to understand, from an authentic 
 source, that the police have their suspicion of the persons believed to be guilty.' " 
 
 " Capital, capital," said Ned Lyal, as he threw down the paper ; " taking that 
 now for all in all, it's the best joke I have read for a considerable time. The idea 
 
368 NEWGATE. 
 
 of the old boy cutting about to collect the money, which after all we were to have 
 the disposal of! Upon my word, it is enough to make a cat laugh.'' 
 
 " Well, but it is no laughing matter, if the police have a clue to us, as the 
 newspaper paragraph says they have." 
 
 " Why, you are never so green as to believe that, are you ?" 
 
 (i But if it is not true, why should it be put in r" 
 
 " Because it amuses the readers, and makes another two lines for the reporter. 
 The police know nothing about it, and with the commonest precaution, they are i 
 just about the last persons you ought to fear, for the amount of stupidity they 
 bring into the market in any affair is, I assure you, something stupendous." 
 
 " Well, it may be so ; I only hope there is no danger. But now tell me, Lyal, 
 how do you propose setting about finding the man with the black moustachios, 
 who, no doubt, possesses the secret of my'birth?" 
 
 " Make yourself easy about that ; I have friends in London which will enable 
 me to set such inquiry on foot that T think there can be very little doubt of our 
 success. But you must have a little patience, as days and perhaps weeks may 
 elapse before we get anything like positive information." 
 
 " And in the mean time our expenses here — " 
 
 " Will be so considerable that, in about a fortnight, we must replenish our stock 1 
 of money, or else it certainly will not last us while we should like to stay." 
 
 " I am willing whenever it becomes necessary. There is something adventurous 
 that I like in such a mode of getting money. It seems as if it came natural to 
 me, and I think I could spend it to any amount." 
 
 " I have not the remotest doubt upon that score ; but now amuse yourself for , 
 a few hours while I go out to put in motion such means as are at my disposal for ; 
 the purpose of expediting your business." 
 
 " Never fear but I shall find amusement enough with money in my pocket. ! 
 Go at once ; and remember, that whenever you think it necessary we should sallv ' 
 out upon another expedition I am ready and willing for it." 
 
 " Good ; but don't expect to get a couple of hundred pounds every time that we 
 stop a man upon the king's highway ; if we get as many shillings we shall be : 
 fortunate, and sometimes we shall meet Avith nothing but disappointment, getting 
 nothing at all for our pains but a vast amount of trouble and a tolerable share of 
 danger." 
 
 So saying, Ned Lyal left the place ; and, as he sauntered through the streets, 
 he presented the appearance of such a well-dressed blackguard that, no doubt, he ; 
 was considered to belong to the aristocracy by every one who saw him. 
 
 When he said he had sources of information which Francis Hayward knew nothing '• 
 of, he was perfectly correct, and stated no more than the truth ; for i» an earlier 
 period of his career London had been the scene of some extensive operations of his, ' 
 the recollection of which still lived vividly in the remembrance of some of its 
 inhabitants. 
 
 All, however, that he really knew of the mysterious stranger who had stopped j 
 him upon the high road at Littleton, and procured of him information concerning 1 
 Francis Hayward, was that unquestionably he was a man of rank, and influence, , 
 and wealth — for those three things generally go together — and that probably he 
 was in the army. He had likewise the handkerchief, concerning which he had 
 said nothing to Francis Hayward, and upon the corner of that handkerchief were | 
 the initial letters " D. G. S." These letters were worked in hair, and the quality of 
 the handkerchief itself was of a very high character. 
 
 With this scanty information did Lyal sally forth for the purpose of discovering, 
 if possible, who D. G. S. was. 
 
 We should state, likewise, at this juncture, that Ned Lyal knew perfectly well j 
 that the individual who had passed him and Hayward on their road to town was j 
 the identical man who had before spoken to him about the academy at Littleton, 
 although he, Ned Lyal, had thought proper so particularly to deny that fact to 
 Hayward, whom he no more wished to introduce to the gentleman with the black 
 moustachios, and no more dreamt of introducing, than of taking him to make a 
 
369 
 
 morning call at St. James's Palace, where old George the Third, then at about the 
 middle period of his life, was residing. 
 
 His first effort in the way of prosecuting his inquiries was to look at au army list ; 
 but there he was puzzled extremely, for he found two generals whose initials were 
 D. G. S., and at least twenty ether officers of different ranks. When he came to 
 look at the dates of the appointments, he found no difficulty about the generals ; 
 for they, from the length of time they had been in the army, must be much older 
 men than the oiiicer, if officer he was, whom he, Lyal, wished to find. 
 
 After looking through the entire list, he fixed his fancy upon a Colonel Douglas 
 George Scott, of a light cavalry regiment, which he found was stationed in the imme- 
 diate viciaity of the metropolis, and consequently, if Colonel Scott was the man, he 
 had every opportunity of making those flying visits to Littleton, two of which he. 
 
 m 47. 
 
370 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Lyal, was very well aware of. He recollected vividly that the military trousers which 
 the horseman wore had a stripe of silver lace down them, and his next step was to 
 ascertain, which he did at a military tailor's, that such was a part of the uniform 
 of the Twenty-second Light Cavalry. 
 
 This, although not conclusive, was evidence sufficient to induce him to take 
 some further pains in the matter, and he accordingly resolved that he would obtain 
 a sight of Colonel Scott before he troubled himself to look after anybody else, 
 however promising to be the party they might appear. 
 
 And while Ned Lyal is pursuing this inquiry, which certainly bids fair to be; 
 productive of the results he aims at, we will conduct the reader to Kensington- 
 gardens, as Kensington-gardens were upwards of fifty years ago. 
 
 It is a beautiful day, for the month of June is still in progress ; the bright sun 
 is glancing tnrough the old trees, and troops of deer are bounding upon the elastic 
 bright green sward full of joyousness and grace. 
 
 The day was warm, and the hour was three o'clock, when probably the heat was 
 nearly at its greatest, and only occasionally the sweet notes of some forest bird 
 gently broke the stillness of some retired and sylvan spot. There were but few 
 persons in the gardens, for the fashionable time of day had scarcely arrived, and 
 the earlier morning loungers had already taken their accustomed stroll. 
 
 In one of the long walks, however — a waik, which, while it was not one of the 
 most retired, was certainly not one of the most frequented, a gentlemanly man 
 of most elegant appearance attired in plain apparel, but that as to quality and 
 texture as rich as it could be, appeared to be waiting anxiously for the arrival of 
 some one. 
 
 His manner was rather excited, and he seemed like one who was waiting to 
 keep some appointment of a more than ordinarily important character, the indi- 
 vidual connected with which was considerably beyond the appointed time. 
 
 He is tall, and wears black moustachios ; likewise, there was an indescribable 
 but unmistakably military air about him ; certainly, a more handsome man could 
 not have been found, although it would have required no very unusual amount of 
 penetration for any one to see by the expression of his countenance that there 
 was something cold, and heartless, and selfish in his nature, which it would not 
 take any very extraordinary circumstances fully to develop and call into activity. 
 
 "Not come yet," he muttered, " not come yet! she surely cannot trifle with 
 me thus ; she dare not ! No, no; she will come, she will come, most certainly ; 
 she will come, and I must exercise a little more patience !" 
 
 At first sight he seemed a much younger man than at a second glance any one 
 would have supposed him to be\ There can be no doubt that he was got up with 
 minute care, and yet his age might have been guessed at somewhere about forty. 
 
 As minute after minute passed he paced the walk with very anxious stride's, 
 and seemed to be fretting and fuming to himself at the really unaccountable 
 delay. 
 
 He could not. see so far for the intervening trees, but if he had obtained a 
 sight of the entrance to the gardens he would have seen a very plain chariot 
 indeed draw up there, and a stout woman not far short of his own age alight 
 from it. 
 
 We say woman, because certainly, although by her dress and appointments 
 there could be no mistake about her being wealthy, she certainly had not much of 
 the lady in her appearance. 
 
 There was a grossness of structure and sensuality of look about this individual 
 which would have detracted from even a beautiful face ; but certainly she had 
 nothing of the sort to detract from, for her face was of the very commonest 
 description. 
 
 Yet it was strange to see with what an extraordinary amount of respect she 
 was assisted from the carriage by a servant in plain clothes. 
 
 " I shall not want you, Simpson," she said, " and let the carriage wait." 
 
 Upon this intimation Simpson bowed very low, and the lady made her way 
 into the gardens alone. She made her way at once towards the pathway where 
 
I 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 371 
 
 thel'distinguished-looking gentleman was waiting ; and walking with a slow and 
 waddling step, she proceeded onward until she saw him. 
 
 Then she paused ; and, as at the same instant he happened to observe her, he 
 made his way towards her with great precipitation and apparent anxiety of 
 manner. When he was within a few paces of her he paused and bowed very low, 
 which she acknowledged with a slight but decidedly vulgar curtsey. It seemed 
 indeed astonishing how he paid so much respect to a person of her appearance. 
 It certainly was not for her beauty or accomplishments. It might be for her 
 virtues for all we know to the contrary at present, but whether it be so or not we 
 shall quickly perceive. 
 
 She said nothing to him, but moved along the pathway with th« same waddling 
 duck-like gait that characterised her from the first, while he spoke most earnestly. 
 
 "Madam," he said, " I have discovered a truth which has been kept from me 
 sedulously ; I have discovered, madam, that the child lives ; yes, madam, lives ; 
 however unmoved you may seem to be at the intelligence." 
 
 " Well, sir !" said the female. 
 
 u I know not, madam, whether to feel rejoiced or grieved at the fact ; but 
 most certainly, since the child does live, it is your duty as well as mine to take 
 some measures with regard to him. What I ask of you is, to place me in a 
 different position, and to give me charge of the boy with a thousand or two per 
 annum for his education." 
 
 "It's false," she said; "he does not live. Since you have forced me, sir, to 
 resume this distressing subject, permit me to state that the child was taken away 
 dead by the woman Griffiths, and buried at Carrickfergus,Castle." 
 
 " Madam, that is the old story, f but the woman Griffiths, as you call her, is 
 dead. She had been an old servant in my family, and upon her death-bed she told 
 me that the child was a boy and lived, and that she had made that communication 
 to you some years since— that you had bribed her to silence with a hundred pounds, 
 which to her was a large sum, and placed the boy at school somewhere in 
 England." 
 
 " It's all false ; and, after what I have clone for you, this is most ungracious 
 conduct." 
 
 " Done for me !" 
 
 «' Done for you ! Were you not a beggar — a wretched Scotch lord's youngest 
 son?" 
 
 " I thank you, madam, for reminding me what I was when you first looked with 
 : an eye of passion, which soon overcame all scruples, upon such a beggar." 
 " Wretch ! dare you utter these words to me ? w 
 
 " Yes, madam, and much more. I have not the slightest hesitation in telling 
 you that I loathed you from the first, and that I was hired by you, and nothing 
 else. My payment consisted of the colonelcy of a regiment of light cavalry, 
 and occasional sums, I suppose, amounting in ten or twelve years to three or four 
 thousand pounds." 
 
 "And still you are unsatisfied?" 
 
 66 1 am unsatisfied. You can do more for me, and I am tired of struggling with 
 difficulties. I want money, and that in no stinted measure. My son and your 
 son lives, and I shall have to put the boy upon prCving who he is if you will not 
 Provide for him." 
 
 ' u Do you fancy, sir, that I am in a position to be threatened ? Your scandalous 
 >reath will not injure me, but I Could ruin you by a prosecution from which you 
 lever could recover." 
 
 " By such a prosecution you would put me upon the proof of a fact which, while 
 it vould give me a certain sort of reputation that many men would envy, would 
 ovewhelm you with confusion." 
 
 ' Not at all, I am above it ; and, besides, you have already said yourself that 
 you only witness is dead." 
 ] ")on't make too sure of that, madam. I could make all England ring again 
 I with he charge against you." 
 
372 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " What is it that you require, villain that you are ?" 
 
 *' Three thousand per annum, and a brevet rank in the army, considerably higher 
 than the one I hold." 
 " And if I refuse r" 
 
 " I am drowned in debt and living entirely upon credit, and therefore I will 
 remove Francis Hayward from Littleton-house Academy, and make a public appeal 
 to you, since the private one has failed." 
 
 " Francis Hayward ! I don't know whom you mean." 
 
 ' ? Tis well, madam ; our conference is over. Of course, if you will not admit the 
 facts it can be of no use for me to attempt to reason upon them. Perhaps a certain 
 high quarter — I allude to a female relative of yours — might do more in the matter 
 than you suppose." 
 
 " The high quarter knows all about it." 
 
 " I cannot believe it. In a word, madam, will you compromise this matter with 
 me, or will you not ?** 
 
 " I must take time to consider. This is a thing not determined upon in a 
 moment. I will communicate with you in the course of a few days." 
 
 As she spoke she turned upon her heel, and waddled again towards the gate, 
 while the man followed her with his eyes, and clenched his teeth, as he muttered to 
 himself, — 
 
 '* She has been my ruin by placing me in a false position, my utter ruin ; but I 
 will endure it no longer. It shall not be. I will have ample compensation for my 
 blighted prospects ; and, now that I have discovered the fact of the boy being in 
 existence, I have such a hold upon her as I never thought to have. What can 
 have become of him ? How immensely unlucky it is that he should have left 
 Littleton Academy at the very time when I would have taken him from it, and 
 placed him in a position to secure great advantages both for himself and »ie." 
 
 He walked towards one of the gates, but not the one by which the female had 
 entered, muttering to himself, as he went, — 
 
 " Now in old times I should be popped out of the way as comfortably as pos- 
 sible, but that sort of thing won't do now. Money governs everything and every- 
 body, and if I am to keep quiet and silent I am determined to be paid — ay, and paid 
 well too, or I am resolved that the affair shall not rest." 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 THE SINGULAR INTERVIEW. 
 
 Colonel Douglas George Scott sat at his breakfast on the morning after the inter- 
 view we have just recorded as having taken place between him and the unknown 
 person to the reader in Kensington-gardens. . 
 
 Now that he was within doors and without his hat it was much more apparent 
 that he was not a young man, and moreover there was a look of anxiety upon his 
 brow, and it was quite evident he was ill at ease. / 
 
 " What is that ?" he cried, in an irritable tone, as his servant entered thr 
 apartment. " God bless me! am I never to be alone ? Cannot I have one room ii 
 this large house free from some damnable sort of interruption or another ?" 
 
 " If you please, sir," said the servant, " there is a person who wishesiO 
 see you." 
 
 " D — n the person ! I will see nobody." , 
 " Very good, sir." / 
 The servant left the apartment, and the colonel resumed his breakfast, but f r en 
 this incident, trifling as it was, had set all his nerves trembling, and he roseand 
 paced the room, exclaiming, — / 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 " How cursedly nervous I am to-day ! and what about I'll be hanged if I 
 k/iow ; for after all what need I care what she thinks, or what she attempts ? — She 
 must pay money, ahd money it is that I require. She shall pay it. How now 1 
 here again V 
 
 " Beg pardon, sir, but the man who wants to see you said that if you knew 
 who he was, you would not hesitate a moment, and he desired me to give you this 
 card." 
 
 With a bitter oath the colonel took the card and cast his eyes upon it, but the 
 moment he did so his expression altered, although there was nothing on it but the 
 mere words, — 
 
 " A stranger to Colonel Scott, who brings him news of F. H." 
 " Ah, indeed ! " he exclaimed. u Admit him. Bring him at once. Tell him I 
 will see him." 
 
 The servant was rather astonished at this change in his master's manner; but Colonel 
 Scott was a dangerous man to seem to notice or make any remark to, so the 
 s ervant glided out of the room at once, and presently reappeared introducing our 
 old acquaintance, Ned Lyal, who bowed to the Colonel, and then looked him full 
 in the face. The stare was mutual ; but although it fully satisfied Lyal that 
 he was quite right, it afforded no information to the Colonel, who could 
 hardly be expected to recognise, in the fashionably dressed individual before him, 
 the man whom he had asked a question of a considerable time before upon a 
 country road. j 
 
 i( Sir," said the Colonel, " you have sent me in a card containing the initials 
 of one concerning whom I am anxious to acquire information." 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 " That you are aware of that anxiety I must have presumed by your coming to 
 me with it, and therefore let me beg that you will be as short and as explicit as pos- 
 sible." The Colonel as he spoke placed himself in a listening attitude, while 
 Ned looked him in the face and said,— 
 
 " Sir, you don't seem at all to be aware that I might want something for my 
 informatien." 
 
 *' Oh ! you are a mercenary rascal, are you?" said the Colonel, passionately. 
 
 "Yes," said Ned; "I think that, if in nothing else, you and I are precisely 
 alike in that particular ; and to come to the point, if it's worth your while to give 
 what I require for the discovery of Francis Hayward, well and good ; if not, there 
 is no harm done, and I bid you good morning." 
 
 " Stop, you are strangely insolent ; but what is it you require ?" 
 
 " A thousand pounds." 
 
 * A thousand davils ! The man is mad." 
 
 "Very good.'' As he spoke Ned rose and walked towards the door, but the Colonel 
 rang a bell violently, and called out aloud, " Stop that man. Go for a constable, 
 some one, and give this man into custody." 
 
 " Ob, that's it, is it V said Ned, " now let me advise you, before anybody comes, 
 to be a little wise in ycjur anger. I don't ptetend to know why you are so anxious 
 about Frank Hayward* but anxious you are, \ can have no doubt about that what- 
 ever. You will do no good by giving me into custody, for you can make no charge 
 against me, as you know quite well." 
 
 The violent ring of the colonel, however, had brought his servant to the spot, 
 who looked astounded, and waited for orders. 
 
 " Let him go, let him go," said the colonel ; "it's of no matter, James, I don't 
 intend to do anything ; and, as for you, sir, you put such an extravagant price upon 
 the very unimportant information you possess, that I decline purchasing it at all, 
 so you may go about your business. I know you perfectly well, your name is Lyal." 
 
 " Indeed ! you heard that down at, the village, of course, where you were the day 
 before yesterday. Colonel, you need to rise early and go to bed late to get the better j 
 of me. But, however, there is no harm done, as I say. I had something to sell ; yon j 
 want it, but don't like the price, and so we part." 
 
 , " James," said the colonel, " put on your hat at once, and follow that fellow ; the 
 
 ,/ * 
 
374 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 job shall be worth a guinea to you if you find out where he lives. Be off with you 
 at once." 
 
 "A guinea, sir?" said James ; " make it a couple, and I'll find out where the 
 devil himself lives, if I should get ever so much singed in going there." 
 
 James darted out of house, snatching the colonel's hat off a peg in the passage as 
 he went, for he was in too great a hurry to see whether it was his own or not,' 
 and he had the satisfaction to observe his master's recent visitor just turning a 
 corner. 
 
 He darted after him, and reached the corner breathless, but the man whom he 
 was bidden to follow was nowhere to be seen. He was, however, very soon to be 
 felt, for he came out of a doorway where he had hidden, and gave James such a rap 
 on the side of the head that he reeled again ; and then collaring him he twisted his 
 hand in his cravat so as half to choke him, and called out, — 
 
 " A constable, a constable." 
 
 A man darted up, exclaiming, Cl I'm a constable, I'm a constable ! what has he 
 done, sir?" 
 
 " Picked my pocket, that's all ; but I caught him at it.' 
 
 ".The vagabond, sir !" said the officer. " Let me look at him ; oh, I know him ; 
 he's an old offender. He is always walking up and down this street, sir, picking 
 gentlemen's pockets. Now, my fine fellow, we'll soon settle you. Is this your 
 handkerchief, sir, that I've took out of his coat pocket ?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you ; you will see my mark upon the corner." 
 
 " Safe as a gun, sir; D. Gr. S." 
 
 " No, it aint true," said the half-choked valet ; " that's one of my master's pocket- 
 handkerchiefs." 
 
 " Why,you'villain," said the officer, nobbing his head with his staff, " I'll let you . 
 know that you have met your master ; come along, come along. You'll appear 
 agin him, sir?" 
 j " Certainly I will ; I'll follow you now." 
 
 The unfortunate- valet was marched off to the nearest watch-house, while the 
 officer, to show his efficiency, punched him in the ribs all the way, and knocked 
 | him down twice, under pretence he wouldn't move on, all of which was very 
 edifying for the populace to see, inasmuch as it showed what an amazingly active 
 officer he was, and what perils he endured in the discharge of his duty. But 
 somehow or another, when the party reached the watch-house, the prosecutor was 
 invisible, but the constable on duty sagely remarked, — 
 
 "I don't see why we shouldn't lock him up for all that, because, though the 
 gentleman ain't here, he may come, and besides, we haven't had anybody since the 
 morning." 
 
 To say that Ned Lyal was mortified at this failure of his visit to Colonel Scott, is 
 to say but little, for, to tell the truth, he was excessively annoyed to think that he had 
 failed, when he had calculated upon certain success, and he now began to bethink 
 him what he should do to turn a matter to profit of which he knew so little. 
 
 He walked home to the hotel, worried and discontented, and when he reached it 
 he ascended the staircase to the handsome apartments which he and Frank Hayward 
 occupied, in deep thought. 
 
 He found that worthy rather deeper than prudence dictated in a bottle of wine, 
 three or four glasses of which, however, materially tended to raise his own spirits, 
 and he spoke more freely, although he was very guarded in what he said ; for he 
 had as yet by no means made up his mind what he should do or say as regarded 
 the affair in which he was involved. 
 
 " Have you no news for me V said Hayward. 
 
 " Not yet ; but I have put some people on the scent, and I have been myself to 
 some places of fashionable resort, with the hope of seeing some one whom I could 
 identify as the man with moustaches, but up to now I have been unsuccessful. 
 It's early times, though, and we shall manage to do something, I dare say, 
 j by-and-by." 
 
 j " Well, the sooner the better ; but in the mean time, this is a jolly enough sort 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 _ 
 
 375 
 
 of life, and one I have no objection to. I never could have believed it was such a 
 safe thing to be a footpad." 
 
 " Oh, everything is safe if you manage it properly ; but here is the landlord. 
 What does he want?" 
 
 "He can't want anything that I am aware of. He asked me a little while ago, 
 .before you came in, if I could let him have ten pounds in gold, and I gave them 
 to him." 
 
 " Indeed! — that was odd. Ten pounds ! — but here he is." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the landlord, " there is a Mr. John Moore, and Mr. Anthony 
 Fox, and Mr. Ezekiel Peters down below, and they want to see you particularly." 
 
 " I don't know any such persons," said Lyal, slightly changing colour. <( I 
 never heard of such persons. What do they want with me ?" 
 
 " Why, they are here to answer for themselves, and I dare say they will pretty 
 soon tell you what they want." 
 
 Three stout men walked into the apartment, and one of them, walking up to the 
 table, said,— 
 
 "You are our prisoners." 
 
 w Prisoners ! and what for?" said Hay ward. 
 
 ie Highway robbery." 
 
 "Damnation!" said Ned Lyal, "how has that come about? It's a mistake. 
 We are gentlemen from the country." 
 
 "No," said the officer, " it's no mistake ; and all I can advise you is, another 
 time, if you have the opportunity, which, between yon and I, I don't think you will 
 have, when you take two hundred pounds, to find out whether there is any private 
 mark upon any of them or not ; because forty of them have been borrowed of an 
 eccentric old woman who had hoarded them, and put her mark upon every one of 
 them. You see, you are extremely likely to be bowled out. Out of ten that this 
 young fellow gave to the landlord an hour and a half ago, four were marked." 
 
 " That's right, Ezekiel, my boy," said another of the officers ; " always tell the 
 gentleman what sort of a hole he has put his foot in, and then he can't grumble no 
 how, if he is never such an out and out disagreeable fellow.'" 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 THE GRAVEL-PIT IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. — THE MYSTERIOUS ATTEMPT AT 
 MURDER, AND DEATH OF THE RANGER. 
 
 When, by dint of the most urgent remonstrances, aided and assisted by the 
 promise of a guinea, the discomfited valet of Colonel Scott succeeded in inducing 
 one of the constables at the watchhouse to go to the hotel where the colonel was 
 anxiously awaiting his arrival, and just state what had happened to him, he thought, 
 to be sure, that his liberation must be very near at hand. 
 
 But human expectations are made, apparently, but to be disappointed ; for not 
 only did he do himself no good by sending, but he did himself positive harm, inas- 
 much as he made the constable very angry at missing the guinea, which he did 
 miss, by finding that the colonel was not at home. 
 
 Now, odd as it may appear, after sending his valet on so urgent a message, 
 that Colonel Scott should leave the hotel instead of waiting for him to return and 
 bring his report of what he had found out, he had left about ten minutes after that 
 worthy. 
 
 There must be a cause for all thkigs, and therefore we do not despair of con- 
 vincing the reader that there is a good reason why the colonel should not wait the 
 return of his messenger, whom he had sent upon what to him was so interesting an 
 errand ; for he really did consider that, by having possession of the lad Hayward, he 
 
370 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 would acquire such a hold upon his mother, that he should be able to iuduce her 
 
 to concede to his wishes as regarded money matters. 
 
 It seemed most singular that such a woman as we have represented her to be 
 1 should be possessed of so much power as the colonel, in his conversation with her, j 
 { continually hinted at ; but we shall perhaps, in due time, arrive at the heart of j 
 I that mystery. 
 
 ! Scarcely had the valet been gone two minutes on his enterprise before a letter j 
 ; came for the colonel, and was laid before him. It was a mysterious-looking epistle, 
 ! on account of the great care which was taken to conceal it from any observation 
 ! which might be brought to bear upon it. 
 
 It was sealed with small pieces of wax in different places, so that, unless it had 
 i been actually torn to pieces, there would really have been no such thing as getting 
 ! it open ; but the moment the colonel cast his eyes upon it he seemed fully to 
 ! understand the cause of all the mystery, and he exclaimed at once, — 
 
 " This exceeds my hopes. It is a letter from her." 
 
 With trembling hands he opened it, and read the following words : — 
 
 " Be by the old seat at the gravel-pit, near the conservatory, for the remainder of 
 ! the day, if an answer is required to recent propositions." 
 
 | u Indeed !" he said ; " I have succeeded in frightening her at last. This is as it { 
 ; ought to be. Well do I know that old seat by the conservatory ; and now, without J 
 ; the shadow of a doubt, I shall bring her to such reasonable terms as will place me ! 
 \ in a widely different position to that which I now occupy. Why, it will seem like 
 i old times revived for me to wait, by that place, her coming, for now I hate her. 
 t She has not one recommendation, but she has abundant power ; and although my 
 conduct, to tell or to hear of, would appear to be of a nature that an honourable 
 ; man should shrink from, I know the despicable, selfish nature of the woman so well, 
 j that I have not a shadow of hesitation." 
 
 He paced his room for a few moments in silence, and then, with a bitter laugh, j 
 j he spoke again. — 
 
 j " I wonder, now, what my life would have been worth in the good old times j 
 i that people speak of ? By Jove ! I dare not then have made myself so troublesome ; I 
 I but now the case is widely different ; and even — hush ! I dare not, even to 
 myself, pronounce her name — cannot well overstep the majesty of the laws. I think 
 | I am tolerably safe. And so I am to wait there the whole day perchance? Well, 
 well, I am playing for a heavy stake enough to give some attention to the game, 
 and therefore I will wait at the spot appointed — the more especially when I 
 ; consider that her keeping me waiting is, after all, not her own fault, to a great 
 ! extent, but contingent upon the great difficulty she must have in keeping an 
 i appointment with any one." 
 
 j He hastily made some change in his dress, and prepared to quit the place ; 
 
 : hut before he, did so, he with great and exceeding care, put away the note which 
 
 | he h.ul received in a lock-up receptacle, which had a secret drawer, likewise, 
 
 t to it, that it would require a great amount of human ingenuity to discover. 
 
 : " I must resort to my old plan of passing the time," he said, " while waiting in 
 that dreary place — for dreary, notwithstanding its natural beauties, it becomes in the 
 
 j course of time, when one has to wait and watch each lagging minute in its progress. 
 
 j By Heavens ! had it not been occasionally for a book, I should have been wearied 
 to death, and known not which way to turn myself." 
 
 He took a volume from a shelf near at hand, and, placing it in his coat-pocket, he 
 then, with an expression of more contentment and triumph upon his countenance 
 than he had before exhibited, hastily left the room. 
 
 He took his way towards Kensington-gardens, and when he reached that place 
 he bent his steps, without the slightest pause, towards the palace; and diving in 
 amongst some shrubbery that lay to its right, where there is a spacious conservatory, 
 now wretchedly neglected, but which, at the time we write of, was in all its 
 beauty, he took a narrow pathway which led behind it, and stood upon the margin 
 of a deep gravel-pit, into the depths of which he looked for a few moments 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 abstractedly. Turning upon Ins heel then, he flung himself into a seat, a few paces 
 distant, exclaiming, — 
 
 "Here, then, let me wait, Heaven knows how long ; and now for my only resource 
 to wile away tedious hours." As he spoke he opened the book, and at once 
 plunged into its contents, reading as follows : — 
 
 There was scarce a breath of air stirring to disturb the leaves that hung listles 
 and motionless ; not a sound was to be heard save the hum of the large flies as 
 
 ft 
 
 thev flew around with a drowsy sound. The very birds had ceased to smg 
 —the noon-tide heat was so great that even the feathered creation appeared to be 
 glad to retire to some sequestered shade, where they could quietly and almly 
 pass the great heat of the day, with as little exertion and exercise as might be ; for 
 the sun of July shone upon the earth without a single cloud or breeze to mitigate 
 his rays. 
 
 No, 48. 
 
378 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 The roads were dusty — a bird, if it settled on the road, raised a dust — a stone 
 thrown by a boy would produce the same result, and the carts as they now and 
 then passed along, raised such a cloud of impalpable dust or powder, that took 
 many minutes before it subsided. 
 
 The hedges were white with dust—the green of the shrubs had been changed to 
 the colour of stone by the settlement of the dust raised by the road. 
 
 . The cottage doors stood open and the windows — every means were resorted to, 
 to procure a cool draught if it were but a moment now and then — and if it did 
 come, it was but for a moment. 
 
 There was but one cottage by the road-side. It was a neat and pretty place ; 
 there was a garden, orchard, and a comfortable house, and forming together a 
 very agreeable retreat. 
 
 There was no other house within a certain distance, and when a traveller passed 
 there, it was usual for them to stop and admire the place ; it was so trim and neat 
 at the same time so naturally adorned and so tastefully arranged. 
 
 In this place lived a mother and daughter : the former was a widow, and had 
 retired upon a small annuity that the residue of her husband's fortune had secured 
 for her in thle funds. She had resided in that cottage for no less than ten years 
 since, and thik her daughter was scarce nine years of age. 
 
 It was lonely, but at the same time they had that between them that made their 
 own home happ^ and cheeeful ; temper and education were all they needed — these 
 enabled them to choose their amusements with certainty of employing their time 
 agreeably and profitably. 
 
 In their house resided a young gentleman ; he had originally come down for 
 the benefit of his health, quite an invalid ; lie recovered almost entirely by the aid 
 of the air and the lively companionship of the mother and daughter. Bj^ 
 
 But once -well, he had another object to attract his attention, and he remained 
 yet a lodger ; he retained his apartments all the year round, and returmed to it as 
 often as business would permit him to do so. 
 
 Careful indeed were mother and daughter in all the concerns of life, and they 
 were especially so in their intercourse with young Phillips, the name of the young 
 man on whom the affections of her daughter had been fixed. 
 
 They were lovers, and they had been so for some time. It was agreed that 
 when they were married, the mother should live with them, for Mary could not 
 bear being parted from her parent ; that parent who had been the only and sole 
 companion of her youth should not be left to spend the remainder of her days alone, 
 she thought; it would be ungrateful, and besides that, it would be iess than even 
 Phillips wished — he desired her company, he wished to see her domesticated with 
 them. 
 
 That was very agreeable, and they all agreed to it, for her income would be an 
 addition to theirs, which would be but small though sure — for Phillips would 
 enter upon housekeeping much earlier than he could have ventured to have done. 
 
 However there was time yet to elapse before such an event could happen ; a year 
 was to pass before such a moment would arrive in which his happiness would be 
 complete. * 
 
 It was at this state of things'that the hot and sultry weather of July set in. 
 
 One very hot and sultry afternoon Mrs. Potter sat in the arbour of the 
 garden in that dreamy state of existence produced by lassitude and hot weather, 
 thinking of the future and predicting happy occurrences, Phillips and Mary had 
 been out for several hours, when the garden gate opened and in walked a man, who 
 rather the appearance of -a beggar than anything else, though perhaps he was but 
 a traveller. 
 
 However he walked in, and looked about him for some time, but as nobody 
 came near' him, he walked in further. 
 
 "The house," he muttered, i( must be somewhere hereabouts. I cannot have 
 mistaken the spot, so minute were the directions. I think my old sweetheart must 
 be somewhefe hereabout." 
 
 Mrs.Potter no sooner saw the man who had entered, than she became unaccount- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 379 
 
 ably alarmed,- she could not take her eyes off the stranger, who now came into 
 the garden. 
 
 At length he espied the arbour, and seeing some one there, he walked towards it ; 
 and when he came there, he paused before the widow with a doubtful expression 
 upon his countenance ; and at length he spoke,-- 
 
 " Is this Mrs. Potter's ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Are you Mrs. Potter?" 
 
 " I am ; what do want with me ?" inquired the widow, in some surprise. 
 
 " Do you not know me ?" inquired the man, with a fixed look ; " but I suppose 
 you do not. I hardly recollect you. I did recollect you, but I was not sure that 
 it was you ; but look again, am I so much altered that you cannot remember 
 Abel Wright?" 
 
 A scream burst from the lips of Mrs. Potter as she heard the name pronounced, 
 and she seemed quite horrified at his return to her, and said hastily, — 
 
 *' Go hence ! go hence ! I will hold no communication with such as you. Be- 
 gone ! begone I" 
 
 "Not before I have had a little conversation with you. You cannot imagine I 
 have come to see you without an object. Well, then, that being the case, after I have 
 seen you, I shall not think of going away until I have accomplished it; so I will 
 sit down by your side— it im't the first time I have sat by your side, Mary." 
 
 " No, no ; do not sit near me." 
 
 < 'And why not, Mary ?" 
 
 Mrs. Potter could not answer. She remained silent, but looked pale, and 
 breathed as one who is compelled to endure what she cannot avoid, with the best 
 grace she could ; but yet unable to hide her distress and her vexation at the 
 occurrence. 
 
 " Well," said the man, " so Potter is dead, eh V 
 "Yes, between nine and ten years." - 
 
 " So I have heard. Ah! well, it's no use in saving it's a good job; for I 
 suppose you wouldn't agree with me." 
 " No, I could not." 
 
 " Ah, I see ; but he has provicled for you, I hear, has he not, Mary, and that 
 handsomely too ?" 
 
 " He has left me a small annuity." 
 
 " I hear 80, — about a hundred-and-fifty a year." 
 
 " No, no ; but that matters not. I have my daughter to protect, and it is 
 barely enough for such a purpose." 
 
 " I dare say not ; but I tell you you can economise, and part of it will do for 
 me. I am little more than a beggar, you see, and it is not too iuch to ask you 
 for." 
 
 g Indeed, indeed, I cannot, cannot do it." 
 " You .must." 
 
 '* This is cruel — cruel in the extreme. What right — what excuse have you for 
 taking away my means to satisfy your wants ? There is no law human or divine — 
 besides, I have arranged otherwise with people to whom I can make no excuse." 
 
 " Indeed ! But you must make one, and that pretty soon ; for you must spare 
 me seventy-five out of the hundred-and-fifty." 
 
 u Impossible ! '* 
 
 " There is no such word applicable to any word I shall utter that has for its 
 object the making of a request." 
 
 " I tell you once more I cannot, and will not do it." 
 " You will not ?" 
 
 " No, I will not ; I say so most positively." 
 
 ' " Do you know the consequences of a refusal ? Because if you do not I will 
 tell you : I can expose some former transactions that will not sound very well, to 
 say the least of it; and moreover I, am your late husband's creditor to some 
 
 amount." 
 
380 
 
 " He is dead." 
 
 " But my claim lives as long as he had any estate, and you, having administered 
 to his will are compelled to discharge his debts before you pay any legacies. 
 I shall proceed against you, and you will be compelled to give up your annuity to 
 liquidate my claim as well as to refund all you have taken, so that your liberty 
 will be at my disposal.'"' 
 
 Mrs. Potter wrung her hands when he paused, but she could make no reply. 
 
 <f You see everything depends upon my forbearance. Now J am not pressing 
 until you make me so. You had better think this matter oyer coolly, and see if 
 you can understand your position.'' 
 
 JMrs. Potter made no reply. 
 
 '* I give you one week to make up your mind ; but as I must live in the mean- 
 time, you must lend me your purse, but it must be a heavy one, because I hate 
 no money at all, and I have just everything to buy myself," said the stranger. 
 
 Mrs. Potter put her hand into her pocket and drew forth a silk purse, which she 
 handed him, saying, — 
 
 " That is all I have ; take it, but do not come here any more." 
 
 Abel Wright stretched out his hand and took the purse ; he examined the 
 contents, and then seeming well satisfied he arose, and said, as he was going, — 
 
 " Consider well what I have said ; I will come again this day week ; and in 
 my own mind I think we had better make a match of it, and thus unite our 
 interests ; we should then have but one interest, and that would be more agree- 
 able, as we should both pull one way." 
 
 '* There would be an end to my annuity." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " It is mine only so long as I am a widow." 
 
 " Well, well, we will see about that when I come again." 
 
 So 3aying, he left the garden, and as he went out of the gate, Phillips and Mary 
 came in at the same place ; they met, but no observation was made by either. 
 
 When they entered the arbour Mrs. Potter was in tears, and her face was buried 
 in her hands, and she saw them not until they spoke to her. 
 
 " Mother, mother," said Mary, " what can be the matter with you ? Why is 
 this? What can have happened to cause this grief ? Tears, too ! I never saw 
 you shed tears yet, since the death of my father, or connected with that occasion." 
 
 " Mary, Mary, I have seen — but no matter, you know him not." 
 
 " Know whom, mother? the man whom we met at the gate? He was a very ill- 
 looking man, at all events. What could he want here ? Has he come to frighten 
 you?" 
 
 » He did." 
 
 " Do you know him, Mrs. Potter?" inquired Phillips. 
 
 " Yes, I do; 1 have known him some years, and he now threatens me with ruin." 
 " With ruin?" 
 
 w Yes, with ruin ; you shall know all, my children ; you deserve to know all, 
 and I cannot conceal anything from you." 
 
 " You alarm me, dearest mother," said Mary, affectionately. 
 
 " My dear Mary, sit down and hear all I have to say, and you too, Henry ; 
 you must know the extent of my troubles, for I should not be able to conceal the 
 effects from you, though I could the source ; but that would make you and me very 
 unhappy indeed." 
 
 " It would, I assure you," said Henry, " make me very unhappy to know that 
 there was any source of misforture to you that I might not be made acquainted 
 with." 
 
 " Many years ago, before I married your father, Mary," began Mrs. Potter, 
 " I knew a person, who was then a gentleman— -the man whom you just now met 
 at the gate." 
 
 " That man a gentleman — or ever was one !" exclaimed Mary, in amazement; 
 " why, what a transformation has taken place !" 
 
 " It was so, nevertheless," said Mrs. Potter ; " he was a gentleman by birth, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 381 
 
 education, and connexions, but he turned out a man of vile heart. He wooed me, 
 and that for some time. I had at one time been nearly married to him, when 
 some circumstances arose, or came to my knowledge, that induced me to pause, 
 and then I became acquainted with your father. 
 
 Then I quitted this person. I only hesitated at first, I admit ; but then I 
 made up my mind that I would not form any connexion with a man who had 
 deliberately injured one of my sex, and by means, as I afterwards learned, of the 
 most dastardly character. 
 
 I afterwards lost sight of him for some years, and I was married to your father. 
 I then quitted that part of the country, and came to town with my husband. 
 
 However, it seemed that he had other thoughts in his head — that he had 
 sworn to obtain a revenge upon me for refusing him, and upon your father because 
 he had been the means of his disappointment ; and he kept the vow he had so 
 made. 
 
 He contrived to obtain admittance to our table, and behaved himself with so 
 much circumspection, that he was received with the utmost cordiality, and he was 
 always ready to perform any service for us, which, in fact, he often did. 
 
 He got your father to become his companion, and they both used to go out 
 much and spend their evenings together. I feared nothing because I thought 
 nothing, and took no trouble in the matter, believing that he was what he repre- 
 sented himself to be — our friend. 
 
 However, time flew by, and there was a great change in my husband's be- 
 haviour. It was a strange mixture ef kindness and unkindness, and as I be- 
 lieved arose from pecuniary matters. 
 
 Things went on this way for some months, but a change was taking place in 
 my husband, and he was not the same man — far from it ; instead of being a 
 domesticated man, he became dissipated, led an irregular life, and at last fell into a 
 J gambling life. 
 
 I now saw through it, and began to speak about and to question my husband 
 about the change of behaviour and of conduct. 
 ! <# Say no more about it," he said, " say no more about it ; I know it, see it, but 
 cannot avoid it." 
 
 " Nay," said I, " let this man go. See him no more — we may yet return — we 
 
 may " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! I dare not." 
 
 " Dare not," I replied, " dare not. What can you mean by that, you are your 
 own master, are you not?" 
 
 " To a certain extent — certairrly," he said, evasively." 
 
 " To a certain extent — that cannot be ! Why not wholly ? I cannot see why 
 you should not be wholly." 
 
 u There are reasons," he replied, " which I cannot now tell you of, but will some 
 other time." 
 
 Well, these matters passed off for some weeks, but my husband's affairs got to 
 a yet worse pitch, and there was nothing to induce him to attempt to retrieve 
 himself. 
 
 There was one evening a meeting between them, and they remained for some 
 time in company, and then, when I was admitted, there was then no appearance of 
 the past, and so I knew nothing, but I was informed, that our friend was compelled 
 to go abroad for many years. I could not tell why, neither was I informed. 
 
 He took his leave of hs and he went away. We were glad enough he was gone, 
 but I little thought he carried away the whole available cash my husband was pos- 
 sessed of. This 1 become acquainted with soon afterwards, and! saw my husbands 
 health visibly decline under the affliction that came upon him. 
 
 In answer to my repeated inquiries, he said one day, — 
 
 I owed much money — money lost at gambling, but for which I had been induced 
 to give real security and bond fide bills to such an amount, that he could ruin me at 
 any one moment. I have given him all I have now, and he will almost ruin me ; 
 he has besides bills for the remainder that will, when pressed, make us beggars. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 I was too much stunned with this intelligence to make any reply, but I recovered 
 myself as quickly as I could, and did all I could to make my husband as happy as 
 possible. We struggled, and got over the difficulties of the past, and went, on very 
 prosperously, but still all was embittered by the recollection, that there was not a 
 moment in which we might not be called to account for the possession of every 
 penny, and give it up to this man, who held acimow.edgments for debts that would 
 swallow up three times what we could scrape together, when all was realised. 
 
 However, Mr. Potter died, and then he left me, by his will, the annuity I now 
 possess. Irj every other respect, he was solvent and every debt paid, but this man 
 who wants to claim half from me, or threatens to swallow the whole up and 
 more in legal proceedings, and take every farthing away, and leave me a beggar. 
 
 " And what may his name be ?" inquired Phillips. 
 
 " Abel Wright," replied Mrs. Potter. 
 
 " Abel Wright! Why, that is the very man who forged the name of my father 
 to a cheque, and who left the country many years ago to escape the consequences. 
 Say this to him, and that he shall be prosecuted if he remain an hour in the country ; 
 my father yet lives, and has the document by him — he shall suffer." 
 
 This intelligence was very welcome to Mrs. Potter, and not the less so to Mary, 
 who looked upon her lover as their saviour, and felt more proud of him than before. 
 Mrs. Potter herself felt all the relief such a circumstance could produce, but how great 
 was that relief when she saw Abel Wright tremble and turn pale when he heard 
 the threat, and when he saw young Henry Phillips, he well remembered the 
 features of the father, and when he insisted upon his destroying all evidences of 
 the threat, he hesitated, but was eventually forced to submit, and quit the 
 country. 
 
 Mrs. Potter was saved, and the wedding went forward as it had been agreed upon 
 before between them, and then, when the happy day arrived, they were wedded and 
 lived many years in that state in happiness and prosperity, but they never forgot Abel 
 Wright, arid the chance that had turned up to save them all from entire ruin. That 
 person was utterly extinct — he had been drowned in his passage from England to 
 France; yes, as the wind met the vessel, it had to tack about and a heavy sea 
 rolled him overboard, and he was drowned, and thus they were free for ever after- 
 wards from him and his threats. 
 
 * . * * . * 
 
 " Not come yet,'' he exclaimed, as he closed the volume. f By Heavens, this 
 waiting is a tedious thing; but it must be endured. How very still the gardens 
 are at this time of .the day. What's that — what ! s,that ?" 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and looked around him with an alarmed air, for some- 
 thing with a strange whistling sound had passed his ear, and there had moved 
 behind him an odd, crashing sound among the branches of the trees. 
 
 a What is that?" he said what is that? But that I've heard no report, 1 
 could swear it was a shot. It must be the sound, the crash among the branches — 
 damnation ! there again. Do they take me for an animate target?" 
 
 As he spoke, the book that he held in his hand was dashed from his grasp by a 
 bullet, which, after making its way through half the thickness of the volume, there 
 lodged. 
 
 From the position in which he held it, it certainly saved his life ; for if the shot 
 had not been received by it, it must have entered his very heart. He paused for a 
 moment, and then muttering to himself,— 
 
 " I knew a trick worth two of that ; and be ye whom ye may, scoundrelly 
 assassin, I will have revenge upon you, or rather, I may call it justice." 
 
 As be spoke he clasped both his hands upon his heart, and reeled against the 
 seat. He contorted his countenance to the most hideous expression of pain, and 
 then tottering a few paces forward, he reeled round upon his heels and fell upon 
 the green sward, uttering a hideous groan, as he did so. 
 
 There was a hasty tread among the bushes, and a man trailing in his hand an air 
 gun — then a most unique and singular invention— made his appearance. 
 
 " I have him," he said, " I have him, and my fortune's made ; a rare shot, by 
 
T 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Jove ! and I shall have better pleased I know who by this one clay's work, than by 
 twenty years of good service." 
 
 He flung down the gun, and ran up to the colonel, who lay upon his face affect- 
 ing to be dead. 
 
 « So, my spark," lie said, " I've settled you pretty handsomely, though the 
 damned gun does carry its bullets high, and I did miss you at the first shot ; I 
 thought it would be an odd thing'if 1 couldn't pop you down at fifty paces. Let 
 me see, perhaps, as a little instalment of what I'm to get from the job, you may 
 have something in your pocket worth taking." « 
 
 He knelt down by the side of what he supposed a corpse, and then Colonel 
 Scott, suddenly springing to his feet, seized him by the throat with both hands, and 
 held him as though he had been in a vice. 
 
 '* You infernal villain and assassin," he said, " Pve no questions to ask you, for 
 I know who is your employer ; and if ever you speak another word in this world 
 you shall not have to thank me for the indulgence." 
 
 The man's face turned of a crimson colour, but still the colonel clutched him by 
 the throat, and bore him down backwards until his head touched the grass ; he 
 tightened his hold, compressing the neck with frightful violence. 
 
 The man plunged with his feet, and made a strange gurgling noise in his throat ; 
 he stretched out his nearly powerless arms, and dug his nails deep into the turf; 
 the crimson colour of his countenance turned to a purple tint; the blood was 
 coagulating in his veins, and in another moment or two the eyes became fixed and 
 glassy, and the assassin lay a corpse at the feet of his conqueror. 
 
 The colonel folded his arms and looked calmly on. He panted a little from the 
 exertion he had taken, and his hair floated in a disordered manner about his head 
 and face. 
 
 " So," he said, " I was congratulating myself upon my safety, as the altered 
 spirit of the age gave me an impunity in what I was about, which half a century 
 since I could not have congratulated myself upon, but now it seems that modern 
 invention is brought to bear upon such a subject ; and scientifically I was to be put 
 to death without disturbing the nervous sensibilities of my own, even with the 
 ordinary report of a fowling-piece." 
 
 A storm of dark and angry passions lit up his countenance for a few moments, 
 and he shook his clenched fist, as he said,— • 
 
 " I will be revenged yet; the time will come, and that quickly too, when I will 
 let her see that I am not innocuous, and that I can reach her let her be ever so 
 high placed. Yes ; I will be revenged ! And as for this poor tool of a woman's 
 angry passions, I must dispose of him somewhere until I have bethought me of 
 what steps it may be necessary for me to take in the prosecution of what now shall 
 be the first purpose of my soul — revenge!" 
 
 He glanced around him, in evident search of some place of concealment for 
 the body ; but although the hedges were thick, and the vegetation generally about 
 that spot were of the most profuse and luxuriant character, he felt that it would 
 be but a very temporary hiding of the corpse to place it anywhere very close at 
 hand. 
 
 Then suddenly he bethought him of the gravel-pit ; and that at once, to his 
 mind, seemed to possess advantages beyond anything that had as yet suggested 
 itself to him ; and he at once made up his mind that there he could deposit the 
 body of the dead man, leaving it to be inferred by any one who found him — as, 
 indeed, it might very well be, since there was no actual wound upon the person — 
 that he had come by his death in consequence of a fall down the deep declivity. 
 
 Acting upon this resolve, so hastily formed, but which was really not so easy of 
 execution, as at the first glance it would appear to be, Colonel Scott stooped to 
 raise from the ground the corpse of him who had met with so deserved a death in 
 his attempt to commit one of the foulest crimes of which human nature is capable, 
 viz., assassination. 
 
 The man was large and bulky, and it was, indeed, no easy task to move such a 
 mass of inert material, any distance however short. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 Colonel Scott was a powerful man, and had he not been such, it would have 
 been quite impossible for him, even with any amount of effort, to have moved the 
 body. 
 
 The necessity, however, of getting rid of it as quick as possible, presented itself 
 vividly to his imagination ; consequently, revolting and disagreeable as the task 
 was, he did not shrink from it ; and, although his face reddened with the effort, 
 and he tottered under his ghastly burden, the colonel, in whose conduct there was 
 so much mystery, raised the body and walked with it slowly towards the gravel-pit. 
 
 The distance altogether was not above fifty yards ; the seat is still there upon 
 which the colonel sat, and the curious in such matters may, if they choose, look 
 upon the precise spot where the assassin met his death. 
 
 There is the conservatory likewise, but no longer, as it then was, filled with 
 choice exotics and richly-cultivated specimens of horticulture. On the contrary, 
 now everything is in the sere and yellow leaf, and presents a melancholy spectacle 
 of that caprice of mere fashion which once formed it, and now deserted it. 
 
 It is now, as it was then, freely open to every casual visitor, and, as the wanderer 
 in that royal garden takes his seat amid the now ancient trees, he may look upon 
 the precise spot from whence the shot was fired at Colonel Scott, and moralise, if 
 he please, upon the circumstance which induced it. 
 
 It was a great relief for the colonel to reach the gravel-pit, and without any 
 compunction, he cast the body from his shoulder, and flung it headlong down the 
 deep declivity. 
 
 It was strange how but a short time since he had not scrupled to do the act 
 which deprived that human being of existence, and had grappled with him until 
 dead without feeling the least compunction for the act ; and now it was with a 
 shudder that he saw the body fall from point to point in the deep excavation, 
 receiving as it went frightful contusions and V.cerations from the brambles and 
 brushwood which impeded its descent. 
 
 He stood upon the brink, gazing downwards as if spell-bound, and it was not 
 until the body had reached its destination, and rolled into a hollow place, where it 
 lay so concealed among the brushwood that he even had he not watched its 
 progress, could scarcely have recognised that such a thing was there, that he turned 
 and left the place. 
 
 *f The act," he said, " was a necessary one, a frightful one I am free to admit, 
 but yet absolutely and in every way necessary ; and now, in calmness and in 
 solitude, 1 will consider of some means by which I may either have ample com- 
 pensation for what has been attempted against me or ample revenge. By Heavens, 
 1 will have one or the other ! 1 can be at no loss to discover the instigator of this 
 deed — a deed which she probably thinks is done — a deed which 1 dare not accuse 
 her of, even were the accomplice living instead of dead, but which I will make 
 come home to her own conscience yet in some manner before 1 have done with. her. 
 
 ?' Let me consider, there is a ball to-night at Marlborough House — a masked ball 
 on a scale of unequalled magnificence and splendour. She will be there, and the 
 ticket of admission which reached me as a thing of course, and which I recollect as 
 casting aside with such contempt, shall now be made available ; I will go, and if 
 she have a heart at all, I will so wring it that she shall feel more agony in a few 
 short minutes than probably her whole life before has supplied her with." 
 
 So saying, he hastily proceeded from the gardens, keeping as he went a wary 
 and a cautious eye about him to protect himself against any hidden attack from an 
 unknown quarter ; but when he got clear of the garden and in the open park, such 
 extreme caution was no longer necessary, and he hurried onward, muttering to. 
 himself, — 
 
 " Yes, yef , it shall be so ; I will meet her at the masked ball, and I will then 
 make an experiment, which, in its results, shall let me know if she really have 
 any humane feelings in her disposition. I have sometimes doubted if her whole 
 heart was not made up of selfishness and animal passions, but never before did such 
 an opportunity present itself of testing the fact." 
 
385 
 
 CHAPTER LI I. 
 
 THE COMMITTAL OF THE ROBBERS AND THE ESCAPE OP NED LYAL, WITH ITS 
 CONSEQUENCES IN A VERY HIGH QUARTER. 
 
 The mingled rage and astonishment that sat upon the countenance of Lyal 
 when he found himself thus suddenly in the clutches of the law for an act which 
 he flattered himself he had perpretrated with such great care and caution, that a 
 discovery of his! participation in it was next thing to an impossibility, transcends 
 description. 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and glared in the face of the officer with an expression 
 which induced that person to think there was more danger in his prisoner than he 
 had at first imagined, and he cried, — 
 
 * Come, come, I don't like your looks. I may be wrong, but it seems to me 
 
 No. 49. 
 
386 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 t 
 
 as if"some mischief was brewing- in your mind; so I shall take the liberty of 
 popping a pair of darbeys on you." 
 
 With professional dexterity fee put a pair of handcuffs upon Ned Lyal, and then, 
 as he facetiously said, in case the other gentleman should think himself ill-used, 
 he did the same by Francis Hay ward, who thus, for the first time in his life, found 
 himself fairly in the clutches of the law s and, to all appearance, doomed to end in 
 
 ; a very rapid and summary manner ana\ extremely short career. 
 
 The thought did come across his mind— and from what the reader knows of 
 him, it may well be supposed that his was just the sort of mind that such a 
 
 | thought would come across— to turn upon Ned Lyal, and seek his own safety in 
 full confession of all that had occurred ; but he abstained from so doing, partly 
 from fear and partly from a consideration that that was not the proper time and 
 place. Vo do it in. 
 
 - " J^id are we," said Lyal, " to be dragged through the streets in this fashion?' 
 " Oik dear no," said the officer ; you have got money. You may as well pay 
 for a d§Fach ; we don't want to walk any more than you do." 
 'y A coach was sent for, but before they left, the landlord interposed, saying, — 
 
 ' : Well, but who is to pay me my bill, 23/. 18s. 2d,? Whose to pay me my bill, 
 I want to know V* 
 
 " Why, as regards your bill," said one of the officers, u it's my candid opinion 
 . you won't get it ; for where is the money to come from— just let me know that V 
 " The money ! oh, they have got money !" 
 
 "Yes; but that's the other man's, you know, the prosecutor's. Such a trifle 
 as paying for a coach aint of much consequence; but when you come to some- 
 thing over 20/., it's quite another affair, and can't be done." 
 
 "And so," said the landlord, "all I have got, then, by interfering in the 
 matter is to lose my bill." 
 
 " Now, how can you say that," said one of the officers ; " look how you 
 forwarded the ends of public justice." 
 
 " Damn public justice! Whst's public justice to me; it's private justice I 
 want/ 
 
 " Ah ! that's what nobody never get's ; but here is the coach, so we must 
 be off." 
 
 The officers took their prisoners direct to the sitting magistrate, and after a 
 short delay, the ca?e was at once entered into. 
 
 The elderly gentleman who had been robbed in the lane was sent for, and lie 
 at once identified Francis Hayward as the individual with whom he had held the i 
 short conversation prior to the robbery. 
 
 With regard to Ned Lyal he declined to swear to his identity, as he said, and I 
 said truly, that he had se n but very little of him. 
 
 " Notwithstanding that," said the magistrate, " I have no doubt whatever in my 
 own mind but that both the prisoners were implicated in the robbery, which is cer- 
 tainly one of the most daring that has for a considerable time come under my notice. 
 If the prisoners wish to say anything, 'of course, it is my duty to hear them ; at 
 the same time they need not say anything unless they wish, for I have quite made 
 up my mind to commit them for trial." 
 
 " We have only to say that we are innocent," said Ned Lyal. " We are 
 relations ; my name is John Smith, and this young gentleman's name is William 
 Smith ; but if you have made up your mind to commit us for trial, we don't see 
 any use in taking the trouble to prove our innocence to you." 
 
 " Do you know them ?" said the magistrate to one of the officers. " This fellow- 
 speaks like an old offender." 
 
 " Which V said Ned Lyal ; <' whether it is true or not, it is a very ungenerous 
 remark, for you to make." j 
 
 The officer, who had been appealed to, replied that he thought he had seen the 
 cider prisoner before, although the younger one was unknown to him. 
 
 " Well, well," said the magistrate, "at all events, I fully commit them for trial. 
 Remove thena." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 387 
 
 This was done, and until a sufficient number of prisoners were collected to take 
 to gaol at once, they were placed in separate eells adjoining the police-office, there 
 to ruminate upon their destiny ; and as those ceils were considered quite secure, 
 the handcuffs were removed, whicii was an immense relief to Francis Hayward, 
 and made him feel as if he were almost at liberty again. 
 
 Ned Lyal had just time, as they walked out of the court together, to whisper in 
 his ear, — 
 
 "Fear nothing — I will get you safely through this affair;" and then, before 
 Hayward could make any reply, they were separated. 
 
 When Ned Lyal was placed in his cell, he asked the man who was locking him 
 up if there was any one who would take a note for him? 
 
 " Yes," was the reply, " but it will cost you half-a-crown." 
 
 <e How can I have half-a-crown when I have been searched, and every penny- 
 piece I had has been taken from me V 
 
 " Well," said the turnkey, " when a gentleman gets into that fix, and he wants 
 to send to a friend, he usually gives his waistcoat." 
 
 " Very good," said Ned Lyal, " I will give my waistcoat to any one who will 
 take a verbal message for me some distance.'' 
 
 it Very good ; I'll find you somebody." 
 
 The door of the cell was locked upon him, and then, after a time, it was opened 
 again, and a man was thrust in by the turnkey, saying, as he did so, — *! 
 
 16 Here's a cove as will take the message for you ;" and then he locked the door 
 again. This man was attired in a long brown great coat that reached to his heels. 
 His countenance expressed Jow ferocity and cunning. Over one eye he wore a 
 black shade, which was kept in its place by a piece of string going round his head. 
 He was tolerably well-known as hurrying about that police-court to carry messages 
 for prisoners. 
 
 " You want something done ?" he said to Ned Lyal. 
 
 "Yes, I do, and you seem just the sort of person to do it for me. If I had 
 hunted throughout London, 1 should not have found a more likely subject." 
 «■ What do you mean P* 
 
 " That," said Lyal ; and he gave him so territfic a blow, that he knocked him at 
 once insensible. 
 
 With amazing dexterity he then possessed himself of the man's long great coat, 
 and the black patch that covered his eyes. Putting these on, he tapped with his 
 knuckles at the cell-door, which, as a common measure of precaution, was never 
 opened but a very short distance by the turnkey, so that Ned Lyal passed out 
 without that individual observing the least glimpse of the interior of the cell. 
 
 " Have you got his message ?" said the turnkey. 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Remember, then, when you come back, 1 must have my regulars." 
 " To be sure." 
 
 In another minute Ned Lyal was free. He made the best of his way towards 
 Drury-lane ; and Francis Hayward, if he could have seen him, would have been 
 rather surprised at his local knowledge of that part of London, and the immense 
 facility with which he threaded a number of intricate courts and avenues, that 
 nothing could have enabled him to find his way among but some old intimacy 
 with them, which he brought successfully to bear upon the present occasion. 
 
 After pursuing this route for some time, he darted down a narrow entry, which 
 was profoundly dark, but the obscurity of the place did not deter him, and he went 
 onwards at great speed for some time, until he paused, and feeling careful upon 
 -the wall, he at last discovered the panneling of a door, and at this he knocked thrice 
 with his knuckles in a peculiar manner. 
 
 Almost immediately the door was opened, and a voice said, — 
 
 " Who have we now?" 
 
 " One of the old lot," said Ned Lyal — " one out of twenty-five." 
 
 tf What ! you don't say that ? Come in ; I don't know you by your voice." 
 
388 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " You will when you see my face, though. Do you remember Dick the 
 Deer ?" 
 
 w Is it possible ? Come along— you are welcome, at all events. Why, what lay 
 have you been upon that has brought you back to the old quarters? People said 
 you were dead, or gone into the country and turned honest, or something of that 
 sort ; but here you are alive and kicking. This way — turn to your left." 
 
 " Oh, you needn't tell me," said Lyal ; '< I haven't forgot the ins-and-outs of the 
 old crib, I can tell you. By d'a* or by night, I could find my way about it." 
 
 "That's ajpverv well, but we have made a few alterations since you were here. 
 Why, let mc it must be a matter of — what shall we say, — " 
 
 " Ten years." 
 
 " You are right, it must be ten years." . , 
 
 A roar of laughter came at that moment upon their ears, and then a great 
 thumping upon tables and clashing of glasses. 
 
 " Stop a bit," said Lyal, "you have got too much gompany here for me. I must 
 be off' again directly, for I have got something confoundedly particular to see to. 
 All I want of you is the means of putriug myself a little to rights, and a guinea 
 or two just to carry on the war with. I have got an affair on hand that will enable 
 me amply to repay you, so you need not be under any apprehension about it." 
 
 " Oh, as for that," said, the man, " nobody can ever say that 1 ever turned my 
 back upon an old pal, and if so be you don't want to see any old friends, follow me, 
 and I'll take you into my own place, where you won't be troubled." 
 
 Ned Lyal followed his conductor into a miserable, dingy apartment, but it 
 answered his purpose very well ; for there he was enabled, at all events, to put 
 his apparel in order, and having received the loan of a couple of guineas from his 
 old associate, he made a promise to return on the following night, or perhaps 
 earlier. He boldly went out into the public streets to execute a scheme which, 
 at first sight, appeared frightfully hazardous, but which had certainly about it the 
 great qualities of boldness and decision. 
 
 This was no other than to call at once upon Colonel Scott, and tell him of the 
 danger which Frank Hayward had fallen into, requiring „a 1'eward for himself for 
 not implicating II ay ward passed all power of extrication, a»d for taking a step 
 which he could take, that would enable the colonel, holding the rank in life which 
 he did, to interfere actively in Hayward's behalf. 
 
 But before we recount what was the consequence of this determination, we must 
 see what proceedings the colonel adopted, contingent upon the attack that had been 
 made upon him in the gardens at Kensington. 
 
 gi ■ - 
 
 CHAPTER LHI. 
 
 THE MASKED BALL AT MARLBOROUGH HOUSE. 
 
 The congregation of several petty German princes in London induced the Ger- 
 manised court of St. James's to give a masked ball at Marlborough House, which was 
 better adapted for such a purpose than the old palaeo. 
 
 This ball was to be upon the most splendid scale, and for the week or two that it 
 had been in course of preparation, the whole metropolis had rung again with reports 
 of its forthcoming grandaur, and of the great magnificence which was to cha- 
 racterise it. Masquerades at that period were beginning to be upon the decline in 
 England, because the stupid bigotry of the monarch, and the general stolidity of 
 intellect that characterised the whole royal family, prevented them from appreciating 
 or understanding any amusement whii'h was not of the most commonplace 
 description. 
 
 It was naturally, therefore, a matter of wonder that anything of the sort should 
 take place ; but certain it is that George the Third must have been talked into it 
 by somebody who happened to be the favourite at the moment. 
 
NEWGATE. 389 
 
 All the principal nobility, the foreign ambassadors, and every distinguished * 
 person of note from abroad, who happened to be visiting the country, were invited ; 
 and it was considered that the scene, for the richness and variety of the costume 
 that would be used upai the occasion, would be one of great splendour. 
 
 Moreover, we must consider that in a masked ball, got up under such auspices, 
 there would be none of those ordinary vulgarities which are generally the disgrace g 
 of such assemblages in this country, and which have tended to bring them into i 
 such well- merited disrepute. At ten o'clock, on the evening in question, the doors 
 of Marlborough House were thrown open to the guests, who soon began rapidly to 
 arrive, and to fill the spacious saloons that were thrown open for their reception. 
 
 It was well known that the whole of the royal family would attend, and as that 
 consisted of rather a large collection of princes and princesses, it gave to the minds 
 of many an immense interest in the scene, and collected a larger concourse of 
 spectators of an admiring character ; for nothing is so popular in this country as 
 for its monarch to have a large family, and, instead of that fact being au annoyance 
 on account of an additional expense to the country (for the crowned head of Great 
 Britain is the only individual within its realms who can legally shuffle off the 
 support of its offsp ring upon others), becomes quite a matter of congratulation. 
 
 In the course of Jialf an hour the line of carriages, bringing illustrious guests in 
 every variety of costume, but all masked, so that the populace could only guess 
 from the arms upon the carriages and the liveries of the servants who they were, 
 blocked up every avenue ; and, although the business of setting down the arrivals 
 was conducted as quickly as it possibly could be, yet it was quite midnight before 
 the principal guests had found their way to the saloons, and even then arrivals 
 were taking place each minute. 
 
 Each guest was received at the entrance, and had to present his or her card of 
 invitation before proceeding further ; so it was considered that there was no 
 possibility of any uninvited person intruding into that distinguished assemblage. 
 
 „ It wa^s well known that the whole of the royal family had by this time arrived ; 
 and indeed, with respect to who had come and who had not, the mob had a much 
 better opportunity of judging than those who were within the house, for the 
 servants were loquacious, and revealed the real name of many a person whose 
 disguise would have been otherwise perfect. 
 
 But now let us take a glance upon the brilliant scene itself ; and, exercising our 
 privilege of omnipresence, we will suppose ourselves within the saloons, and 
 surrounded by that gay and spirit-stirring throng. 
 
 The walls are hung with magnificent tapestry, and the floors are painted with 
 coloured chalks in rich devices and patterns, soon to be obliterated by the active 
 f«et of the dancers. 
 
 The hour is midnight, and some of the more frolicsome and inspirited dancers 
 have succeeded the solemn tom-foolery of- the minuet. Gay strains of music are 
 floating on the air, plumes are waving, and jewels glancing in every direction. 
 
 There are little anti-chambers immediately adjoining the large saloon, and the 
 entrance to each of these is covered with a rich and massive velvet curtain ; for 
 refreshments are laid there which any one of the guests can go in privately and 
 partake of—a plan which was considered better, and which, to all intents and 
 purposes, certainly was better than any formal repast, which is always a world of 
 trouble and annoyance, and at which those guests in a large assemblage who ara 
 not kble to join in a general scramble, get nothing. 
 
 It was not intended, however, although it turned out to be the case, to the 
 great annoyance of her Majesty Queen Charlotte, of snuff-taking notoriety, that 
 these little rooms should be made use of for whispered consultations, and such 
 murmured love speeches as enamoured cavaliers were delighted to whisper to the 
 ears of beauty. 
 
 But such was the case, and, doubtless, many a mask was removed from before 
 many a fair countenance in those little apartments, which were hidden from the 
 general ©bservation by the massive velvet curtain that shrouded their entrance. 
 
 A small ceiling lamp hung in each of these little rooms, shedding a soft and 
 
390 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 subdued light throughout its limited extent ; and it is to one of them that we now 
 wish to direct the attention of the reader. 
 
 At about ten minutes past twelve o'clock, a masked figure, in a military costume, 
 addressed a lady, attired in a gorgeous eastern dress, resplendent with jewels. 
 
 He spoke to her in a feigned tone of voice, which completely baffled her 
 endeavours to discover who it was that addressed her/ 
 
 " I have something," he said, "for your private ear, if you will step into one of 
 the refreshment rooms for a moment." 
 
 " That is impossible," she said, f* for you do not know me;* 
 
 " I do know you ; you are " 
 
 He whispered some few words in her ear, and she started slightly as she said, — 
 **' Well, I cannot deny it ; but I must confess, 1 thought myself better disguised 
 than I am." 
 
 " Oh, it is quite impossible," said the stranger, speaking in a strong, lisping tone, 
 " it is quite impossible effectually to disguise so much grace and dignity, and 
 beauty." 
 
 " Indeed," she replied, in a tone which sufficiently showed that the honeyed 
 words were not thrown away upon her. 
 
 " Yes," he continued, " to my eyes, the moment I entered these^ty saloons, 
 and looked around upon this gay and impressive throng, you became the object of 
 attraction. I came solely upon your account, for had I not been certain you 
 were here, my card of invitation would have been unused." 
 
 "Since you hare penetrated my disguise, 1 think, in common gallantry, you 
 ought to put an end to yours." 
 
 " Lady, I wish to do so. I pant for an opportunity of doing so, and it is that 
 I may remove this mask, and show you who I am, that I ask you to withdraw with 
 me into one of these small refreshment rooms at once." 
 
 " I do not see why I need hesitate." 
 
 " Nor I ; for since I have been in the ball-rooms, I perceive that there is a sort 
 of tacid understanding among the guests to the effect, that when a lady and gentle- 
 man are occupying one of those apartments, they are not to be intruded upon ; 
 therefore, you will have time to hear the secret I have to tell you without the 
 likelihood of an interruption." 
 
 " So you have a secret, likewise. I presume I must hear it, and the mere fact 
 of your being here an invited guest is of course sufficient to remove any feeling of 
 impropriety in my conversing with you." 
 
 " Oh, most certainly, most certainly, madam. Pray, accept my arm, I perceive 
 that an Hungarian noblemen, and another fair princess of the east, have just left 
 one of the refreshment rooms — this way — this way." 
 
 The lady accompanied him, and, moving aside the velvet curtain that hid the 
 entrance to one of these small chambers, they at once entered it." 
 
 A table occupied the centre, around which were several stool?, covered with 
 crimson velvet, the legs of which were richly carved in gilt, and such, with the 
 exception of the lamp that hung suspended from the cealing, constituted the whole 
 furniture of the place. 
 
 "I know not how sufficiently to thank you," said the mask, "for this con- 
 descension. I told you, that had it not been for a conviction that you were here, 
 I should not have used my card of invitation, and that is strictly true. I told yon, 
 likewise, that I knew you by your grace and beauty, and that is strictly false, for 
 to my mind you have neither the one nor the other; and now, madam, you know 
 who I am." 
 
 He took off the mask as he spoke, and exhibited the features of Colonel Scott. 
 The lady started, and shrank back a pace or two, as she exclaimed, — 
 " This is most, unpardonable insolence." 
 
 *• I do not ask your pardon for it. I have come to tell you something, and I 
 I will tell it you. I shall soon bid adieu to England for ever, for I have no tie. to 
 j bind me to it, Francis Hay ward is no more." 
 
 " No more — dead mean you ?" 
 
NEWGxlTE. 
 
 S9l 
 
 i* Yes, a melancholy accident." 
 
 She sank upon one of the velvet stools, and, removing her mask, exhibited a 
 countenance of ashy paleness. 
 
 "Is it possible V* he said. " Can you feel? — wonders will never cease." 
 " Dead !" she said — *■ I did not think of that — Francis Hayward dead. Well, 
 I cannot help it if he is dead." 
 
 " You shall be the best judge yourself whether you could have helped it or not. 
 Listen. Yon wrote me a note bidding me wait for you at the old seat in Kensing- 
 ton-gardens, where we have met before, and where some pleasant and some angry 
 words have passed between us. But that is no matter. I took Francis Hay ward 
 with me " 
 
 " You took him with you ! Then it was you enticed him from his school ? 
 
 * Oh ! you are aware, are you, that he has left Littleton Academy ?" 
 <C I am. Go on, go on with what you have to tell." 
 
 * Oh. fear not, you shall know all. I would not have you lose a word of it for 
 thousands. I kept the appointment you proposed, but, intending to bring affairs 
 to an absolute conclusion with you, I took Francis Hayward with me, and after 
 waiting an -hour or more, without your coming, I left the gardens to procure 
 some refreshment, and walked into the village of Bayswater." 
 
 " Be quick," she cried, " be quick. Do not tantalise me, but tell me your tale 
 at once."" 
 
 " Oh, you are tantalised, are you ? that is well, that exceeds my expectations. 
 I am delighted to find you tantalised. I do begin to think you are more human 
 than I took you to be. I wonder now if any faint idea of what I have to tell crosses 
 your imagination ?" 
 
 " Will you speak, or will you not ? tell me at once that which you have to relate, 
 ! or I will wait no longer.'' 
 
 ! " You will wait, for you are absolutely spell-bound by what I have already told 
 ' you; and your deep anxiety to know all is such, that were I to keep you here an 
 
 hour listening in suspense, you would wait rather than not hear everything I have 
 
 to relate to you." 
 
 She did not speak, but, ps he glanced upon her face/he saw that drops of mortal 
 agony stood upon her brow. He stood before her, and folded his arms across hi* 
 , breast, while it was evident that he deeply enjoyed the misery he was inflicting. It 
 might be, after all, but an act of retribution, but if it weie so, it was an exceeding 
 cruel one, and one which scarcely any circumstances could justify. 
 
 f< Yes," he said, ** I will tell you all. I was about half an "hour gone at the 
 utmost limit, certainly not more than half an hour, and when I returned " 
 
 "Yes, yes, when you returned." 
 
 "You are extremely impatient. When I returned, I found Francis Hoy wainl 
 weltering in his blood, and a corpse. A bullet had entered his brain. An assassin 
 had done his work too well, and the death intended for another." 
 
 " No, no, no, it cannot be." 
 
 u But I say it is, and you know that you are the murderess of your own offspring . 
 Let his death lie heavy on your soul, for there it is where it will lay. And norv 
 you know well what your own evil and desperate passions have brought you to. 
 Murderess, I repeat it, for that is your proper designation, you are a 
 murderess, and you cannot escape hereafter, although you may here, in conse- j 
 quence' of the peculiarity of your position^ the proper punishment for your 
 offence." 
 
 She sat for a few moments as though she had" been changed to stone. Her 
 features looked perfectly stiff and rigid, then a slight tremor .shook her frame, 
 and, without uttering a word, she fell senseless upon the floor of that li ttle 
 apartment. 
 
 "This is revenge indeed," said Colonel Scott, as he replaced Ms mask ; and drawing 
 aside the velvet curtain, passed out of the small apartment, and mingled again 
 with the guests in the saloon. 
 
oh NEWGATE. " 
 
 1 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 THE COMMUNICATION OF i^D LYAL AND ITS RESULTS. 
 
 If the lady, who had thus sunk down in a state of insensibility in one of the small 
 antechambers of Marlborough House, had uttered ever so slight a cry, initead of 
 dropping so silently into insensibility, she must have heen heard by the guests, but 
 as it was, no one suspected that any .such circumstance had occurred, and Colonel 
 Scott succeeded fully in making his way through the densly crowded saloons towards 
 the dooT, without any one suspecting that a circumstance had taken place, which, 
 if it had been known, would certainly have hazarded his liberty. 
 
 But he knew that not for long could the secret be kept. He was perfectly well 
 aware, from the rapidity with which the parties were continually proceeding to the 
 refreshment rooms, that what had occurred in one of them would soon become 
 known. 
 
 When he joined to this, the probability that some one among the throng might 
 have seen him enter the little room with the lady in the eastern costume, he felt 
 that it behoved him to be extremely careful, and that his best safety lay in getting 
 away as quickly as he possibly could. 
 
 This he effected by slowly and insidiously making progress towards the door, 
 which he reached in the course of about ten minutes, and putting his mask into 
 his pocket in the cloak-room that was below, and wrapping around him an ample 
 military mantle that he had brought with him, he passed out into the court-yard 
 of Marlborough House. 
 
 He was well satisfied with what he had done, for not only was it gratifying to 
 his feelings to have succeeded in producing such an amount of alarm, in the breast 
 off her whom he so much disliked, but he had ascertained the fact, of which bet'ore 
 he certainly could not be quite sure of, viz., that she was ignorant of where Francis 
 Hayward was to be found, and had had no part, in his abduction from the school. 
 
 He walked across the court-yard, congratulating himself on what certainty might 
 be called his success, because he had succeeded in doing what he proposed to 
 himself, viz., the getting a dreadlul sensation of alarm in the mind of that 
 female towards whom he evidently had such malignant feelings, whether they wore 
 justified or not. 
 
 He had not emerged, however, many paces into Pall Mall, when some one 
 teuched him on the arm, and upon immediately turning, he to his surprise saw his 
 mysterious visitor whom he had sent his valet to follow, and who had announced 
 himself to be in possession of the secret concerning Francis Hayward's place of 
 •concealment. 
 
 " You here?" exclaimed the colonel. " Dare you show your face again to me?" 
 
 "Yes. I have some important news for you, which I now will tell you, 
 leaving it to yourself to name the price afterwards of the service which 1 am 
 about to render." 
 
 " It is of Francis Hayward you come to speak V 
 
 "It is. He has committed a highway robbery, and is at present committed to 
 take his trial for the offence." 
 " Committed for trial— felon ?" 
 
 *\ Yes ; you feel that acutely on account of his near connection with you." 
 " What near connection ? I do not understand you." 
 
 <c You do, perfectly ; you are Ins father ; you eannot conceal the fact from 
 me ; it is too evident to me from a variety of circumstances. I can, and will take 
 measures to save him, if you make it worth my while so to do ; but if you do not, 
 you cannot expect me, since it cannot matter to me what becomes of him. You 
 know perfectly well that his crime is one against property, which the bigoted 
 monarch never excuses. His fate is certain death at the hands of the executioner, 
 unless you can interfere to save him." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 393 
 
 " And how am I to believe that you can do anything to aid in preserving him 
 from such a doom"? 
 
 " And his tempter?" 
 
 "Call it such, if you please — it matters not to me ; but if you know anything 
 of him, you ought to feel and know that it required but a small amount of temp- 
 tation indeed to make him." 
 
 '* But still I cannot perceive how it is in your power to save him." 
 
 H It is not in my power absolutely to save him, but I can do much towards 
 criminating him. That is a fact of which you ought to be well aware ; and le. 
 
 No. 50. 
 
394 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 your personal interest be what it may, you will find that you require some excuse 
 in exerting it in his favour, and that excuse may be a declaration on my part of 
 his perfect innocence." 
 
 " Which no one will believe." 
 
 " That don't matter a jot; all that you will require is an excuse for interference 
 ; — I will give you that, or I will do just the reverse." 
 " How mean you V* 
 
 " I will throw the whole burden of guilt upon his shoulders — I will declare that 
 he, and he only, did the deed; and detail with such circumstantiality how he did 
 it, that there shall not be a doubt of his guilt, and he must take all the conse- 
 quences of the crime." 
 
 " What if I give you now in custody?" 
 
 " Try it. In the first place it would be difficult, because I should escape you; | 
 and in the second, if you succeeded, it should be to the utter destruction of Francis 
 Hay ward. If you look in the public reports, you will see that under the name of 
 William Smith he has been committed for trial along with myself, so that nothing 
 can save him but the plan I have pointed out to you." 
 
 " And that is of the most doubtful character as regards success, unless you will 
 come forward and take the onus of the offence upon you." 
 
 t " No, colonel; I am willing to do much for money, but I don't know of any 
 price that will pay a man for being hung, so you must excuse me there most posi- 
 tively. You do not seem to understand my proposition. If you are in such a 
 position, or on intimate terms with any one who is, as to able to ask the Secretary 
 of State a favour, all you want is somt rational excuse. That I will furnish you 
 with by declaring Hayward's innocence ; and I will get up some evidence tending 
 to prove that he was positively somewhere else at the time the robbery was 
 committed." 
 
 " And what is to prevent me doing this without you V 
 
 " Because 1 will oppose your intention, and positively prove that he did 
 commit it." 
 
 " And what may be your price for this serviee ?" 
 " A thousand pounds." 
 
 '* I will consider ; and if you will call upon me in the morning, I will let you 
 know the result. Let me see you about eleven." 
 " Farewell ! I shall be punctual * < 
 
 The colonel looked after the retreating figure of Ned Lyal, and then strolled 
 homeward, immersed in deep thought. 
 
 " And has it come to this," he said, "that any child of mine should die a felon's 
 death ? How can I save him ? I have not a shadow of interest, and as well might 
 I be asked for a million, as for a thousand pounds ; I cannot do it — but still surely 
 I most make some effort. After what has passed, can I speak to his mother upon 
 the subject 1 — dare I take to her such a piece of intelligence, so close upon the 
 strange interview that we have had, and so immediately succeeding the desperate 
 attempt she made upon my life V* 
 
 He paused a moment and seemed upon the point of returning to Marlborough 
 House, but then again he faltered in his determination, and again walked towards 
 his own lodgings, quite unable to come to any positive conclusion. 
 
 But each moment the anxiety of his mind was increasing, and the more he 
 thought upon the subject, in the more frightful colours did it appear to him that 
 any one who could claim so close affinity as a child, should suffer so ignominious a 
 death ; and then, too, he could have no hope of escaping the stigma, for what was 
 there to prevent it from being known that the criminal who was to be executed 
 under the name of William Smith, was really a son of Colonel Douglas George 
 Scott, the commander of a distinguished regiment of light cavalry % 
 
 A secret of that description, if known to one person, might as well be know to 
 all the world, for what was to hinder that one person from proclaiming it ? 
 
 And then, again, would not the death of Francis Hay ward at once dissolve all ties 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 395 
 
 between him and the mother ? What hold could he hope to have upon her, after 
 such an event? — certainly none whatever. 
 
 These considerations, accompanied, perhaps, by some bitter feelings, gave him 
 the most acute uneasiness, implanting daggers in his breast, so that it is probable 
 that, according to his habit and modes of thought, he suffered to the full as much as 
 did the guilty woman who fainted in the refreshment-room of Marlborough House, 
 where she was led to believe that the assassin she had hired had murdered 
 Francis Hay ward instead of the Colonel. 
 
 • * * * 
 
 And now, while both these guilty people are suffering such well-merited retribu- 
 tion, we will leave them to plot and plan as they can, and take a glance at Francis 
 Hayward as he passes his time in Newgate, to such place as a prisoner committed 
 for trial was removed. 
 
 The sessions were on ; and he was told that in all probability he would be tried 
 on the next day, because it was a Friday, and in order that, if he were found 
 guilty, he might be hanged without further trouble on the succeeding Monday. 
 
 This is not, however, immediately after the events we have related ; the reader 
 must suppose some time to have elapsed, and that Francis Hayward has been 
 sufficiently long in Newgate to have lost all his youthful strength and vigour, aiad 
 all the freshness of appearance, that he brought with him from the academy at 
 Littleton. 
 
 And there he was, in a ward devoted to untried prisoners, crouched in a corner, 
 with his head buried beneath his knees, and giving way to the most dismal 
 thoughts and feelings that could possibly possess him. 
 
 A more miserable object than he presented could not very well have been seen. 
 He paid no attention to the wild riot that was going on around him — for at that ; 
 period the discipline of Newgate was in a lamentably inefficient state, and the i 
 different wards of the prison exhibited not unfrequently scenes of the wildest riot f 
 and confusion, differing most largely from the orderly and quiet manner in which } 
 things are now conducted. 
 
 His thoughts were far away ; and oh ! how gladly would he have exchanged his »! 
 present gloomy and wretched situation for the green fields, and pleasant streams of | 
 Littleton ! ! 
 
 Heaven knows Francis Hayward had very little poetry in his composition, but 
 if ever in his life he did look back with a yearning fondness for the beauties of 
 inanimate nature, he did now, when he saw nothing but the dismal walls of New- 
 gate, and breathed nothing but the pent-up atmosphere that dwelt within them. 
 
 On this evening, too, of all others, he seemed completely to have broken down, \ 
 and to feel himself most thoroughly and entirely alone. 
 
 He had heard, of course, of the escape of Ned Lyal, and that had given him a . 
 severe shock, — such a shock as some one might suppose to receive upon some 
 desolate waste, when no other companion but one was to be found, and that one is j 
 suddenly snatched away by some fell decree of fate. 
 
 0 What will become of me?" he said. " I don't know who I am — I don't know 
 who to apply to. Here I am, penniless and friendless, with no means of getting 
 the leas succour ; 1 am deserted by Ned Lyal ; everybody tells me I shall be 
 hung. Curse everybody ! I wish I could do something that would give me 
 revenge, and then I should not mind what became of me. 
 
 His sulky manner and harsh replies had long since repulsed any advances on 
 the part of his fellow- prisoners, although such conduct on his part had by no 
 means the effect of repressing some practical jests which were sometimes of a 
 serious character. 
 
 All that, however, he was compelled to put up with, and the only thing at \Wt 
 that engaged his mind on that evening was, that he would take the first opportunity 
 of detailing the whole circumstances and implicating Ned Lyal as far as he could, 
 as well as giving all the information in his power to enable the authorities to 
 arrest him. 
 
 This was a thing, of course, which he could have done at any time ; but hae he 
 ' 
 
 I : 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 lingered thus up to the last moment with an expectation that he should hear 
 something from Lyal, and that, at all events, some effort would be made to save 
 him. 
 
 But this hope now was nearly extinguished ; and, as might be expected, the next 
 thing that filled such a mind was, a strong and earnest desire for vengeance. 
 
 It was full of such feelings that he retired to rest on that night in Newgate. 
 
 On the following morning he was again assured that his trial would take place, 
 and the thought occurred to him that he had better at once make his confession ; 
 but still he lingered and clung with a tenacity the circumstances did not at all 
 warrant, to the faint hope that he might be acquitted. 
 
 Then he thought that surely it would be time enough afterwards, and that 
 after all there was no use in bespeaking a condemnation, by any confession of his 
 own. 
 
 " No," he said, " I will wait till after the trial, and if I should have the good 
 fortune to escape, as I hear it sometimes so happens in the clearest cases, by a 
 rare combination of circumstances, all will be well ; but if I am convicted, I will 
 endeavour, by impeaching my confederate, to procure something like consideration 
 for myself." 
 
 With this determination he waited anxiously — ay, most anxiously — for the 
 hour to come round when he expected to be summoned to the court, and he was 
 not disappointed, for at about ten o'clock a turnkey came to him, and taking him 
 by the arm, led him through a number of winding passages into the criminal 
 court. 
 
 He shrank back as he reached the dock, and found so many eyes fixed upon 
 him — it was but for a moment, however, that he did so shrink — and then, his natural 
 audacity returning to him, he looked around him with a confidence and boldness 
 which had a favourable effect upon some who looked upon him, but a decidedly 
 unfavourable one upon by far the greater number.' 
 
 The usual formalities were gone through, upon which we need not waste the 
 time of the reader. The prosecution had so clear a case, that a defence, although 
 it was attempted, gratuitously, by one of the counsel, could be but a mere farce ; 
 and then the judge summed up so strongly against the prisoner that every one 
 looked upon him as doomed. 
 
 " If, gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, "you can bring yourselves to 
 believe that the prosecutor was not robbed at all ; or, that being robbed, he could 
 have no sort of appreciation of the person who so robbed him, you can give the 
 prisoner the benefit of such a belief. If, however, you believe the evidence of the 
 witnesses who have been brought forward — and for ray part I cannot perceive 
 that the slightest stain can be thrown upon their judgment or their character — 
 the conviction of the prisoner seems to follow as a thing of course, and I only 
 deeply regret to see one so young in years occupying so painful a position. 
 
 " You have all heard, gentlemen, that the prisoner had an accomplice, and that 
 that accomplice escaped in the most daring and unexampled manner from one of 
 the cells attached to Bow-street police-office. It is to be earnestly hoped, that 
 this accomplice will be speedily brought 10 justice, and with these remarks, 
 gentlemen, I leave the case entirely in your hands." 
 
 The jury did not even turn round. There was a murmured whisper among 
 them for a few moments, and then the foreman inclined his head to the clerk of 
 the arraigns, which signified that they had agreed upon their verdict in the case 
 before them. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury," he said, " do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty 
 or not guilty of the capital offence of highway robbery, with which he stands 
 charged 1" 
 
 " Guilty," said the foreman. 
 
 The verdict was received with the greatest apathy by the court and the spectators, 
 because they had been kept in no suspense whatever about it, for every one knew 
 perfectly well what it would be, and Hayward could not say that he was taken by 
 surprise, for after the judge's address, what could he expect but such a result ? 
 
 , , , ,. . ,, , , ■ , , , Ill M .» . J - 1 . ' «J'U««BM»ll, M J»M» l l. J I II ■■ m i 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 397 
 
 and now he felt that his time was come to make a full confession, and he said 
 aloud, — 
 
 *' I will confess who my associate is, and will give such information as to 
 where he may be found, to enable him to be brought justice." 
 
 " That may be done," said the judge, " but not at this juncture. It is now my 
 duty to pass sentence of death upon you according to law, and to impress upon you 
 the fact that such sentence will be carried into execution, for the legislature is de- 
 termined to suppress these violent deeds. The sentence of the court is, that you 
 be removed to the place from whence you came, and that, within forty-eight hours 
 from this time, you be taken from thence to the place of public execution, and there 
 hung by the neck until you be dead, and may the Lord have mercy upon your 
 soul ! Remove the prisoner." 
 
 Before, however, this could be accomplished there arose such a disturbance in 
 the court, that all eyes were directed towards the spot from whence it proceeded, 
 and then two men were seen fiercely struggling together. 
 
 One of them was of gentlemanly and aristocratic appearance : he had coal-black 
 hair and moustachios of the same hue, while the other was a tall, wiry-looking man, 
 over whose natural hair was a wig of another colour, which was partially displaced 
 in the struggle that had ensued. 
 
 " Part them," cried the judge, " and secure each of them." 
 
 Half-a-dozen officers flung themselves upon the struggling men, and even then 
 they were with difficulty separated, but when they were so, Francis Hayward called 
 out in a loud, shrieking voice from the dock, — 
 
 Seize him, seize him. Do not let him escape. I denounce that man — he is 
 Ned Lyal, my accomplice in the robbery !" 
 
 "Which, which?" said the judge. 
 
 "That one, that one— the one without the moustachios." 
 
 " Yes," cried Ned Lyal, for it was indeed he, " it's no use denying it ; I am the 
 man. But Francis Haywood, allow me to introduce you to your father. This 
 gentleman, Colonel Douglas Geo' ge Scott, is your father ; if be had left me alone, 
 I should have left him alone. I fancy curiosity brought us both here ; and, damn 
 him ! let him have the disgrace now of knowing that his son will be hung.' 
 
 " It's false spoken, I tell you," cried Colonel Scott ; "I am not ; no, no, I 
 am not." 
 
 " Father/' shrieked Haywood, " even at this awful moment, do not disown me ; 
 speak to me ; look upon me." 
 
 He stretched out his arms, and the crowd made a narrow passage between him 
 and the colonel. The latter hesitated for a moment, — he clasped his hands, while 
 a world of agony seemed depicted upon his countenance, and then, rushing forward, 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " I deny it no longer. I cannot, I dare not deny it. I am your most unhappy 
 father." 
 
 Overcome by emotion, he dropped before he reached the dock, and lay insensible 
 for a moment or two upon the floor, from whence he was picked up by the officers,, 
 while for the first time in his life something like genuine emotion was visible upon 
 the countenance of Francis Hayward. 
 
 GHAPTER LV. 
 
 THE APPEAL. 
 
 As might naturally be expected, the circumstances which we have now recorded 
 created an immense sensation in the metropolis, filling the public mind with 
 wonder, and giving rise to so many strange and out-of-the-way conjectures that it 
 was quite amusing to hear them reported from mouth to mouth. 
 
398 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 But as yet how scanty was the real information that anybody possessed upon the 
 subject! Of course it was admitted that he was a natural son of Colonel Scott's, 
 but beyond that nothing was known, and upon him the disgrace and the annoyance 
 of the whole affair rested. 
 
 The judge had immediately himself committed Ned Lyal, and he ordered the 
 colonel to be taken to a private room, where he had a conversation with him of 
 nearly half an hour's duration, and it was remarked, when he returned to court, 
 that no one had ever seen him wear so intensely serious an aspect. At times, too, 
 he seemed quite abstracted, and there can be no question but that the court broke 
 up at a much earlier hour than usual, for some purpose or another. 
 
 That night, between eleven and twelve, a stranger presented himself at Newgate, 
 showing an order from the judge, to see Francis Hayward, and he was recognised 
 by some of the turnkeys and officers to be Colonel Scott. They conducted him to 
 the condemned cell in which Francis Hayward lay, where he remained one hour 
 with the unhappy prisoner. 
 
 What passed between the father and son during that hour is known only to 
 themselves and to Heaven. When the colonel left he was of an asny paleness, and 
 it was with tottering steps that he traversed the passages of the prison from the 
 condemned cell to the outer gate ; and then he departed, walking more like a man' 
 who was in a dream than one who knew really what he was about and was playing 
 the part of a rational human being. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The Sunday came, but it brought with it no news for Francis Hayward of 
 a mitigation of his punishment ; although, by his manner to the turnkey and 
 others, who communicated with him, they were all led to believe that he had some 
 strong notion concerning his safety, but what that notion arose from, or upon what 
 unexpected succour he calculated upon, they could not get him to tell. 
 
 The day declined into evening, and still there came no news to Newgate which 
 gave the slightest colour to the anticipation of Francis Hayward ; then they saw 
 that, he began to wear an anxious expression of countenance ; and at eight o'clock 
 there came a note addressed to him, which, as usual, was opened by the governor 
 before being delivered to the prisoner, to see if it contained anything objectionable. 
 
 This could not be very well the case with the note addressed to Francis Hay- 
 ward, for it contained but one word, and that was the word Inexorable. 
 
 When he read it he uttered a shriek, which sufficiently proclaimed that it was the 
 knell of his hopes, and after that he lay in a kind of stupor for a long time, taking 
 
 no notice of anything or of anybody. 
 
 * * * * - 
 
 About an hour before that note came to Newgate, there sat in a splendid apart, 
 ment in the palace of St. James, a man a little past the middle of life. 
 
 His complexion was ruddy, and looked inclined to be a little bloated. He was 
 plainly attired, and there was a remarkable air of obstinate idiocy upon his coun- 
 tenance, as he turned over some papers that were before him, and kept now and , 
 then muttering to himself, 
 
 " What, what, what? oh, no ! oh, no ! can't think of il. What, what, what?" 
 
 Who could this man possibly be, who seemed the only thing out of place amid 
 all the magnificence and grandeur around. 
 
 Presently a female enters the apartment. She approaches the man, and looking 
 in his face with what she intends should be a winning smile, but which is dread- 
 fully marred by evident great emotion, she speaks. 
 
 " I have come to ask a great favour, but still I am sure it is one you will grant 
 to me ; it is such a trifle for you to do — such a mere trifle." 
 
 "Eh, what?" said the man. " What's a trifle ? what's a trifle ? Money, I 
 suppose. Haven't got any, always money's wanted. There's George, no end of 
 money." 
 
 "No, it is not money. All that I want you to do is to save a life." 
 " Save a life ! save a life ! How much will it cost P 
 < L Nothing, absolutely nothing ; not a fraction." 
 
NEWGAT^. 
 
 399 
 
 " Oh, oh ! Well, there's something in that. Don't like anything that costs 
 anything." Nothing but money wanted by everybody. Quite a universal cry." 
 
 " Yes, it is too universal ; but this costs literally nothing, and is a great act 
 likewise of mercy." 
 
 u Mercy, mercy, mercy ! What do you mean ? Don't know what you mean, by 
 mercy. Very much afraid it will cost something." 
 
 ** I assure you, it will not, and ail that you are asked or wished to do, is to 
 pardon condemned man." 
 
 " What, what, what ?" 
 i " There is a mere youth, quite a boy in fact, condemned to deatli for a trivial 
 offence — a trifling robbery." 
 
 " What, trivial offence!" Call robbery a trivial offence? How should you 
 like to be robbed? Somebody been taking somebody else's money. Worst thing 
 they can possibly do." 
 
 " But he is so young." 
 
 " Glad to hear it. Good thing they have caught him so soon." 
 " But he may reform, if spared." 
 
 " And then, again, he may not. He will go and take somebody else's money ; 
 should think myself bound to pay it if he did, because I let him off, and gave him 
 the opportunity ; at least I would owe it ; , George owes everybody something. 
 Don't see why I shouldn't." 
 
 u But you will spare this man. You will extend mercy towards him out of 
 mercy to me. I ask it of you apart from all consideration of the case, as a personal 
 favour, I ask you to let this man go." 
 
 " Can't do it, can't do it. Must hang these fellows, nothing like hanging. 
 Honest men wouldn't sleep in their beds if it was not for hanging these fellows." 
 
 " I implore you." 
 
 " Can't do it, can't do it. Can't think of such a thing." 
 " I entreat you, on my knees I entreat you." 
 She flung herself at his feet, and clung to his arm. 
 " What, what, what, what's the meaning of all this?" 
 
 *' Pardon him, pardon him— this mere youth, this boy, who will live to do better 
 things ; yet do not take his life, while he is yet so young. I know his father 
 and his mother, so I pray you pardon him ; it is but a word, and it is done. Be 
 merciful, if only for me. Spare a criminal for experiment's sake, and see what he 
 will do, and what will become of it. You perceive that I am on my knees to you, 
 imploring you to spare him." 
 
 " I won't." 
 
 With a shriek the female fell backwards, senseless. She knew that the irrevo- 
 cable fiat had gone for! h,' and that further entreaty would only beget further obstinacy 
 Francis Hayward's doom was fixed. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION OF THE TALE OF FRANCIS HAYWARD. 
 
 It is seven o'clock on the Monday morning succeeding those events which we 
 have recorded, and the appearance of death stands gloomily in the front of Newgate, 
 lhe usual crowd assembled for the spectacle of a fellow-creature condemned to 
 death, had then, as it has now, great attractions, and always assembled together a 
 great multitude to witness it. 
 
 This was a multitude that looked on with different feelings. There were some, 
 we can not help thinking, who actually were fond of ^exhibition of suffering, and 
 exulted in torment, but let us, for the honour of human nature, believe that these 
 were very few, and that it was a morbid kind of curiosity and love of excitement, 
 that brought together by far the greater number. 
 
400 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 No less a number than three human beings were on that awful morning to b 
 brought out to die. 
 
 Two of them were men versed in crime — men who had carried on a long career of 
 most desperate iniquity — men who had looked forward for many a year, for that 
 termination of their offences, and who, with blunted feelings and brutalised in- 
 tellects, were prepared, with a desperate and dogged sort of firmness, to come to the 
 scaffold. 
 
 But the other person, for whom those awful preparations had been made, was a 
 mere boy, and it was known and understood perfectly that he was about to suffer 
 for the first offence. 
 
 It was Francis Haywani, called in the brief chronicles of the time, and in the 
 ribald trash which was sung and recorded of him, Frank Hayward, the footpad, 
 although, as we know, his exploits in that capacity had not exceeded one, although 
 that oue, in its solitary iniquity was just as bad as it could be. 
 
 It seemed to be known, so that great exertions had been made to save this lad 
 from execution, but that the obstinacy of the monarch had overcome everything 
 that could be urged in his favour, and so he was left to die. 
 
 It is half-past seven, and all who have risen that morning with a determination 
 to be present at the execution, are upon the spot. 
 
 And so dense an assemblage, crowding up every avenue, filling, almost to suffoca- 
 tion, every door-step, and spreading far away in all directions to the utmost limit, 
 where a view of the preparations of death could be obtained, had not been seen 
 there for many a day. There is nothing like a little mystery to urge on a crowd, 
 and the press had dealt in obscure hints for the last day. or two, concerning the 
 criminal Hayward. 
 
 From what quarter, or in what way, such strange and obscure pieces of informa- 
 tion had reached the metropolitan papers, no one knew, but certain it is that 
 there was a knowledge, or a presumed knowledge among the people, that there was 
 some mystery connected with the lad named Hayward, who was on that morning 
 to meet his death. 
 
 This circumstance had, no doubt, contributed greatly to swell the concours o of 
 persons, and probably, by some, it might be expected that something; would o cur 
 of a gratifying nature, oa a3eount of its strangeness before the proceedings oi the 
 morning were concluded. 
 
 And now it wants but five minutes to the hour, which long custom has sin- led 
 out to be one at which human beings should be judiciously put to death. Expec- 
 tation is upon tip-toe, and every eye is fixed intently upon the door from whe >ce 
 the official persons connected with the ceremony of death, as well as the wretc'.ed 
 individuals doomed to sutler, were to appear. 
 
 And after all, let them be as hardened as they may, how fearful, how terrific 
 must be the thoughts! of those men who know that but five fleeting minutes' short 
 duration of time, which they have so «ften laughed away in the wild frivolity 
 of their career, stand between them and eternity. 
 
 There never could be, there never was anything human so thoroughly hardened, 
 so entirely and completely dead to all reflection, but must feel in all their frightful 
 realities pangs, at such a time, of the most terrific description. 
 
 And now half of that period is gone, there wants but two minutes and a half 
 of mortal time ere those men tread upon the unknown shores of another world. 
 
 A small door opens in Newgate which conducts to the scaffold, and the head of 
 the procession makes its appearance. Three or four persons precede the doomed 
 men, and then they make their appearance in the full light of day to take their 
 last look of the world, which their fellows have decreed them to be too bad longer 
 to live in. 
 
 The two men looked sullen and resigned, but many who looked upon the face 
 of Francis Hayward declared that it haunted them in dreams afterwards, and 
 that it was many a month before they could forget it. 
 
 The expression that he wore was one of absolute despair, joined to the most 
 frigfjtful fear that could possibly oppress him. At moments, too, he seemed 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 401 
 
 as if he were walking in some frightful dream, and doubted the dread reality of 
 what was around him. 
 
 His eye had a wild and unsettled look: now he would glance upon the people, and 
 then he would look upward to the sky, and then upon the buildings around him, 
 and once he turned completely, and looked at the frowning walls of Newgate, as if 
 to make certain that it was that building from which he had been brought to die. 
 
 _ There seemed to be some lingering on the part of the officials, as if there was a 
 dim expectation of something taking place that would alter the aspect of affairs 
 and never in the memory of any one who had been in the habit of attending execu- 
 tions, was there so much delay in the preliminary steps as upon this occasion. 
 What could they be waiting for? was the general inquiry and then some one 
 started the idea that even at the last moment a reprieve was expected for Francis 
 Hayward, and that this was the reason why the sheriff protracted the proceedings 
 to the last moment. r 
 
 No, 51, 
 
402 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 But hark ! the clock of St. Sepulchre's church strikes eight, and the other two 
 Criminals owe another moment's existence to the expectations of the authorities of 
 Newgate, that a pardon would come for Francis Hayward. 
 
 " But now they can delay no longer. It is clear that the law must be carried 
 into effect — all hope has passed away, the signal is given, and in lieu of three 
 living forms gazing upon the multitude, three livid corpses swing idly in the 
 morning air. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Let us look into the bed-chamber of Colonel Scott. He has not risen. It is not 
 unusual for him to be late in leaving his bed, but he is generally awake, requiring 
 refreshment, and his valet has become surprised that his hell has not been rung to 
 summon him. 
 
 He has stolen into the room on tip-toe several times, and he has heard the 
 deep breathing of his master as he still sleeps. This is gone on until ten 
 o'clock in the day, and still the colonel sleeps, and at last the valet looks curiously 
 in his face, and fancies as he does so that there is something strange and unnatural 
 about, that deep repose. 
 
 "I will wake him," he said it's getting late, sir, it's getting late sir, will you 
 awake ? there are some letters for you/' 
 
 The colonel slept as soundly as before, and then the valet shook him, and after 
 all that, finding it was quite impossible to awaken him, he got alarmed, and 
 mentioned his fears, that something was amiss, to parties in the house. 
 
 The result of all this was, that a medical man was sent for, who, the moment he 
 saw the colonel, pronounced at once that he was labouring under the effects of a 
 powerful dose of opium, and the medical practitioner was perfectly correct, for 
 Colonel Scott, hi order to allay the torments of reflection, when hefound it impos- 
 sible to save Francis Hayward from the doom to which he had been condemned, 
 had swallowed such a dose of the narcotic poison as was certain to drown all 
 reflection, if it did not indeed undermine the very springs of life, and hurry him 
 to the tomb. 
 
 By great exertion and the exercise of a considerable amount of professional skill, 
 he was eventually recovered, but he lived to be only the wreck of what he once 
 was, for what, with the mental anxiety he had gone through, and what with the 
 blow he had given to his own constitution by the poison he had taken, the wear 
 and tear of at least twenty years seemed added to his age. 
 
 Jie lost all interest in existence: he led a wild, a reckless, anda desperate career, 
 and having parted with his commission in the army, no one knew what became of 
 him for several years, 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 It was on a squally' day, towards the latter end of October, when the leaves from 
 the trees lay thick upon the ground, and all nature gives evident symptoms of decay, 
 that a stranger meanly attired — indeed some of his apparel was absolutely ragged 
 — entered Kensington-gardens. 
 
 The keepers at the Lodge hesitated as to whether they should not refuse admit- 
 tance to so questionable a looking personage, but notwithstanding the poverty which 
 he was now evidently in, there wa3 a certain something about his air and ,manner 
 which seemed to say that he had been something widely different from what he 
 now appeared, and they accordingly shrank from interfering with him. 
 
 Dissipation sat upon his brow, and distress was manifest in his whole appear- 
 ance, but he was still the decayed gentleman, and no one could have looked r.pon 
 him for a moment, as, with slow and trembling footsteps, he walked up one of the 
 broad pathways of the garden, without moralising and wondering what he once 
 lhad been, and what had brought him to his present doleful state. 
 
 He went on towards Kensington-palace, and when he reached it, he struck into 
 the shrubbery, which lies to the right, and sat down upon a seat near to the old 
 conservatory. 
 
 • For more than half an hour he there sat as motionless and as apparently calm 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 403 
 
 as a statue, but who shall tell what a world of agonising thoughts may have passed 
 through the heart and brain of that man during even so brief a period of time ! 
 
 Then he rose, and taking a narrow pathway along the shrubberies, he reached 
 the brink of an exhausted gravel-pit, down which he looked for a time with intense 
 earnestness. 
 
 He did not speak, but he hurried away with a deep sigh, and went again to the 
 old seat upon which he sat again, and leant his head upon his hands, concealing 
 all his face, and giving himself up apparently to such fearful recollections of the 
 past, as were calculated to loathe his very soul. 
 
 The day wore on, and the mellow shades of evening began to creep over the 
 old trees, and gradually confuse one object with another in the mist of darkness. 
 
 The keepers, who make it their duty at night-fall to take a general survey of the 
 place, in order that no loiterers might remain contrary to regulations, soon came 
 upon this saddened man. 
 
 They thought that he was sleeping, and they shook him ; he fell with a heavy 
 weight to the ground, and then they saw that he was a stiffened corpse, and had 
 evidently been dead some hours. 
 
 This was Colonel Scott ! 
 
 * .*' (,■•. : # . * " * * * ''f'V*. ' 1" 
 
 The manuscript containing the particulars of this short career of Francis 
 Hayward here altogether ceased, and I looked up to my listening friend, as I 
 turned over the last page, and said, — 
 
 Well, what conclusion do you draw from these circumstances? " 
 
 ff Think!" he said, " I scarcely know what to think ; and were it not that, of 
 course, it is one of the most impossible things in the world for royal persons to 
 do anything wrong, I should be inclined to have some very peculiar private opi- 
 nion with regard to the circumstances detailed in this story of Francis Hayward." 
 
 " Oh, of course," I said, " I quite agree with you there, it is quite impossible 
 for kings or princesses to commit those lapses of morality, or to behave with such 
 an amount of brutality as ordinary people may be subject to, so of .course there 
 must be some mistake." 
 
 " Most decidedly there must, and I am quite astonished that a man of so muck 
 ability as this mendicant, from whom you had these manuscripts, could have sup- 
 posed it possible that anybody would believe the incidents here related. In fact, 
 it would be quite dreadful if it became generally thought that a king could possibly 
 be obstinate, bigoted, and brutal." 
 
 "Or a princess frail." 
 
 " Good God! don't mention it. It makes one's flesh crawl to think of such 
 a thing." 
 
 " To be sure it does. Why what would become of society ; or at all events if 
 society did pretty well, what would become of kings and princesses, if it were 
 supposed for a moment that, like ordinary men and women, they had their frailties 
 and their passions, and that indeed idleness and luxuriant living made them a little 
 worse than ordinary people ? We should have quite the lower classes thinking 
 that what is called the divine right of kings is something stronger, resembling 
 a humbug." 
 
 "Yes, and then they would begin to look through, the list of monarchs, and to 
 one man or woman of sense and judgment, and commonly decent feelings and 
 modes of life, they would find such a collection of knaves and fools as would be 
 positively terrifying." 
 
 "I am strongly inclined to think that you are perfectly correct, but there is one 
 thmg about this tale of Francis Hayward that haw rather disappointed me." 
 And what may that be P" 
 
 "Why, there seems to be not so special a reference to Newgate in it as to invest 
 any portion of that building with any new or extraordinary interest to us." 
 
 " That is true; but then you must recollect that it is impossible every episode of 
 human nature contained in these pages should have so very special a reference as 
 to invest Newgate with any new interest. Although such was found in the tale of 
 
404 
 
 the Coffin Cell, and in some others, we must recollect that these are the chronicles 
 
 of the building, gathered, probably, from a number of previously undiscovered 
 
 sources, and that they carefully, in all likelihood, exclude anything that is not 
 
 strictly authentic." 
 
 " Well, such may be the case ; but now, as the night is young — " 
 
 i( Young, do you call it? why, it is creeping on tolerably quick towards the 
 
 dawn of morning. But what were you about to propose 1* 
 
 u Why, that you should hunt through the manuscripts to clear up another point 
 
 in the story which is left in mystery. We do not know as yet what became of 
 
 Ned Lyal." 
 
 " That is true ; but you may depend we shall know, for I have remarked that 
 the collator of these documents never allows any subordinate branch of his story to 
 interfere with the great interest of its more important particulars ; and thus Ned 
 Lyal, as you perceive, was dropped the moment he had nothing particular to do 
 with the fortunes of Francis Hayward." 
 
 " I certainly noticed as much." 
 
 " The same thing was done as regards the story of the Coffin Cell; and you will 
 recollect there that the tale which succeeded it, concerning the Goldsmith's Wife 
 and the Court Ball, cleared up completely one of the mysteries connected with the 
 story of the Coffin Cell." 
 
 i( True, true, you have related as much to me." 
 
 "I have no doubt now whatever but that a very little search will discover to 
 us something concerning the destiny of Ned Lyal." 
 
 We both looked earnestly among the papers, in anxious expectation of finding 
 what had been the fate of that personage, who evidently was well versed in 
 crime, and who, although we cannot accuse him of leading much innocence astray 
 when he played the part of tempter to Francis Hayward, certainly did hurry on 
 the events which brought him to so untimely an end. 
 
 There were several masses of documents carefully tied together,all seeming to relate 
 to particular subjects, so that I began to despair of finding what I sought, until I 
 saw a piece of paper slipped just within the tape Avhich held one of these masses 
 together, and on the exterior ol which I caught the name* of Ned Lyal. 
 
 "Come," I said, "here we have it without any further difficulty;" and upon 
 drawing the paper forth I found that there was an endorsement upon it to the fol- 
 lowing effect : — 
 
 "A Brief Account of the Termination of Ned LyaVs Earthly Career." 
 
 Then, upon unfolding it, I found the following statement, which I read aloud . — 
 
 When Ned Lyal was seized in court by Colonel Scott, who had recognised him, 
 in spite of his disguise, the judge, it will be recollected, committedJiim to prison. 
 The grand jury were still sitting, and it became at once a part of their labours to 
 return a true bill against him for the highway robbery of which Francis Hayward 
 had already been convicted. Justice in this case could not be accused of laggiug 
 in her march, for on the very next Friday, Ned Lyal w.ns put to the bar. 
 
 He seemed to be perfectly aware that his fate was sealed, and his whole effort 
 appeared to be directed to produce as much annoyance as possible. When he 
 was placed in the dock he addressed the judge saying, — 
 
 " I know perfectly well that I have no chance, and that you will convict me, let 
 me say what I will ; and now let me tell you, and I hope it will go about that I said 
 it, that Francis Hayward is the son of Colonel Scott, and that his mother is some 
 lady of rank that old Peter Muggsworth, the parson who keeps Littleton Aca- 
 demy, knows all about — and that's how he got his last preferment in the Church : 
 it was by truckling and cringing to some lady of influence. 1 don't pretend to 
 know who she is whose bastard he was taking care of." 
 
 " I don't see, young man," said the judge, "that what you say has the slightest 
 bearing upon your case. You are asked to plead guilty, or not guilty, to a cer- 
 tain crime that is imputed to you, and beyond that it is quite useless for you to 
 travel." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 u I know," said the prisoner, " that what I say is not palatable, but I will plead 
 not guilty, to give you all the trouble I can." 
 
 That plea was recorded, but it did not give them much trouble, for the trial was 
 soon over, and Ned Lyal was conducted back to prison, with the certainty that he 
 would be executed on the following Monday morning, and that nothing would 
 save him. 
 
 There was a peculiar look, however, upon his face as he left the court, and one 
 of the turnkeys heard him mutter to himself, — 
 "Don't make too sure of that." 
 
 In consequence of this expression it was thought highly desirable to put a close 
 watch upon him, so that he should not have it in his power to commit suicide ; 
 and everything was removed from out of his reach which could possibly aid him in 
 such an act. He laughed scornfully, when he saw these precautions ; and when a 
 man was brought into his cell, to remain with him the whole f the Sunday night, 
 for fear by some effort of ingenuity he should contrive to tak his own life, he wel- 
 comed him with derisive laughter, saying, — e 
 
 " And so you think that you can prevent me, if I chose, from cheating the hang- 
 man. Make yourself easy, I have neither knife nor cord here, and therefore 
 what can I do ?" 
 
 " I know you can do nothing," said the man, " but it is the order of the sheriff 
 that you should be watched, so watched you must be, and there's an end of it." 
 
 f 'Well, well, as you please. I am a doomed man, I know it ; nothing can save 
 me. There is not a living person , I suppose, who would hold up a finger to snatch 
 me from the gallows. But no matter ; let me have some wine." 
 
 At that time the custom had not quite exploded of allowing criminals to have 
 almost what they chose after a condemnation to death, so the wine he demanded 
 was brought to him ; and after taking two or three glasses, he dropped into a 
 solemn sort of silence, which lasted for a considerable time. 
 
 It was not a sort of silence, which the man who was with him felt inclined to 
 break, for he had no fancy for the strange tone in which the prisoner spoke ; a tone 
 as it was, of rough ribaldry, which was very difficult to reply to and not very 
 pleasant to hear. And thus an hour or two passed away until midnight approached. 
 
 The cell was a small one of about eight feet in length and five in width, and the 
 walls were of stone, whitened over with a thin layer of whitewash, through which 
 various condemned persons, who had from time to time inhabited that cell, had 
 scratched their names and the dates of their different crimes, as well as that at 
 which they had been brought to justice. 
 
 There was a wooden seat at one end of the cell fastened to the wall, and upon 
 this seat both Lyal and the man who was watching him sat side by side. 
 
 Some clock could be distinctly heard sounding twelve, even through the 
 massive thickness of those walls; and then Lyal spoke, saying to the man, — 
 
 " Are you not sleepy V 
 No," said the man, <c don't calculate upon me going to sleep ; I am wide awake, 
 and shall continue to be so, I can tell you ; I slept all day on purpose, because 1 
 knew I should have to sit up all night with you ; so you see I was quite pre- 
 pared." 
 
 " I do not wish you to sleep ; on the contrary, I wish you to be quite wide awake 
 in order that you may distinctly and clearly be able to report what you see." 
 
 " Well, I don't suppose I shall see anything very wonderful." 
 
 " I can't answer for that. You may not call it wonderful, but I will show you 
 my way of cheating the gallows." 
 
 " Ah," said the man, " it's all very fine talking, but you can't do it ; you know 
 you can't do it. Lord bless you, I aint alarmed a bit, it's all right, I know. You 
 see, for you to do anything of that sort you must have a knife, a cord, a pistol, or 
 poison, or some weapon to use against your life, and then I must let you do it, 
 which is just possible I should not." 
 
 " Then here goes," said Ned Lyal. 
 
 He rose from his seat on the instant, and before tne man could lay a hand upon 
 
406 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 him to stop him, he dashed forward with tremendous violence, striking his 
 head against the stone wall with such a frightful crash that the man gave a shriek 
 of horror, for he heard the bones of his skull actually crack with the force of the 
 concussion. 
 
 And so Ned Lyal lay a dead man on the floor of the condemned cell of Newgate, 
 affording a powerful illustration of the fact that it was almost out of all human 
 power to prevent any one intent upon self-destruction from accomplishing such a 
 purpose. When there is a will to do such a deed, there may and will always 
 be found a way. 
 
 ****** 
 This was the end of the paper concerning the fortunes of Ned Lyal, and although 
 we were both astonished at the mode of his death, we could not be said to feel any 
 sympathy in the fate of such a man, for a ruffian of more despicable character pro- 
 bably could not have been found, and he richly merited any doom whatever that 
 might come across him. 
 
 I resisted my friend's entreaties on that night to read any more manuscripts from 
 the packet. 
 
 " No," I said, " let us wait for a short time, and I must confess that I do feel a 
 great inclination to attempt once more getting in the underground passages of 
 Newgate by the new means which we have discovered of doing so." 
 
 "You could not please me better," said my friend, "than in engaging in some 
 such enterprise. It appears to me that we have an opportunity of doing it with the 
 most perfect success. We have nothing to do but to go to the public-house, and 
 engage in skittle playing until we play everybody out of the place ; then, at a 
 moment when we are unobserved, we can go down the trap-door, and leave them to 
 make the best of it." 
 
 " Yes," said I, "that seems easy enough ; but still we must look forward to the time, 
 sooner or later, when a discovery will take plaee, and we shall be forced to take the 
 landlord into our confidence. I do not anticipate any evil consequences from such 
 a result, although I wish to avoid it as long as it can be avoided, certainly." 
 
 " Of course, of course, sufficient for the day and the night, too, is the evil thereof. 
 What say you to to-morrow night making a trial ?" 
 
 4 ' Agreed ! it shall be done ; we will' not go in until ten o'clock or eleven ; in 
 fact, we will then bespeak the skittle ground privately, which can be done ; and when 
 no one is there, we will take our measures accordingly. I must own that I anticipate 
 some more amusement from the astonishment with which we shall be able to fill the' 
 boy who before got so much blamed on our account. It will be a rich treat to see 
 his countenance once again, when he .finds that he is being played such strange 
 tricks with. 
 
 Perfectly understanding then that we were to meet on the next evening at 
 eleven o'clock, for the purpose of making another visit to Newgate, through the 
 trap-door in the cellar of the public house, we separated, and carefully laid away 
 the packet of papers until another opportunity of referring to them should arrive. 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. ' 
 
 THE. SECOND VISIT TO NEWGATE FROM THE TU BLIC-1I' USE. 
 
 My friend and I met punctually at the appointed time, and anticipating much 
 amusement, as wcil as deep interest, from the adventure M-e were about to take ; we J 
 walked briskly in the direction of the tavern, which had stood us in such good stead 
 ou ;i former occasion. 
 
 " Do you think,' said my friend, "that the publican can be entirely ignorant j 
 of the fact, that ihae i.> a cellar actually beneath Ins cellar ug ain V 
 
 * 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 407 
 
 " Why, no, I scarcely suppose he is but he looks upon it merely as an exca- 
 vation, and of neither interest nor importance. He may, however,, be quite 
 ignorant of it." 
 
 " Ay, he may ; but when he finds us disappear, and he d&es know of it, he will 
 then take a look for us/' 
 
 " Oh deai' no ! he will not suspect us of the bad taste of getting into a cellar I 
 but no matter if he does. We know that if the worst comes to the worst, we can 
 make all square by confiding in him." 
 ■ " Well, I don't know that." 
 
 *' Indeed ! why, how is it now that to-day you are full of objections to what 
 before appeared perfectly feasible to you, and concerning which you took up quite 
 a defensive position ?" 
 
 " Why, because I have been thinking that we had better leave the landlord in 
 ignorance, and make a confidant of the boy. I think this, because, from his posi- 
 tion in life, we shall be able to pay him sufficiently well to keep the secret, so that 
 he will have a direet interest in it ; and moreover, as he attends upon the skittle- 
 ground, he'is much more likely to keep the landlord in the dark than the landlord 
 is to keep him." 
 
 " Well," I said, " I don't dislike your proposition ; there certainly is much to 
 recommend it : but would you now at once, without seeing what could be done at 
 first, without making a confidant at all?" 
 
 H Yes, I would ; because we then incur no danger. I propose that we at once 
 speak to the boy, and engage him thoroughly and completely as our confidant." 
 
 " Agreed then, agreed at once. Let it be so, I give you credit for the sugges- 
 tion, and as I can see no feasible objeotion to it, I feel bound to give it my acqui- 
 escence at once, which I do most freely/' 
 
 " There was something in the countenance of the lad that I liked, and I think 
 that we may bind him to us by such ties of curiosity, interest, and flattered impor- 
 tance at being trusted, that there can be no difficulty in our minds for the future 
 concerning this mode of communication with Newgate." 
 
 By the time we had settled this, we had reached the public-house, and knowing 
 by former experience the way to the skittle-ground, we at one proceeded, but by 
 the sound of voices, the laughter, and the rumbling noise of the balls, as they were 
 dashed at the nine-pins, we knew that the place was (occupied, and feared we 
 might have to wait some time before we could have it te ourselves. 
 
 This, however, was a contingency that was quite to be expected, and when we 
 reached the skittle-ground, we found that four or five young men were then 
 playing, and that they had evidently been drinking from their boisterous manner. 
 
 We sat down hi as obscure a corner as we could find, and when the boy came 
 into bring some liquor to the other guests, we ordered some for ourselves, saying, — 
 
 " How long do you think these gentlemen will be playing ?" 
 
 The boy looked at us very cunningly, and thought as if he had some faint remem- 
 brance of us on a former occasion, and then he said, — 
 
 *' Why, sir, you can. engage it after the gentlemen who have it, if you like/' 
 
 " Very good," said I ; " then you will understand that we do so." 
 
 This was agreed to ; and we waited with what amount of patience we could exert, 
 solacing ourselves with brandy-and-water, until the opportunity for action should 
 arrive. 
 
 During this time it was not a little amusing to us to see the looks which the 
 boy cast upon us, and I felt quite clear that he recollected what trouble he had 
 endured on our account before. 
 
 This would have given us some uneasiness as regards the success of our under- 
 taking, had we not made up our minds to be confidential with him, because very 
 likely he had made up his to watch us; but as it was, we were 6nly amused, 
 and rather enjoyed than otherwise the state of perplexity in which he evidently 
 was. The players did not take in very good part our engaging the ground, but as 
 it was a rule of the place that after one party had played three games, it might be 
 ; engaged by another, they had no resource, but gave, it up to us quietly enough. 
 
408 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 The worst of it was that they lingered after they had so given it up to see our 
 play, and as that wa9 not very brilliant, I heard one of them compliment us with the 
 
 title of damned muffs. 
 
 Shortly after this they left, and if they did so on account of our bad playing, I 
 was very glad that we were not greater proficients ; we were bpth quite inclined to 
 put up quietly with the insulting remark that had been made concerning us. 
 
 The moment we were quite alone, I looked narrowly at the door which separated 
 the skittle-ground from the remainder of the public-house, and I thought 1 observed 
 that, through a narrow chink that was in it, something strongly resembling a human 
 eye was visible. 
 
 *' He is watching us," I whispered to my friend, " arid your plan of making a 
 
 confidant of him becomes almost a matter of necessity." 
 " Watching, watching ! I don't see him." 
 
 " Look as far as you can, when, if you bend your glance a little further, you will 
 most certainly observe him, but as I consider time so precious with us, I propose 
 that we at once call him ia, and let him into the secret.." 
 
 " So be it ; the sooner we descend into the subterranean regions the better, inas- 
 much as we shall have mere time to search for adventures, and to encounter sights 
 full of the terrific which I really hope to find in a short time." 
 
 I rapped' upon the table with a spoon that was in one of the glasses, and from 
 the sudden manner in which the boy made his appearance, I felt quite clear upon 
 the subject of his watching us, and as it had been agreed upon between my friend 
 and I that I should be the spokesman upon the occasion,! addressed him, saying, — 
 
 " What's your name, my lad?'* 
 
 " Why, they call me all sorts of names, and I answers to anything as comes 
 uppermost, but my real name is Joe." , 
 
 " Well, Joe/' said I, "we are about to confide a great secret to you. We are about 
 to place in you an amount of confidence that was never before placed in anybody 
 of the name of Joe, and probably never will again. You will find, Joe, that what 
 we shall tell you will be so wonderful that you will scarcely believe it, when you 
 are told it ; and in its details, it will so astonish you, that it will take you some 
 time to get over the strange feelings that will oppress you on the occasion.*' 
 
 «< It's all very fine/' said Joe, ** but I suppose the fact is you haven't got any 
 money to pay for the brandy-and-water you have had.'" 
 
 " That is an ingenious supposition, Joe," said I, "but not a correct one; we have 
 money to pay for the brandy-and-water, and we have money likewise for other 
 purposes, and are quite willing to bestow half-a-crown upon you forthwith, if you 
 will promise to keep the secret about to be confided to you." 
 
 " Oh, won't I !" said Joe ; " give us the half-crown, and I'll keep it." 
 
 The principal person to keep it from is your master, but bear in mind likewise 
 tha: it must not be told to any one on any account whatever, so you must make us 
 a solemn promise, and it is one we shall find out in a moment if you break, because 
 the consequences will at once show themselves, and the effect will be to give us 
 some little disappointment, and to deprive you of half-a-crown every time we come 
 to this place." 
 
 <■' Do you think I'm fool ?" said Joe. 
 
 " Certainly not, you look like a very wise person ; I never thought for a moment 
 that you were a fool." 
 
 " Then why do you ask me twice, and make such a fuss about it ? Of course 
 I'll keep the secret, and now that I come to think of it I shouldn't a bit wonder 
 but that that secret will account for how you came to be here both of you some 
 time ago, after the place had all been shut up, and I knew there was nobody in 
 f he skilt'e ground." 
 
 "It will, Joe^ account for that; and as you were blamed so unjustly on 
 that occasion, it is but right that you should reap some advantages from the 
 transaction." 
 " Thank you/' said Joe— "go on." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 " Well, then, you must know that in the floor of this cellar there is a trap-door. 
 Oh, we knows that ; it's only a hole to throw dust and rubbish into/' 
 
 " You are mistaken : it is an underground communication with Newgate, and 
 conducts you into all the underground secret places, cells, and dungeons of that 
 place. It is one of the most singular and intricate subterraneous excavation 
 
 you can imagine. It is full of 9trange sights, and well repays a visit. Besides, 
 you can get up staircases which conduct you to the ordinary level ef the build- 
 ing ; and altogether the adventure presents itself in the most attractive colours. 
 
 • Oh, shouldn't I like to go !*' said Joe ; " why, master has no more idea of 
 all that, than he has of flying over the moon*-no, nor nobody else. How came 
 you to find it out." 
 
 No. 52 
 
410 
 
 \ 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Oh, that's of no consequence. All that we want you to do is, after we go 
 down, to spread the saw dust over the door again, so that it shall appear as if 
 it had not been at all disturbed, and let us out again when we come back, which 
 we will take care always to do at a particular hour, so that you may know 
 exactly when to be in actual waiting for us.'' 
 
 " All is right," said Joe, " only you know you ought to come earlier in the 
 evening, or even in the daytime would be better, cos, you see, at twelve o'clock, 
 master always asks whether the skittle-ground is clear, and if I says it is, and 
 then it turns out that there's somebody there, there's no end of the row he kicks 
 up ; and if I say as there's somebody there, perhaps he might take it into his head 
 to come and see who it was there, and if he found nobody, he might take it 
 into his head that I had been deceiving of him, and give me never such a punch." 
 
 " There is abundant reason," iaHd I ; "in what you say, and only this once 
 will I risk anything of the sort;, But as we have come to-night expressly for 
 the purpose of going into the vamf& of Newgate, we should not like to be dis- 
 appointed." , 
 
 " Very good « I'll put the sawdust all right, so that nobody shall think it has 
 been moved in the least. Only, you must tell me, if you see anything odd, all 
 about it ; because, if there is anything I like better than something to eat, it's a 
 mysterious circumstance^ and something that won't let you sleep o' nights in 
 thinking of it. 1 suppose ybu hate found lots of skeletons, and chains, and all 
 that sort of thing, and blood, arid daggers." 
 
 n We certainly have found some skeletons, but as for the rest of the horrors 
 you mention, they are rather scarce, and we have not lit upon many of them yet. 
 We live in hopes, however, of finding them all." 
 
 " Do you though, really ? Well I should like to see 'em. It ain't often I have 
 a holiday and see anything out of the Way — whenever I do, of course I goes to 
 the Wictoria, bui; i Mi^ans to sajr this, that getting into that under-ground place 
 as you have s^Bkeh Bf IS equal to half* price to any gallery in London. But 
 if so be as you are gotr$ tb get down where you speak of, you had better go 
 at once." , t , 
 
 " Am" said my friend^ " We had : we will stand not upon the order of our going 
 but go at once. Come <jrh ftH& let raise the trap, which, it strikes me, will be a 
 more troublesome job.6H this 1 giffe Irian from below." 
 
 We found- this to be exactly the case, for as there was no ring to the trap 
 door, we found it a most difficult matter to get a sufficient hold to sustain its 
 weighti , 
 
 We did', however, succeed! after a short time; and when we had fairly 
 opened it, and exposed the black-looking chasm below — shook his head as 
 he remarked— 
 
 " It's | riirri looking place _ to go down anyhow, an out-and-out rum looking 
 place, it seems as jf you .wir^ ^oing into a dry well, without a bottom to it." 
 
 " It does," said Is " look ritrllT filaiitijhg, when view r ed from above here, but 
 as we know from experience, how short the distance is, we have no hesitation in 
 dropping down, and trusting to alight quite correctly upon our feet. I will go 
 down first, and then you can hand me alight at once." 
 
 To the evident admiration of Joe, who thought it an extremely bold and 
 adventurous act. I hung down as far as I could by my arms, and then dropped 
 the remainder of the distance ; and -my friend told me afterwards that as I 
 went down into that plaee, and completely disappeared in the darkness, it had a 
 most thrilling and strange effect, as if I had dropped for ever into the very bowels 
 of the earth. 
 
 I alighted quite safely and comfortably upon my toes, and then I thought I 
 would play a little trick upon them, and I preserved a profound silence. 
 
 "Hilloa!" said Joe, " where is you now — where is you gone to — can't yoit 
 speak ?" 
 
 " Hoy !" said my friend, " below there, where have you got to." 
 
 6< He is gone," said Joe, " ana" no mistake ; you may depend there is a deeper 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 411 
 
 hole there than you think for j it's such a devil of a way, that he has not done 
 going down it yet." 
 
 " Oh, stuff, nonsense^" said my friend, u we have been down before, and 
 know what it is. Give me the light." 
 
 "No," said I, you had better give it to me/' and I suppose they could 
 just see my hand, as I held it up in the dim obscurity of the region where I was. 
 
 "It's all right," said Joe, and he spoke with an evident sensation of relief — "it's 
 all right, he hasn't fell down too far ; here's your lantern, sir, and now let me 
 ask both of you what time you intend to come back?" 
 
 " Why, what hour is it now V 
 
 " It's getting hard on to twelve, so don't make it earlier than one, unless you 
 make it two or three hours later; and perhaps that would be the best way, because 
 then I could slip out of my bed and let you out, and master would be never any- 
 thing the wiser. I should like to keep him in the dark ; you can't think what a 
 one he is to live with; nothing is done right, and I tell you if you was to begin to 
 polish a pewter pot, the first thing in morning, and not leave off till the last at 
 night you would 'nt please him with it." 
 
 " Indeed, he must be a troublesome customer, but mind now, Joe, you spread the 
 saw dust carefully over the door, and remember to be on the look out for us 
 between two and three o'clock in the morning." 
 
 *' Very good, never fear ; I'll look out, and you will find it all right. I say, be 
 quick, I hear somebody a coming, now sir, get in the tail of your eoat. I'm blest 
 if you haven't left your hat behind you !" 
 
 Bang went the trapdoor shut, and we heard a great scuffling above, as Joe 
 spread the sawdust just in time, as he afterwards told us, to prevent the landlord 
 from observing what had happened, for it was he who came into the skittle-ground 
 for the purpose of seeing who was there ^t that hour of the night ; because, as he 
 had before told us, he did not mind people whom he knew being in his house 
 after twelve o'clock at night, but he had a decided objection to strangers enjoying 
 such a privilege. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 OUR ADVENTURES IN THE VAULTS. THE NEWS WE HEARD OF OURSELVES. 
 
 From where we were we could hear the landlord making some murmured 
 remarks to our friend Joe, whose good opinion we had so completely* won, but we 
 could not catch the precise purport of them, and as we were fearful that some 
 wandering ray from the lantern mjght discover us, we walked on through the same 
 passage we had had formerly traversed,' -and which laid deeper down beneath the 
 earth's surface. lata ion htb 
 
 My friend had been greatly amused with the account I had given him of how I 
 had ascended a staircase and come to a grated door, through which' I had actually 
 seen some of the turnkeys of the prison. 
 
 "I wish much," he said. " to get up to some of those places, I think, that if ever 
 the spirit of mischief were to animate me, it would be on some such occasion. I 
 have about me a few crackers and other combustible matter which would certainly 
 be productive of a great deal of amusement if, one could use them at the proper 
 time and place." 
 
 "I beg," said I, "that you will be cautious what you are about, for if you 
 begin letting off squibs and crackers, the result will most certainly be that we shall 
 be discovered, and, in that case, you know, we shall be accommodated with a 
 lodging in the upper part of this building, where we shall have an opportunity of 
 
412 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 studying the internal arrangements at much greater length than we shall perhaps 
 consider to be at all agreeable/' 
 
 " Oh, HI be cautious— I'll be cautious, you may depend, and nothing shall go 
 amiss." 
 
 " I can take you certainly up the staircase that I ascended myself, and although 
 I do not think it conducts to a room that is commonly used by the turnkeys, yet 
 it is just possible we may find some of them there." 
 
 Acting upon this intent I proceeded to look about me in order to find my way 
 precisely to the staircase I have before mentioned, but really so intricate and 
 involved were those passages of Newgate, that, coming into them as I did another 
 way than from the offal cellar, I found it extremely difficult to know exactly 
 where 1 was, and I was at last compelled candidly to state that I did not know 
 my way, but must trust to chance and circumstances to direct me. 
 
 " Well, then," said my friend, " we must ascend the first staircase that we come 
 to, and trust to chance to direct us to some habitable portion of the prison." 
 
 We walked on until a very narrow passage presented itself to our sight, the ground 
 of which appeared to ascend, and consequently we considered that it was more likely 
 to answer our purpose than one which descended, or which even was on a level. 
 
 By mutual consent then we pursued this passage, and my companion wonld 
 insist upon being the principal explorer, and going first with the light. I was not 
 above half-a-dozen paces behind him, and I had just opened my lips to say 
 something, I forget now what it was, when I heard him utter an exclamation of 
 alarm, and, suddenly, as if by magic, he disappeared, lantern and all, leaving me 
 in the most profound darkness, and in a state of mind, as the novelists say, far 
 easier to be imagined than described. 
 
 What had become of him was a profound mystery, which I could not at all 
 unravel. I naturally started back for fear of being involved in a similar fate 
 whatever it was which had befallen him, and there I stood for some few brief but 
 agonised moments, incapable alike of speech or action. 
 
 When I did recover sufficiently, I called out aloud, — 
 
 " Where are you — where are you ? — Good God ! what has become of you V* to 
 which a voice replied in strange smothered accents, which I was much puzzled to 
 account for, although I recoanised in them the tones of my friend, — 
 
 «• I'll be d d if I know?' 
 
 " Ehl" said I, * eh ? — speak again — where are you?" 
 
 " Why here, to be sure, don't be making game of a fellow, take it off me, 
 murder ! — murder!" 
 
 I was so astonished at all these ejaculations that I stood transfixed amid that 
 profound darkness which my eyes could not penetrate an inch, and which conse- 
 quently prevented me from knowing in which direction to turn to be of service to 
 my friend, admitting my inclination to be ever so great, on the impulse of the 
 moment, to run into any danger for his preservation. 
 
 I heard there a strange scuffling sort of noise, and a number of oaths uttered 
 in the same half smothered tone, and which all seemed launched at me because I 
 did not make some effort to do something which I really had not the most distant 
 idea of knowing how to set about. 
 
 *< Where the deuce are you?" I cried. "Don't keep calling for help, and cursing 
 and swearing, because it is not rendered to you, when you don't give one the most 
 distant idea of how to set about it. Have you fallen down some hole?" 
 
 As I spoke I saw a gleam of light which sufficiently illuminated the darkness 
 around to enable me to perceive a curious-looking black object moving towards me 
 very slowly and deliberately. Then there was a great fighting and scrambling, and 
 my companion emerged from beneath a great mass of black drapery, in which he 
 seemed to be enveloped ; but which, when he got his freedom, certainly, was to 
 me one of the most singular things in the world. 
 
 ** Why what on earth," I said, " is the meaning of all this }" 
 
 He drew along breath before he answered me, and then he said,— 
 
 " Thank you, I am very much obliged. 1 suppose if I had not scramble 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 413 
 
 out of this affair myself I should just have been comfortably smothered. I was 
 walking along quite quietly with the lantern, as you saw, when I came full against 
 his black curtain, which 60 strongly resembles the dingy colour of the walls, that I 
 certainly did not see it until I ran my head against it. It seemed to be hanging 
 from the ceiling, but the moment I touched it, down it came, and covered me up 
 completely, and be hanged to it for so doing. 
 
 I could not forbear laughing when I came to understand what a trifling 
 circumstance had produced such an apparently extraordinary effect, for the 
 disappearance of my friend was as sudden and complete as if it had been accom- 
 plished by some magician, who had but to utter a word to produce such a result. 
 
 " It's all very well to laugh," he said. H I am smethered with dust and over- 
 whelmed with cobwebs, and the only great wonder is, that I did not let the light 
 go out, for then, I don't know what the deuce would have happened to me. But 
 what a singular thing it is that a black curtain should be hung up in such a way 
 along a passage." 
 
 Let us explore beyond it," I said, " and we may discover some reason for it. 
 Go on, go on." 
 
 " Well, 1 don't know, but I think I will let you go first. I think I have rather 
 had enough of it for once, and you can carry the light you know, while I am busy 
 in the entertaining process of endeavouring to get the spiders out of my neek, for I 
 can feel them cutting about and rolling themselves round and round in a manner 
 that I don't like." 
 
 I laughed and walked on, but when I got about four paces beyond where the 
 black curtain hung, I no longer laughed, but, on the contrary, I shuddered to think 
 what a really narrow escape we had both had of our lives. 
 
 Occupying the whole width of the passage, and about five feet across, was a 
 hole, the depth of which the eye could not penetrate ; and, as we stood in silence 
 upon its brink, we heard the roaring and rustling sound of water, far below. 
 
 M Now, I really think," said I, " you ought to be obliged to the curtain, for had 
 itnotbeen there, you would have walked on most likely, unsuspectingly, and plunged 
 down this fearful abyss." 
 
 " I should indeed, and the very sight of it to me reveals all the spiders that I feel 
 crawling about me. Where on earth can this hole lead to, and what can be the 
 object of its construction V* 
 
 " I shoud say most probably it was some sewer ; we are on too elevated ground 
 probably for it to have anything to do with the Old Fleet river." 
 
 " There is no knowing. You see we are far below the level, I should say, of 
 the bottom part of Holborn-hill ; and since the Fleet river has been covered up in 
 some places, and filled up in others, it is not unlikely that some of the land spring* 
 which fed it, have found here a passage, and that it is the water from such that we 
 hear bubbling and pouring below." 
 
 " It may be so, indeed, and I cannot deny it, but there is something fearful in 
 coming upon such places here. I cannot but consider this is the greatest danger we 
 have run ; for, after all, our being shut up in the cell from which we had some 
 difficulty to escape, was not by any means so serious a matter as this. Do you 
 feel inclined to proceed in your researches to-night V 
 
 " Yes, and I think we shall proceed now with better chances in our favour, because 
 we have not only escaped one dangerous place, but we have gathered experience, 
 and are not so likely to fall into a similar difficulty." 
 
 " By all means, let us proceed down some of the other passages, and see what we 
 can discover." 
 
 We retraced our step3 from the deep hole which led to the water, and which I 
 have since thought must have been what my friend suggested, and that, probably, 
 the hole had been dug for the purpose of keeping the passages as dry as possible, 
 upon the same principle as it is well known that a well sunk anywhere will fre- 
 quently produce a much greater amount of dryness in a surrounding meadow or 
 garden, than was otherwise observable. 
 
 Glad was I to turn my back upon that narrow offset, from the principal passage 
 
414 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 along which We had been proceeding 1 , and we walked on for a considerable distance 
 without finding any turning to the right or left. 
 
 At length we found a door in the wall, which after some short consultation we 
 determined upon forcing open, and at this time I had brought with me a finely 
 tempered steel crowbar, of about eighteen inches in length, with a sharp wedge — 
 shaped-point. I flattered myself that there were few doors indeed that would resist 
 such a weapon, if properly applied to them. As regards the door before us, the 
 experiment was most completely successful, for having inserted the crowbar to the 
 depth of about one inch and a half, I burst the door open with the greatest ease, 
 and, to our joy, for it was just what we were looking for, we found that there was 
 a staircase ascending immediately from the other side. 
 
 We held up the light, but we could not see its extent, and from the accumu- 
 lated black dust that was upon the steps, it was quite evident to us that the place 
 had not been ascended for many a day. 
 
 The air in the passages was not the best in the world, but it was better than the 
 mouthful or two of stagnant vapour which we inhaled the moment the door was 
 opened, and we waited for a short time, in order that the air from the passages 
 should ascend to it, and at all events make it no worse than what we had already 
 been breathing.' 
 
 We considered that in about five minutes this was completed, and then we 
 began the ascent of the staircase. Strange festoons of spiders' webs hung from 
 the roof, so clothed in some places with accumulated dirt, that they looked as 
 thick as cloth, while the long pieces which had originally been as fine as gossamer, 
 now had all the consistency and appearance of pack thread of a perfectly black 
 hue, and occasionally swept across my face, giving me some trouble to free myself 
 from the entanglement. 
 ! We counted the stairs as we ascended, and found that there were no less 
 than forty-seven of them, and they terminated, as I fully expected they would, 
 abruptly, by a door which was fast closed, 
 
 We now held a sort of consultation as to what we should do, for I was myself 
 decidedly of opinion that we were now upon the level of the modern part of New- 
 gate, and that if we broke through many more doors, we should find ourselves 
 actually in what may be called the precints of the actual modern prison. 
 
 " But, at all events," said my friend, " there can be no danger, I should say, in 
 breaking open this door; for listen attentively as you will, you will hear nothing, 
 and I still think that we are far enough away from any contact with the actual 
 officers of the peace." 
 
 " I certainly can hear nothing," I said ; " and look, here is a grating at the ipper 
 part of the door, but so clogged up with dirt, that I dare say that if there was a 
 light even in the other apartment, if it be an apartment through this door, its beams 
 would hardly penetrate to where we stand. 1 ' 
 
 " AH of which ought to convince you that there is no danger in proceeding." 
 
 " Push on then, and let's have at them." 
 
 1 found this door a more difficult job to open than the former one, but after 
 several efforts it did yield, and yield with a vengeance, for when I had broken the 
 lock, and it swung open, we discovered that the hinges were by far too rusty and 
 too old to support it, for they parted company with the wall, and away went the 
 door down the staircase we had just ascended, very nearly carrying us both with it ; 
 indeed, it was only by great dexterity, and by suddenly turning it upon its edge, 
 that we at all escaped it; but it made such a tremendous clatter going down the 
 stairs, that we looked upon a discovery as almost certain, and onlv waited with 
 extreme anxiety to know what sort of effect was produced before 'we took means 
 for our instant departure to the public-house again, at any risk of detection on the 
 part of the landlord, or of parties who might be playing in the static-ground; 
 
 I do think it was more than a rainut? before the echoes died away, caused by 
 the fall of that confounded door ; but when they had ceased, all was as still as the 
 grave, and certainly we could hear nothing to induce us to suppose that any effect 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 415 
 
 had been produced by the noise. I thought it prudent to wait at least a quarter 
 of an hour, and we did so, but when that had elapsed, I said, — 
 
 " Well, I do think that we may proceed now without any danger, at all events 
 from that source; for it appears to me that we must be still sufficiently distant from 
 the habitable portion of Newgate for these sounds not to have reached any human 
 ears except our own." 
 
 With cautious steps we proceeded onward, and found ourselves in a small 
 room, which was boarded, but which was entirely destitute of furniture. It had no 
 window, and it had the same appearance of neglect about it that the staircase pre- 
 sented to us, that is to say, very much thick dust was upon the floor, and as we walked 
 across it, our footsteps made a visible impression. A common wooden door that 
 opened with a latch was at'the further end of the room, and that conducted us to a 
 boarded passage, from which, for the first time, we heard some sounds indicative 
 of our approach to the habitable portion of the building. 
 
 The confused murmur of voices came upon our ears, and we paused to listen, 
 carefully shrouding the rays of the lantern from spreading themselves in any direc- 
 tion but that from whence we had come, and where we knew there was no danger 
 of discovery. 
 
 " You may depend," I whispered to my friend, * that at the end of this pas- 
 sage is some apartment where the turnkeys sit. If we proceed, with great caution, 
 we shall overhear their conversation ; but a false step, or a word uttered too loud, 
 might perchance betray us, and we should have more difficulty in accounting for 
 our presence here, than we have had in getting here." 
 
 We crept on very silently, so that any danger of our footsteps being overheard 
 was completely out of the question ; and, as we went, we heard more plainly each 
 moment the sound of voices, and felt confident that in a very short time indeed, 
 we should be enabled to hear and understand exactly what was said. 
 
 I own that I was much interested by this adventure, and I told my friend as 
 much, in a whisper . ■ 
 
 " I knew you would," was his reply ; "but the fact is, that you had so occupied 
 your mind in muddling about among the dead, and the dreadful underground dun- 
 geons of Newgate, that you had lost a taste for what was to be found above it. 
 But listen, now we are close enough to hear what is said." 
 
 'f Yes; but without appearing captious, I cannot help saying that if some one 
 of the men who are now talking, should suddenly take it into his head to open this 
 door which is all that now separates us. from them ? " 
 
 " Why, then we must do as the people do in Long Acre.'' 
 
 " In Long Acre? — why, what do they do in such emergencies? — what can they 
 have to do with such an cffair ?" 
 
 * They do the best they can, and that is what we must do. But look, is that 
 not ap iron bar hanging by the side of the door? By Jove, it most certainly is ; 
 and, therefore, what is to prevent us from making assurance doubly sure by putting 
 it in its place, and so preventing the possibility of their suddenly pouncing upon 
 us." 
 
 " I like the notion, if it can be done so softly and gently as not to betray us. 
 Will you or shall I attempt the feat ? " 
 
 M I think somehow that my nerves are the steadiest, so let me do it. You hold 
 the light, and you shall find that I will put up the bar so quietly that the repose of 
 a weazel would not be disturbed by it, if he were close at hand/' 
 
 I did hold the light, for I fully concurred in the fact that the nerves of. my 
 theatrical friend were steadier than my own, and I was well pleased to see with 
 what care and admirable caution he did succeed in placing the iron bar across the 
 door. 
 
 " There, now," he said, " is not necessity the mamma of invention ? Who in the 
 world would have thought of our coming into Nswgate to shut up the official per- 
 
 (sonages thereof ? " 
 Who indeed," I replied. . " But hark ! Do you not consider from the tenour 
 of their conversation that they have really heard something ?" 
 
416 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 We both listened as acutely as we could, and we heard a man say, — 
 
 11 Oh, it was nobody, I tell you. If you were to disturb yourselfaboutalltheodd 
 noises you might hear in Newgate, you would have enough to do. For my part, 
 now, when I do hear anything, I take it all quite easy and say nothing about it ; 
 and as nothing comes of it ever, that I know of, why I'm sure that is the best plan." 
 
 " There are always odd noises," said another, " before an execution." 
 
 " There are," cried a third ; •* and I can tell you that when I first came here, I 
 had serious thoughts of leaving again, although I did not know where else to get a 
 living. I used to be so alarmed, and particularly with one thing that I have pro* 
 mised to tell you, and which I call — 
 
 THE SPECTRE OF THE IRON ROOM. 
 
 When I first came to be turnkey here it was my old father who brought me, and 
 the evening before he gave me some advice. 
 M Bill," says he, M are you afraid of ghosts ? " 
 
 " No," I replied, ** I never saw one, though everybody's a speaking of them as 
 though they were next door neighbours ! but why do you ask such a question?" 
 
 u Because if you are, you will do no good here, Bill. There are some strange 
 places in this building, and there have been some uncommon strange people here 
 before now, and some on 'em such as I cannot make out no how. I have lived 
 here all my life, and have been terrified to go about after dark in certain parts." 
 
 " How could you be afraid," said I, u when you had the keys of the rooms, and 
 no one could pass without your leave ? " 
 
 " Oh ! my boy, ghosts and spectres don't wait for the turning of a lock; they can 
 whip through the key-hole as easily as I can put the key itself in." 
 
 " Have you ever seen a ghost ? " said I, 
 
 My father did not reply for some minutes : he seemed to be thinking about 
 something or other, and looked very hard at the toe of his boot, and he remained in 
 what you call a brown study for some seconds, and then said,— 
 
 " Why, I may say I have, and heard them too. You have no idea what it is to 
 have seen or heard such beings. It makes one's flesh .all creep and grow up in 
 knots ; not that I much mind, but the fact is, you cannot help it ; there's no help 
 whatever." 
 
 " That's very odd," said I. 
 
 " Yes ; but there's the worst of it. You might as well attempt to prevent your 
 teeth from chattering, or your nose from running when you are very eold — it's no 
 use at all." 
 
 W Well, then," said I, " when did you ever see a ghost ?— that's what I should 
 like to know." 
 
 ** I will tell you all about it — only when speaking of these things, it's as well to 
 do so seriously as not, for there is nobody so spiteful as a ghost when he chooses 
 to be so — there's no saying what they shall or shall not do. I never had one 
 under lock or key, and if I had, I don't know how I should have detained him a pri- 
 soner — they ain't like another being. I don't think even the iron room could 
 contain him, and keep him safely." 
 
 u The iron room," said I. 
 
 f Yes," he said, " the iron room — though that had a ghost of its own, and that's 
 the one as I saw. I'll tell you how it all happened." 
 
 " Do so, and it will serve me as a guide if ever I am engaged in anything that 
 way myself." 
 
 " It will. Well, when I first came here I heard of the iron room, and that there 
 was a spectre attached to it that had been seen and heard of by many. I put but 
 little faith in anything that I heard, especially as I used to go a good deal in the 
 passages and vaults, and was accustomed to all the dark holes and corners, and 
 there are not a few." 
 
 " I can easily guess that,'' I replied. 
 
 " Of course you can, but I tell you what you cannot guess— what is occasionally 
 to be found or met with in those places. In fact, there are places that are not 
 known or seen — old bricked up passages and vaults, the doors of which have been 
 
 ~f~ 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 417 
 
 built now up ; and nobody knows anything about them. They don't know even now 
 that there are such places, or why they were built ; and when they occasionally 
 come across one, they don't know why it was put there. But as I always say, 
 there was a use for it one time or another, whatever they may think of it now. 
 Everythiig has a use." 
 "So it has." 
 
 Well, well, I had heard of the ghosts of these places so often, that I don't 
 think I hardly dared move about, at least, I was not to say terrified. I would go 
 wherever I wanted, but there was a great and uncomfortable feeling of insecurity 
 about me : one's flesh felt rough, and got np into lumps, and yet I always went on, 
 but had scarcely less uncomfortable feelings than before. 
 
 I don't know how it was, but I had a hankering after these places. I was 
 p oken to about the ghost of the iron room, but had never met with it for a long 
 time ; however I had an adventure that will make you astonished. It waa this. 
 
 No. 53. 
 
418 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 I had often, when in the passages and more unfrequented parts of the prison, 
 heard strange sounds, such as less attentive observers would have ascribed to other 
 causes that might have produced such sounds, certainly ; for there are people who 
 believe in nothing — not even in hanging, except when the rope is round their 
 necks. 
 
 Well, I heard moans and groans, the rushing sound as of winds, and many 
 others, which I cannot now describe, but there were many, I can tell you 8 
 
 One day I was determined to have a regular inspection of the spot where all 
 these noises are said to come from. It was like travelling to the end of the world 
 to discover where the four winds come from. 
 
 I waited until 1 had a holiday, and strange to say, I thought upon this event as 
 one that I was very impatient to happen. It was ior no boastful bragging of 
 mine that I did it, but simply to satisfy myself, because I knew it was no use to be 
 here and to be afraid of ghosts. 
 
 I would not therefore be considered as deficient in courage, but I had strange 
 feelings come over me. 
 
 The time nearly arrived, when I agreed within myself I would attempt to make 
 a discovery ; it wanted but a few days of the day. I intended to go out, and 
 return, and so hide myself till night, and then to begin my search without any 
 interruption from anybody, and if anything was discovered I should have the credit 
 for it. 
 
 However, I had occasion to pass through the passage below the upper part of 
 some portion of the prison which was being repaired, and it was more convenient 
 for me, as I knew the way below, to go that way. 
 
 I went below and passed on, and did what I had to do before I came back, and 
 as I was coming along, I placed the lantern down to drink some ale which I had 
 with me. 
 
 A mouthful or two I had had before, and now I finished it. It was a small 
 matter, and scarcely worth speaking about. A small quantity. 
 
 " Now," thought I, " I would not care about meeting a ghost or devil, it don't 
 matter to me a Queen Anne's farthing — I'm ready." 
 
 I had scarcely uttered, or rather thought, the words, before a strange noise came 
 along the passage. It sounded as if a thousand spirits had suddenly rushed 
 through the passage — called into life by my indifference — or more probably, it was 
 because they were offended at my intrusion at the hour when they rove about. 
 
 Then came deep groans as though some one was suffering from a martyrdom — 
 an extacy of agony ! It was dreadful — every hair of my head stood up with the 
 thoughts that I was so near the spirits of those who come to such places as the 
 fittest they could find for their abode. 
 
 Soon after this, there were more and more groans, and then sobs came upon my ear 
 until it came close to trie. I turned round, and f-aw the spectre of an aged man 
 with white hair — but bald crown— long beard and clasped hands. 
 
 He came on wringing his hansd until he came close up to me, when he turned his 
 eye upon me — it was a dreadful look — his eye was like lead and appeared as though 
 it protruded from beneath his long eyelid, in a manner that made me sink upon the 
 ground without power to raise myself from the position in which I fell. 
 
 Howlong I remained in that position I know not; I was there like one bereft of life — 
 I had fallen, or rather satin obscurity upon some bricks, or broken wall, where I sat 
 down, with the spectre standing close beside me. 
 
 At length, I looked up, and saw the spectre stood before me with the same hor- 
 rible down cast look— his leaden eyes appeared as though they would fall on me. 
 I never saw anything like it. 
 
 Strange it was, he stood there and never moved a peg. I didn't know what to 
 say, or what to do — what it could mean I could not see — that was stranger still — and 
 there we both were for some time, and yet the spectie never moved nor spoke a word. 
 
 At length, my presence of mind returning, I thought I would speak, and said, — 
 
 " What do you do here ? " 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 419 
 
 "Stranger you have removed thejprohibition, yau have spoken ; and now so can 
 I — had you not, my lips were sealed against speaking." 
 
 " What do you do here? " I again inquired. . •. 
 
 " I would I were able to quit this abode— where, for a season I must abide — 
 but oh ! 'tis a woeful and miserable doom, that has to be fulfilled, and sad is the 
 fate of those, who, for deeds done in life, have to wander about in the spirit at the 
 dead hour of the night, and in the dark vaults of a prison house. Oh, 'tis a 
 fearful doom V 
 
 il Indeed," said I, et why are you here ? 99 
 
 *1 You shall know," said the Spirit, in a slow, solemn tone, "but know you not 
 who I am '( 99 
 " No," I replied, 
 
 " I am the Spectre of the iron room." 
 
 (i And why the iron room % " For once being able to speak, I found my tongue 
 loosed, and I was determined to know all that I could learn. 
 
 " That you shall know; if you listen to me, I will tell you a tale that shall cause 
 you to shudder as you listen to the recital of my woes. 
 
 " My youth was spent seriously enough ; my parents, being religious ; which 
 is, I find now, but little help to me, I have transgressed. 
 
 " T had but one love, and that love was for gold, and yet it was not stronger in 
 me than in many others — but then the mind was directed from the pursuit of 
 wealth, as it is in many ; for I had no recreation, no enjoyment, my Sundays were 
 a counterpart of my week-days — for I never saw any recreation. I paid the same 
 attention to my church as I did to my desk. 
 
 " I cared not for the sunshine of life — I cared only for the gain, and spent my 
 Sundays as they were spent by many others ; because it was respectable to do so, 
 and because it cost less. 
 
 " It was very strange, but I then saw not my own hypocrisy, or that of my class ; 
 but the fact of it being the gentility of the money-getting class of people, why 
 it was ii.e gentility for me. I adopted it as 1 would the genteelest-coioured 
 coat which I put on to please myself, and to secure the good opinion of my neigh- 
 bours and friends, who could not estimate my motives. 
 
 ." We]], well, it matters not how little they were capable of doing so ; but I 
 know 'I felt as thousands do, that recreation and enjoyment were the bane of my 
 existence, and a fit of laughter was enough to make my worldly afnairs miscarry." 
 " There was, as I said, but one object that I had in the world, but I was careful 
 I to' preserve the windy side of the law, as i* was termed. I did nothing that was at 
 | all dishonest. I was strictly just, but I took all sort:? of advantages, such as 
 could only be taken by those who had means and character ; the latter 
 enables you to beat down people's assertions almost without a frown. 
 
 "Such is often done. I was swayed by the opinion of the world, and yet T did 
 not admit that such was the case to myself; far from it, I really believed I was a 
 good member of society, and of the denomination to which I belonged. 
 
 " There was an object which many men have in life, and which I had not, and 
 that was a settlement in the way of taking a wife. This was what most young 
 men at" -first starting make their grand object. I had nonesuch, a wife was too 
 
 expensive. '"' i'^IMmk ifo • 
 
 " 1 cared not for the comfort 'of a home, but there was one object that I did 
 care for, and that was a handsome fortune. 
 ' " True, the fortune was handsome, but 1 hesitated about seeking it, but why 
 . I did i do so ? Because it was encumbered by a wife. 
 
 "This was a matter of doubt with me for some time, as to whether I should 
 : engage m the -pursuit, for I felt persuaded I should be able to marry the young 
 j lady, as my character was so good, and of that kind that would win me golden 
 ; opinions from many of that clags, thy life was so regular. 
 
 j " But there were many expenses connected with a married life, that would take 
 all the gilt off the toy, and I was a long time of opinion that it was a losing game ; 
 but I eventually altered my mind, for 1 found out that it was sometimes necessary 
 to have a home and a wife, so I determined to attempt the conquest: 
 
420 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " I did so ; she was willing, for I was looked upon as an extraordinarily clever 
 man, and a regular one too, and I was at once accepted. 
 
 " Thinking in her case, that the fortune would of itself pay all housekeeping 
 expense, I thought I was extremely lucky, and congratulated myself accordingly. 
 Most of her fortune was, however, settled upon her for life ; and at her own 
 disposal after death ; that is, she could will it away to whom she pleased. 
 
 " It did not take long to get married, and to get over the honeymoon, for that 
 I considered an expensive time, and used all sorts of excuses not to remain longer 
 away from business than" a week. 
 
 " When I returned, I began to assume the position in my house I intended 
 to maintain during my future career, and finished an elaborate account of what I 
 would permit the expenses to run to. 
 
 u I never shall forget the horror with which my poor wife looked at the paper, 
 but she said nothing, but endeavoured to comply with it as well as she could, and 
 with this I was satisfied, for I thought she could do better when she was more 
 used to it. 
 
 * Then, after a time came money — money left her by a female relative, all given 
 to her for her life, and reverting to me and the children at her death. 
 
 *' This first made me wish that we might have no children. This was however 
 soon a hopeless wish, for I found that in a few months more I should have one at 
 least ; this was a great source of annoyance to me ; and it made my wife fret 
 much, for she could see my displeasure. 
 
 " I cared nothing about that. Indeed, the thought more than once entered my 
 mind that a course of unkind conduct would get rid of both mother and child, and 
 then Ishouldhavegotridof two ofmy greatest plagues atonce. Ihopeditmightbe so. 
 
 " Yes, I hoped it might end in her death, and that of the child at once. 
 
 * l I had little human sympathy or compassion, but then I was a strictly moral 
 man, and my lips never uttered anything improper, neither did I do an improper 
 action at any time ; that is to say, I never did anything that the world could say I 
 was wrong in doing. 
 
 u The mother, for such my wife became, was without any prospect of happiness, 
 for she said I hated the child, and wished it would die. 
 
 " Unlike any other child under such circumstances, it grew up strong and 
 healthy, and defied me ; and every time I looked upon it, I thought it seemed 
 to say — , 
 
 " ' You see I will live, in spite of you, to plague you, and to annoy you as 
 long as you live; and to take that wealth away from you, that you love so 
 much !* 
 
 " I hated the child, and the mother ! I saw the nurse was fond'of the| child ; 
 I saw that she was not to be tampered with, but I was resolved that neither 
 mother nor child should live. I would have some means adopted that wonld 
 put them both out of the way with safety to myself, and the sooner the better. 
 
 " I was very much annoyed when I found she kept herself and child very quiet, 
 and much out of the way ; and after beating about for means to accomplish 
 an end, I found I could only compass my object by expensive and indirect ways ; 
 and, therefore, at once hired a phaeton for my wife to take out the child. 
 
 " She had been used to drive about, and there could be no danger of her doing 
 so, but I hoped otherwise, and when I found one horse too quiet and easily 
 managed, I had another, till five or six had been driven, and then a seventh, 
 which at last served my object. 
 
 « The man, tired of furnishing me with quiet horses, sent me one that shied 
 dreadfully ; he cautioned me ; but of course, I cared nothing about that. 
 
 « The horse came home, and I saw my wife leave the house at the time I left it 
 for my office. I did not return till evening, and took care to be out of the way, 
 for I expected that there would be special messengers sent to me, relative to 
 some accident which I felt persuaded would take place in the course of their drive. 
 
 *' I came home to dinner, and entered the parlour ; I saw two gentlemen seated 
 there. They began to break the news to me, which was that my wife had been 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 421 
 
 run away with, and the phsBfc dashed to pieces— my wife mortally hurt, but the 
 child was saved. 
 
 " * Well,' thought I to mpelf, ' I have got rid of one of them. I may do 
 the same with the other in time ! But I must seek to be considered a bereaved 
 husband, sorely afflicted, and so I am, but it is because I have not lost two 
 instead of one.' 
 
 " I went up stairs, and saw my wife ; she was in a dreadful state, certainly — 
 cut and smashed about the head and body* as well as her legs, which were both 
 broken. She could not live ! 
 
 " She wanted to whisper to me ; I approached the bed, and leaned over her — 
 when she whispered in my ear these words, — 
 
 " * You have desired this — you have sought my life and the child's — you are, 
 in fact, a murderer — but if you will be a father to your child, I will forgive you, 
 and pray for you with my dying breath !' 
 
 " I was staggered, but I said, — 
 
 u ( You are wrong, Margaret. I love you and the child." 
 " ' God judge between you and me, but are you not sorry you have not lost two 
 instead of one?' 
 
 " I again started, because J;hese were my own words, uttered only to myself, 
 and it amazed me much ; but I promised that the child should be cared for. 
 (ti My will,' she said, ' you will find in my drawer." 
 
 " That was all she said : she died an hour afterwards, and I at once took the will 
 from the place where it was hidden, and read it over. 
 
 All her money went to the child, and there was nothing left for me. As 
 I was well persuaded that this will had been named to others, I took it away, 
 and sat down and copied it, altering the names and bequests, and forging all the 
 signatures with great care. 
 
 "At the proper time the will was read, and I was the sole legatee, and the child 
 left to me to properly provide for it. 
 
 "There was no opposition — there could be none; but some who were present 
 stared at the will, looked at the signatures, and appeared astounded at the 
 terms of the will ; but I obtained the possession of all the property, which was 
 considerable. 
 
 " My next care was to get rid of the child, which I did in the following manner: 
 — It slept with the servant girl, and I gave her a slight narcotic ; she slept soundly, 
 and I entered her room in the dead of night, and then I smothered the child. 
 
 In the morning she awoke, and then came the explanation and discovery. An 
 inquest was the result, when accidental death was the verdict. 
 
 *' The girl went mad, and I believe she looked upon herself as the murderess of 
 the infant. Of course, I couldn't help it, else I would* 
 
 Well, I got my forged will, and by its means I obtained my wife's fortune, and 
 no incumbrances to take any part of it away from me. It was entirely mine. 
 
 '« But my deeds came to light. The forgery was discovered, and I was arrested. 
 I was thrown into prison — my former deeds were scanned, and everything came 
 round to prove that I had murdered both mother and child. The latter indeed was 
 very strong against me. 
 
 " I was thrown into the iron room, and there kept as I had been misbehaving. 
 My gaoler died suddenly, and the others knew not where I was ; and it was a week 
 before they came, and I was dead. I died suffering htfrribly — a just retribution. 
 But when will it end ? — when will it end ? Hark ! that's the chime, my hour of 
 rest and wandering is up. I must return to the abode of the evil, where there is 
 indeed weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth." 
 
 The spirit slowly turned, and went away, sobbing and groanmg dreadfully. I 
 shook like an aspen leaf, and could not rise for I saw him — though I wanted to 
 leave the spot. By degrees I recovered the use of my faculties ; but all I saw 
 was the gloomy passage, and the lantern almost out. I got up, and made my way 
 up as quickly as I could. That's all the story, however, and an odd one it is, as 
 no doubt you are all ready enough to admit by this time, so what do you think of it ? 
 
422 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 '* Well," said one, " I don't know exactly what to think, but it appears to me, 
 mind, in my humble opinion, to be one of the most infernal lies I have ever 
 heard." 
 
 "What !" exclaimed the man who had told the story, " do you mean to app^y 
 those words to me, sir, I should like to know ?" 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 "Very well. Then, I can tell yo« that I consider that as much the same as 
 casting a doubt upon my veracity; that's what I consider, I can tell you." 
 
 " Oh ! von can consider what you like ; but when you come to tell us odd things, 
 you ought to remember who we are, and what we have had the chances of seeing 
 and knowing in our times to be true. Why there aint a man who has been in any 
 of the locks of Newgate a year, hut has heard, in the common course of his busi- 
 ness, some strange things, such as everybody don't hear, I can tell you." 
 
 " There's no doubt of that— no doubt in the least. The fellows as gets nabbed 
 and popped in here, tells us things that they wouldn't tell to nobody else. No, not 
 even to the blessed counsel as is going all for to tell lies as thick as mulberries on a 
 tree, for him at the Bailey.'' 
 
 " And why ?" said another, as he struck the table with his fist, " and why ?" 
 
 9* Why — because they knows they can trust us, and that we isn't by no means 
 sneaks, nohow any way." 
 
 t( If thai's it, you couldn't have said a more correct thing if you had swore it for 
 a month. They knows as they can trust us, they does, and so we gets all the 
 secrets as nobody else gets, and we keeps 'em as close as wax." 
 
 What do you think of that?" whispered I to my friend ; "you seem quite 
 interested."' 
 
 " I am what I seem. Their brief but living chronicles of the times are more 
 interesting to me than your manuscripts." - 
 
 " I differ from you there," I said. " Stlt shall we remain longer here, or have 
 you for once, at all events, heard enough of the conversation of the turnkeys V 
 
 " Pray remain, if you are really nut doing so much against your inclination, for I 
 am anxious to hear what I can, and I am inclined to think that, from the tone of 
 their conversation, they will say something soon that will be amusing as well as 
 j structive." 
 
 u Certainly, certainly ; stay as long as you like, for now that the bar is up, and 
 our remaining is so completely divested of anything in the shape of peril, J care 
 not how long we remain ; and I am irclined to think with you, that we shall soon 
 hear something to reward our patience and perseverance." 
 
 " Ah !" said one at this moment, in answer to a remark- which had been made 
 by one of his comrades, " it's just as you say, some fellows go out to be hung like 
 bricks, but others again are so different that they seem as if they were half-dead 
 before hand." 
 
 "That's the truth," remarked one, whose voice sounded new to us; "and it 
 is not a little extraordinary what an effect fright has upon them ; you recollect a 
 man of the name of Peterson who was hanged for murdering his wife ?" 
 
 " To be sure. He killed her for the sake of two pounds ten from a burial 
 club, and was hanged after he had spent about one pound of the money, so that 
 he might be said to have sold himself to Jack Ketch for twenty bob." 
 
 They all laughe d at this, seeming to think it was one of the funniest jokes in 
 the world, and then he who had first ; nirc; reed the name of Peterson added : — 
 
 " Well, as I was going to te'J you, he w a great, red-faced, fiorid-h oking fellow, 
 as strong and nearly as big as an el-ph^nt, and one that, to look at, you would have 
 thought would have been afraid of uot'^nsr in the whole world." 
 
 " Ycp, that was just what he lo ked like." 
 
 " He did, hut only to show how deceiving looks are, there wasn't a greater cur 
 in all the world than he was, I can tell you, and before he was hanged he was half- 
 dead with fear, and went on crying and snivelling like a great boy that has jus t 
 been whipped. Bur. what I am going to tell you is what none of you know 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 423 
 
 but as it concerns only Simmons who is now dead, it don't make any sort of 
 consequence." 
 
 u What was it ?— what was it ?" 
 
 " Why just this — Peterson had a good watch and seals, and he promised 
 Simmons who was appointed to sit up with him all night that he should have 
 them if he would manage to bring him in a pint of strong brandy.'' 
 
 **. To enable him to forget the hanging I* 
 
 " Yes, and Simmons got his wife to bring it somehow, and he declared to me 
 that he gave it to Peterson, who drunk it off at a draught, and was no more the 
 worse for it than as if he had taken so much water, and he believes that a quart 
 would have had no effect upon him. He was carried out, as you all know, shaking 
 from fear to be hung and screaming all the way till it was perfectly horrid to 
 hear him, but he was no more tipsy even from the brandy than you and I are at this 
 moment." 
 
 4 'Ah!" said one, "hanging arter all does frighten the coves : they talks of 
 bolishing of it, and make a deal of gammon about transporting a fellow being as 
 bad ; just ask any cove at half arter seven on the morning as he's going to be hung, 
 and which he'd rather be, and you'd soon see how he'd jump at what they calls the 
 penal settlement as a devilish good settlement for him. But come, Master Griffith, 
 you promised you'd tell us an odd tale about some one whom yoa knew well, and 
 who told it to you." 
 
 " I did, and here goes ; it will be done by the time you have smoked your pipes 
 out." 
 
 " It is many years ago now since a public-house stood on the main road from 
 London to York — not thirty miles from town — but it is now gone, and nothing 
 is left to indicate the spot where a house once stood, save some old walls which 
 formed part of the house; but which now, by the help of weather-boarding, forms 
 an out-field barn, where the farmers house hay and corn, and at the same time might 
 help the farmers to build a shed for the accommodation of the out-standing 
 cattle. 
 
 " This place was once a large old-fashioned inn. It stood at the corner of a 
 long rambling lane, surrounded on all sides by trees and overgrown hedges. It 
 was a very wild and singular spot indeed — the old inn looked something more than 
 romantic. 
 
 " However, a very different spectacle meets the eye now. The old blackened 
 barns are all that meet the gaze of the traveller, who stops to look at the nook. 
 There at one time rang out the merry laugh, and at times the music that beat time 
 to the rustics' feet, when the daaee was held among the villagers, and that was 
 pretty often. 
 
 " It was a noble place for village and country balls, of a very comfortable 
 character ; but where are they now? The old inn, 'tis .gone : they are gone, but the 
 remembrance yet lives in a few who remain here to tell the merry tale, and 
 repeat the jest of yore. 
 
 "There were few men better calculated to make a place popular than the 
 landlord of the old inn ; he was hearty, boisterous, an original, with the cunning 
 of a fox, and the sagacity of an old raven. He was a jolly eld fellow, he had but 
 one fault, and that was he wa? somewhat unscrupulous. 
 
 " This was his only known fault, and that, because there was nothing else to 
 allege against him, they readily forgave and overlooked as being a venial fault 
 especially in an iun-keeper. 
 
 " There was much wisdom in this, but thereby hangs a fearful tale, for the 
 landlord considered his judgment as infallible, and never considered for one 
 moment that he could do any wrong. 
 
 " This was a fallacy that led to a very lamentable end, and one that grew 
 gradually into being, and caused him to believe that his opinion could not be 
 wrong upon any point ; and one mistake led to another, which in the end produced 
 a-series of results that ended in murder. 
 
 % This was the crowning crime, not that it was a solitary one ; no, the host of the 
 
 ,'. - t , .,„.., + , „ ,„.,_I J .,.J. I ,,.„,„ IU , . J , mm. 
 
424 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Maypole, when he did dip his hands in blood, stopped not at that one crime ; 
 indeed he seemed to have thrown off the natural horror that even the worst feel 
 in destroying human life, even when the necessity appears to be strong. 
 
 " It happened that one evening there was a small knot of visitors in the kitchen 
 of the Maypole; they had drawn round the fire, for the evening was chilly, and 
 there was a heavy fall of rain. 
 
 " Not what you call a storm, but a settled rain ; not heavy or violent, but 
 one which seemed to extend for many miles, and to continue for many hours 
 without interruption. 
 
 u * A wet night,' said one of the visitors, a tall man, who sat smoking by the 
 fire. 
 
 (t * Yes, I think it will continue, and yet I fancy, by the blowing of the wind, 
 that it is getting up, and you will find it will blow off the rain.' 
 
 " ? I wish it would blow off my rent day/ said the landlord. 1 1 don't know who 
 would keep an inn now-a-days when nothing is to be got by it.' 
 
 " * Very well for you landlords to say so; had any one else done so, I reckon you 
 wouldn't have thought it very civil of them.' 
 
 " 'You may say that ; however, we shall have it still heavier, for though the 
 winds blow harder, yet the clouds come up heavier than ever, and the rain comes, 
 if anything, faster than ever.' 
 
 Well, so it may, but it is probable that this is what you term a clear-up 
 shower.' 
 
 " The landlord shook his head, as much as to say, he had no such opinion, when 
 suddenly there were the sounds of wheels driving to the door. 
 '* 4 House ! — house t — ostler !' roared a strong voice. 
 
 " ' Hilloa! here's my Lord Hogwash, I suppose,' said the landlord, angrily. ' I 
 wonder what he means — we aint deaf nor dumb; and that I'll show him.' 
 
 "The host then sung out, ' Hilloa ! here we are !' in such a key tltat made his 
 company involuntarily start, and put their fingers in their ears ; and one let his pipe 
 fall, and smash on the floor. 
 
 " 8 There — that is all your fault, landlord ; you must give me another for it.' 
 
 '? * Well, I'm sure,' said the landlord, * it was much worse for me to do it than 
 you to hear it.' 
 
 " * I don't know that — people think a great deal of their own noise sometimes ; 
 but you've stunned me altogether, and no mistake.' 
 
 " The landlord now arose and went to the door, by which time the ostler had 
 emerged from his retirement from the stable, where he had thrown hiinself across 
 a truss or two of hay, listening to the sound of the rain, and drinking a pint of 
 ale, which he had smuggled in upon the sly. 
 
 " ' Well,' said the landlord to the ostler ; c couldn'c you make hasted 
 
 " < I'm here,' said the ostler ; * I've got his head, your honour — will you have 
 the .«teps V 
 
 * < l<o,' said the stranger, ' I don't want them ; but I'm very tired — and I dare 
 say toy Taotse is too.' 
 
 *« lie stranger descended and then entered the house, at the same time he took off 
 a heavy horseman's cloak, saying, — 
 
 " * Here, landlord, put that, if you can, near the fire, "where itjcan be dried, for 
 I don't V\ke its hanging up in the wet.* 
 
 " ' taVe care of it, your honour. Will you walk into the kitchen — there's a 
 good fire there V 
 
 * 4 1 vu\\,' replied the stranger, « I will — but, landlord, I have got money about 
 me, and o.o not want to get into any company where there may be danger.' 
 
 '« * Oh I' replied the landlord, after a few moments' thought, ' I am very glad you 
 have named it to me. You are perfectly safe — perfectly safe, for those who are 
 present, I know very well, and yet I would not advise you to say one word about 
 it to anybody— not even allude to it— for human nature is Jauman nature, and you 
 should trust no one.' 
 
 " * There may be daiger, then?' 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 425 
 
 " None, I assure you ; but when any visitors go, they may say to others, 1 There 
 is a rich stranger at the Maypole/ and then you may be waylaid. I don't say 
 they will do it, but the thing might happen, you know, and done innocently 
 enough too." 
 
 " Exactly. I understand you well. There is no danger, but you think I had 
 better offer no temptation to anybody. Is not that it, eh, landlord ?" 
 
 * Precisely, sir " said the landlord, who followed the stranger into the kitchen 
 —a large, old-fashioned place ; and he could not help muttering to himself, — 
 
 " Well, you are a precious spoon, you are, to tell me all about what you have 
 got, and you would have told everybody about it for two words." 
 \ " Let me have some brandy and water," said the stranger. " I'm cold and 
 tired." 
 
 No. 54- 
 
426 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Very good, sir ; directly you shall have it, almost directly. There, sir, is a 
 good chair by the fire." 
 
 The stranger walked up to the fire, and sat down without speaking to anybody, 
 while the landlord went away to obtain what was ordered by the stranger, with 
 which he returned in a few minutes. 
 
 There was no conversation. The stranger appeared a tall, dark man, past the 
 middle age of life, and seemed more inclined for silence than any conversation : 
 he was silent, and the landlord appeared more than usually reserved and taciturn. 
 
 No one spoke, or very little, and then went home very early to what they often 
 did. The last visitor who rose up, said, — 
 
 " Good night, landlord, good night. You are somewhat melancholy. I hope 
 you'll be better to-morrow." 
 
 " Good night," said the landlord. "I'm rather queer to-night, but I think it's 
 the weather — it always affects me, you know. I am, however, anything but 
 melancholy." 
 
 These individuals left. There was only now the landlord and the stranger, who 
 sat opposite to each other, withouf speaking a word for some time. 
 "What time do you shut, landlord V 
 " Soon, sir," was the reply. 
 
 " Then I will go to bed soon," was the stranger's answer. " I can have a bed, 
 I suppose 1" 
 
 " You can," said the landlord, " and a good one too." 
 "Aired?" 
 
 " Yes ; one was slept in last night ; — it's a small room, at the further end of 
 the house, and locks into the shrubbery- That room is often used. You can 
 have your choice out of two or three. If you like large ones you can have one, 
 only they are not so well aired— quite enough, however — quite enough," 
 
 " That will do for me, especially as you say it is most used ; that will determine 
 me in its favour, despite the shrubbery and smallness." 
 
 " When you please you can have it, then," said the landlord. 
 
 " I will have some supper and one more glass of brandy and water, and then I 
 shall be well off* till the morning. Hunger and fatigue will both be well appeased 
 by that time, and then I will resume my journey." 
 
 " Exactly, sir — a good night's rest and food ; — why, a man is a new man next 
 day." 
 
 " I think you are a conjuror, landlord." 
 
 " No, sir, I am landlord of the Maypole Inn, at your service ; where there can 
 be had as good entertainment for man and beast as anywhere else in the whole 
 county. I'll take upon me to stake my credit and that of the Maypole on the 
 veracity of the assertion." 
 
 " As far as my experience goes," said the stranger, '* you are quite right in what 
 you say.'* 
 
 " I have heard more than one say so, sir, meaning no offence to you." 
 
 <£ Certainly not." 
 
 * * * . *, * * 
 
 The landlord then got the supper ready, which the stranger ordered, and went 
 to bed, the landlord preceding him to his room, at the same time extolling it to the 
 stranger, who appeared to be very well satisfied with it. 
 
 The landlord left the room, and having gone away, he returned softly, and 
 listened to hear if there were any sounds that came from the stranger's room. He 
 heard him move about once or twice, and then yawn fearfully. 
 
 "Dear me," he muttered, "how sleepy I am! I never was so sleepy before ; 
 it's travelling many miles in the cold wind and the rain, at the same time. I 
 never was so sleepy, but I suppose it must be the brandy and water — and the sup- 
 per—and—and the fire. Ah ! that's it— it is the fire, and all together." 
 
 He seemed very sleepy, and could scarce speak for yawning ; and then he 
 appeared to have dropped into bed, but suddenly recollected the door. 
 
 " Ah, the door, I have forgotten to lock the door ; I must, do it, and yet it is no 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 427 
 
 matter ;— but I think I did lock it, — oh yes ! I did. I how remember very well. I 
 did lock the door." 
 
 And with this exclamation he appeared to fall asleep, for the sound of heavy 
 breathing came full to the landlord's ear as he sat upon the stairs' head. 
 " I hear — he sleeps ; — that will do." 
 
 He arose and went down stairs ; he shut up the house, and saw that there 
 was nobody about. 
 
 " I must go and look after that Bob the ostler," he muttered, "for he is always 
 prying about from place to place, and looking at this thing and then at that, — he's 
 a troublesome fellow. I must give him his discharge." 
 
 But there was no time now. He crossed the yard, and entered the stable, — there 
 was Bob the ostler : he lay on some hay, and fast asleep. 
 
 " Ah, the rascal has been at my ale again : he is incorrigible, — he never will 
 reform, and always is robbing me, I know. I will punish him. He knows the 
 yard well, that's one thing. However, he'll be safe now for some time, — so it is 
 well he did take the ale ; but if I had known it, I would have given him a little 
 something in it that should have made him sleep even sounder than he does now." 
 
 With that the landlord quitted the stable and secured the door on the outside, 
 so that he was assured that he could not §ct out to follow him, or to be in the 
 way at all. 
 
 " So far so good," muttered the landlord, f» I am safe ; and now for the 
 stranger, — he must be in a precious sound nap by this time, to say the least of it." 
 
 The landlord now crept softly into the house. The rain had ceased for a time. 
 There was no moon, and there were heavy clouds at the same time drifting- 
 along the sky,— while the winds were so fierce that there was scarce any sound 
 else that could be heard, save the rushing sound of the wind as it swept through 
 the old trees, and roared round the gable ends of the house. 
 
 He re-entered the house, and, securing the door by the lock, again crawled up 
 the staircase and took off his shoes at the foot of the last staircase ; and then, 
 softly approaching the door, he. stopped to listen, but he heard no sound save that 
 of the loud snoring of the stranger, who slept soundly. 
 
 Then with great caution he proceeded to open the door, which was not locked ; 
 but had it been so, there could be no doubt but he would have found means to 
 open the door, whether or not. 
 
 The door was opened, and the landlord walked into the room, and approached 
 the bed. The sleeper lay on his back, with his lips parted, — the light still burned, 
 and the landlord placed it close by the bedside, and paused. 
 
 " Just what I could have wished," he muttered : ff it seems to me as if it were 
 done on purpose. How quietly I can stifle all his cries in a moment ! Thanks to 
 having been brought up when a boy at a chemist's, I can provide my own poison." 
 
 As he spoke he took from his pocket a small phial, in which was a small quantity 
 of a transparent liquid, and taking the stopper out, he poured several drops into the 
 mouth of the sleeper, and instantly replaced the bottle in his waistcoat pocket; at 
 the same time with one hand he seized a pillow, which he threw over the face of 
 the stranger. 
 
 The moment the poison had passed the lips there was a motion in the body, and 
 almost before the pillow was placed on the face of the sleeper a strong convulsion 
 ran through his whole frame, and then he opened his eyes, and attempted to 
 start up. 
 
 This was prevented by the landlord, who threw himself upon the now dying man, 
 and pressed the pillow over his lips just in time to prevent a scream of agony — and 
 then all was over ! 
 
 " The best of this is, it is so soon over," said the landlord ; " that's why I like 
 it, but at the same time I never thought I should want it, but now I find the full 
 benefit of it. Knowledge is never thrown away, though it may not be immediately 
 of use to the owner." 
 
 There was now a pause of a moment or two. When the landlord was well satisfied 
 
428 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 that the stranger was dead, he took his clothes and carefully examined them all 
 over, and found a heavy sum of money, but most of it was in bills and notes. 
 
 " Confound the notes and bills ! I was in hopes of a good haul in gold; the notes 
 may be of use, but the bills none.'' . , 
 
 He counted over the money, which amounted to about a hundred and thirty in 
 gold, and about three hundred in notes, and a great amount in bills ; but these he 
 he burned in the fire, which destroyed so much wealth at once. There was not 
 another moment to be lost : he took the body and the clothes, which he carried 
 down stairs, and there laid it, while he seized a pick-axe and a spade and hurried 
 out to a part of the orchard, where there were a great many trees, and near the road. 
 
 Here he dug a grave seven feet deep — having removed the turf carefully first — 
 he then returned and brought out the body, after which, he placed it in the lone 
 grave with the clothes that belonged to it. 
 
 That done, he shovelled in the earth as fast as he could, but at the same time 
 he stamped it down so as to put it into the ground in about the same space as 
 before, and then he replaced the turf, which last operation took some time over, 
 and then having done it, he threw the light of a dark lantern over the whole, to 
 ascertain if it could be any concealment for the better ; but there was nothing that 
 could be altered. 
 
 There were marks enough of footsteps about, but these were of no consequence, 
 for the rain was now coming on again, and it would be all washed over, and the 
 J grass would rise up and nothing would be seen. 
 
 There was nothing to tell the fate of the traveller, and even Bob the ostler would 
 ] not be enabled to find any symptoms of suspicion. 
 
 The landlord himself walked coolly back, and locking the doors, heionce more 
 | walked into the traveller's bedroom, and made a survey about, so that there 
 ' was nothing to bear any witness of the deed that had been enacted in the house. 
 
 This done, the landlord retired to his own bed about midnight, and slept till 
 morning. 
 
 - * * » * * * 
 
 There was but little said in the morning; country inns are not open so soon as 
 those in town, especially in the latter end of the year, but the landlord got up 
 about the usual time, when the ostler Bob came. 
 '* Is the gentleman up, sir ?" 
 5 "Yes— why?" 
 
 " Because I'm going to feed the oss, sir, — and I thought he would like to 
 see me." 
 
 <f He's gone out these two hours, at least I think so; he said he wanted to go 
 out early — before we were up — you had better go and see." 
 
 Bob did go up, but he did it with an air which seemed to say, he was going 
 through a piece of gammon that would be easily done, but he didn't believe in it, 
 far from it — he looked with provoking coolness at the landlord and went up stairs. 
 
 The landlord was provoked at the coolness of the ostler, and he was well assured 
 there was some ground for it, but had no notion that he had any suspicion he had 
 seen or heard of anything, and therefore he must be ignorant of him ; he knew 
 he was safe. 
 
 " He's not there, master," said the man. 
 
 " I thought so," said the landlord , " he must have gone out before I got up." 
 " I shouldn't wonder atthat — do you know when he will be back I" inquired Bob. 
 * He said he thought he should be here to-day, but it might be the day after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " He's giving himself a long holiday." 
 " What's that to you ?" 
 
 " Nothing, master, nothing," said Bob, as he left the house, whistling a tune, 
 and he then proceeded to the stable, when he fed the horse. 
 
 Nothing more was said of the stranger for some weeks, when the landlord 
 declared that he would keep the house no longer, but advertise it for sale, and 
 accordingly did so. 
 
NEWGATE. 429 
 
 The newspaper in which it was advertised, had a reward of two hundred pounds 
 for the information of the place of abode, or the body of a gentleman, supposed to 
 be travelling about the country in his gig. 
 
 It was believed he might be murdered, as he always carried a large sum of 
 money about with him, and on this occasion he was known to have a sum quite 
 sufficient for any temptation to induce any one to the commission of the crime. 
 
 The day which followed that of the murder, the landlord suddenly found himself 
 short of the supposed plunder of about, twenty-five sovereigns ; that was the 
 sum he found missing, but could not say anything, because he feared to stir in 
 the matter. 
 
 He had seen that Bob had now more money to spend, and on the day in which 
 the reward was offered, which he saw with some concern, Bob that evening was 
 nowhere to be found. 
 
 There was Httle to be said, for there was nobody to scold, and he threatened to 
 himself that Bob should never come back to the Maypole. 
 
 There was little intention on Bob's part to do so at that moment, for he at once 
 posted off to the first market town, and immediately sought out the proper autho- 
 rities, to whom he wished to make a communication respecting the murdered man. 
 
 He was admitted ; and to them he admitted that he had seen the stranger stop at 
 the Maypole ; that he had a horse and gig. 
 
 " The night was very dark and wet, and the wind blew, and as he lay on some 
 hay he was awoke by aome one coming into the place : he saw it was his master, 
 but he was determined to watch what he was up to. 
 
 " But he only looked about, and went out again, muttering something he did not 
 hear. Curious to know everything, he got up and watched him back to the house, 
 but at the same time he thought it was very strange, and he sat watching the house, 
 and saw a light carried up to the stranger's room. 
 
 This he could not understand, and therefore got out of the 3table, which was 
 easy to him, as he could get into the loft and descend by means of a rope, which 
 he secured to a beam, and let himself down. 
 
 <r He had scarcely got down, when the landlord came out, and with him a pick, 
 spade, and dark lantern. Bob followed at a distance. The night was dark, windy, 
 and wet, and permitted him to keep pretty close without fear of any discovery 
 being made. 
 
 When he got into the orchard he saw him dig a deep hole, into which he got and 
 dug it deeper. It appeared in the form of a grave. 
 
 " He got out when it was deep enough to sait his purpose, and went in doors. He 
 was gone some minutes, and then returned with the body, which he threw into the 
 hole, and then he shovelled in the earth, several times getting in the grave to tread 
 it down, after which, as related, he put the turf on. 
 
 " It was a wet night, and there were few or no marks on the ground." 
 
 The consequence of this was, a warrant was immediately granted against the 
 landlord of the Maypole, who was taken, much to his terror and amazement, for he 
 know not how the matter had become known. On the same day there was an 
 order given to have the orchard dug, at the spot where Bob pointed out as being 
 that which was the grave of the traveller. 
 
 It was all true. The landlord was tried and convicted, and the night before his 
 execution, he confessed to the whole of the facts, which were very satisfactory to 
 thoBe who had anything to do with the affair. 
 
 Bob received the two hundred pounds, and with what he had stolen from his 
 master, he sat up in the Maypole, and tried to carry on the business, but he 
 could not do so. It became by degrees deserted, and after a year's trial, Bob 
 decamped. 
 
 The Maypole then fell into decay— the winds in the winter blew nearly all the 
 building down, save a few walls, which tHe farmers took advantage of to secure 
 their ricks from the weather, completing the enclosure by weather hoarding. Thus 
 the Maypole is not known now, and seldom spoken of. But that's the way with 
 
430 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 everything, arid that will be the way with us in course of time. We shall have 
 some pieces of boarding put around us in the shape of a coffin, and then there will 
 be an end of us all quite comfortable. 
 
 " Comfortable be hanged !" cried one, "I must say you have about as lively a way 
 of finishing a story off as any one I ever heard. What the deuce need you have 
 troubled yourself to put us iu mind of our coffins for 1" 
 
 " Oh, it's as well to think of such things ; and, by-the-bye, talking of coffins 
 always puts me in mind of Jack Eames, who used to be called ' Take-it-easy.' " 
 
 The men all laughed, and the narrator continued: — 
 
 " You recollect that when he was near being hung on account of the highway 
 robbery he really didn't do, he said, ' My lord/ says he to the judge, * I'm as inno- 
 cent of this affair as a baby, because I was robbing a gentleman thirty miles off 
 when it happened. But never mind, 'Xake-it-easy,' that was Jack's moral always." 
 
 Well, when the morning came for him to be hung, and the parson asked him to 
 confess, and got quite into a spluttering fury because he would not, Jack said * Take 
 : I did not do it, and have nothing to confess.' Well, eight o'clock came, 
 und out Le was brought to be hung; and, it appears, an old aunt of his had brought 
 a coffin to iak« him away in after he was dead and had been cut down, and there 
 she was for Jack to see her. 
 
 " Take it easy," says Jack, " Im sorry you have given yourself so much trouble. 
 I expect now I shall be hung, though I didn't do what they say I did — but take 
 it easy." 
 
 Well, at this blessed moment a man on horseback, half mad with making haste, 
 came in sight, and the mob called out,— - 
 " A pardon — a pardon !" 
 
 And sure enough it was, for the Secretary of State had had a communication 
 made him by a man who was in gaol for something else, to the effect that it was 
 he who did the robbery for which Jack Eames was going to be hung, and sent off, 
 post haste, to stop the execution, and only just in time was he. . . 
 
 The man on horseback gave the sheriff a letter; and, when he had read it, he 
 said, u John Eames, you are respited ; don't let this news overpower you." 
 
 " Thank you. Oh dear no !" said Jack. " Take it easy — I think we shall have 
 a fine day after all, though it is cloudy. Take it easy." 
 
 Then he turned to his old aunt, and said, — 
 
 " Come along, old girl. Just some of you give us a hand up with this coffin, 
 and I'll carry it home. There's no knowing when it may be useful." 
 
 And he actually walked away from Newgate with the coffin on his back, and 
 his aunt running after him with his coat and his hat, — and all the mob shouting 
 and offering him pots of beer like mad." 
 
 "Ob, gammon!" 
 
 " I tell you I saw it. You have not been here long enough to know the rummiest 
 things that take place here ;, when you have been on the lock as long as some of us, 
 I'm blessed if you will say gammon to anything." 
 
 " That's true," said another; <c but it's getting towards our time to be relieved, 
 and I aint sorry for it, for I didn't take much sleep in the day time, and I don't like 
 night duty, for as yet I have not got myself fairly into the habit of sleeping in the 
 day soundly." 
 
 " It does take you some time to manage that, but when once you get into it, it 
 comes as natural as anything in the world, and you would feel like an old owl in 
 the daylight, and be winking and blinking in such a way, that you would not know 
 what to do with yourself." 
 
 " I say," whispered my theatrical friend to me, " I cannot think of letting them 
 go without doing something." 
 
 "Doing what ?" 
 
 " Without terrifying them in some way. It will be fine fun to hear, on another 
 occasion, what they say about it ; and you know they cannot get at us on account 
 of the iron bar we have put up* Now, what -I propose is, that you make as hideous 
 a howling noise as you can, while I set off the crackers, and heave one after the 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 431 
 
 other as quick as I can do so, and if that don't make them think the very devil him- 
 self is here it will be an odd thing to me.'' 
 "I really think you had better not." 
 
 " Better not ! Why, in the name of all that's droll, had I bet ter not ? My dear 
 fellow, I make it a part of the philosophy of my existence never to miss an oppor- 
 tunity of having amusement. Life is at the best so dull an affair, that if we are so 
 imprudent as to let slip the little pleasant opportunities that do occur of enliven- 
 ing it, we make ; nothing of it but a most deadly-lively tragedy, without one 
 redeeming feature from the countenance of Momus." 
 
 I* Do as you please — do as you please, but come away the moment you have 
 perpetrated your joke, for there's no knowing exactly how they may take it. For 
 all we know they may have more courage than you give them credit for, and 
 may, after all, break open this door, and give chase to the nocturnal disturbers of 
 Newgate." 
 
 " All the more fun if they do ; at all events we shall have so much the start of 
 them that we shall be able to avail ourselves of our friend the pot-boy's good 
 services, and get into the skittle-ground of the tavern before they can catch us. 
 Besides, we may well doubt if any of them have ever been into these underground 
 passages, with which we ma^y consider ourselves, to a certain extent, familiar." 
 
 " Go on — go on ! do as you please." 
 
 " Yes ; but, my dear fellow, will you make a diabolical noise, just for once, in a 
 friendly way ?" 
 
 " I shall fail, I feel convinced, for I have a tolerably accurate idea in my own 
 mind of what 1 should call a diabolical noise, and I am quite sure I could not 
 make it." 
 
 " Well, I don't know that. I think you do yourself an injustice, for I heard you 
 try to sing once, and I set that down, I well recollect at the time, as the most 
 diabolical noise I ever had the misfortune to hear in all my life." 
 
 " Thank you for the compliment." 
 
 " You speak ironically ; but the greatest real compliment one man can pay to 
 another is to be sincere and candid, so now for it." 
 v I'll try very hard then at the alarming." 
 
 By making up both my hands into a portable and convenient kind of speaking- 
 trumpet, I howled through them in horrible accents — 
 
 "I'm coming — oh, good gracious — death and the devil, I'm coming !" 
 
 " At the same time, my friend let off his crackers as quick as he could, after 
 which he fairly sat down on the floor to laugh at the hideous noise I made, and 
 there being some more of the detonating balls, &c. in his coat pocket they all 
 went off together, making him jump up again with far greater celerity than he sat 
 down, 
 
 " Leave off, for God sake!" he said; " you have alarmed me ; I never heard such 
 an imitation of a man being smothered in some gigantic pewter pot before." 
 
 I ceased, and we paused a moment to listen, but to our surprise all was 
 profoundly still ; we soon, however, found that this was the stillness of fear and 
 intense amazement, for suddenly, just as I was about to recommend that we 
 should get away, as I thought this stillness of the enemy suspicious, several voices 
 cried, — 
 
 u Help— help — murder — murder !" 
 
 Then ensued such an upsetting of chairs and trampling of feet as convinced us 
 we had nothing to fear, for the turnkeys were making as precipitate a retreat from 
 us as we could desire. 
 
 I could not help joining my friend in his uproarious mirth, but when he 
 proposed that we should take down the crowbar and open the door, I decidedly 
 objected. 
 
 *' No ; I say it's a very good job as it stands at present. I don't at all want to 
 alter its character, or to have any more of it, so come along. I decidedly won't 
 have any more." 
 
 " Nay, but just for a moment—just to let us see what sort of a room they were 
 
432 NEWGATE. 
 
 sitting in. We may not have such another opportunity, and perhaps, finding it 
 completely vacant, we may be able just to carry our joking on a little further." 
 
 " Yes, that's just the very thing I'm afraid of— jokes are very capital things in 
 their way, and the only great danger attending them is, their being carried just a 
 little further than they ought to be." 
 
 " Oh, you're too cautious." 
 
 " Not at all. A friend of mine, who was fond of jokes, was flourishing a very 
 sharp sword round sombody else's head just for fun, but at last he carried the joke 
 just too far and cut off his nose. Moral : — Come away when you've had your 
 first laugh, and don t be hankering after a second, for fear, by some combination of 
 unfortunate circumstances, it should happen to be the wrong side of your mouth." 
 
 "i must yield, perforce; but still not with the best grace in the world, for I 
 cannot help thinking you are over-timid." 
 
 " Hush," I said, " do you hear nothing V* 
 
 We were standing close to the door, and, as we did so, I distinctly saw the 
 handle of ic turn very slowly, sufficiently proving that some one on the other side, 
 notwithstanding the diabolical noises we had made, thought of opening it and 
 taking us by storm. 
 
 " There," I whispered, "what do you say to that? Some one of the turnkeys 
 either has remained or come back again to prove to us that they are not all quite 
 such cowards as we took them for." 
 
 " By Jove, I shouldn't have thought that, now." 
 
 " It takes me by surprise; but you, see the necessity of great caution, and this 
 is a matter in which, although w e are two to one, we should be forced to yield if 
 an enemy chose to be obstinate, because most certainly we should not feel ourselves 
 justified in inflicting any serious injury upon an opponent." 
 
 4< I certainly stand corrected — come along, since it cannot be so, and let us make 
 the best we can of it. The iron bar saves us most completely from what might be 
 a very disagreeable contingency," 
 
 We took up our light and hastened from the place, congratulating ourselves 
 rather that we were able to do so with such an amount of safety, and wondering 
 each to each, if it would at all be within the confines of prudence, again to creep 
 up this ancient staircase and listen to the conversation of the turnkeys of Newgate. 
 
 " I consider," said my friend, " that we have been well repaid for the time we 
 have spent in the matter, for we have keard some little episodes of human life that 
 ha ve been highly entertaining, but most of all what tickled me was the man who 
 when he was reprieved walked off with his coffin ; I must confess -that I did enjoy 
 that, for of all the cool fellows that ever stepped he certainly was the coolest." 
 
 (i Yes, and free from prejudice ; was it stupidity or philosophy?" 
 
 " That's an awkward question, and safest answered, I think, by presuming it to 
 be a little of both, for in real truth the difficulty of distinguishing one from the 
 other has puzzled wiser heads than ours from the beginning of the world." 
 
 We descended the staircase, feeling perfectly secure from any interruption 
 while that door with the iron bar across it interposed itself between us and the 
 habitable portion of Newgate. I wondered to myself whether any connexion 
 would be fancied to he formed between those strange and alarming noises we had 
 produced and the mysterious circumstances attending upon the proceedings at the 
 offal cellar. 
 
 "Do you think," 1 said, *' that we shall be considered to be the same persons?" 
 
 " Whether we are or not, such considerations will not arise from any parties 
 whom we need care a jot about. The turnkeys will keep this affair to themselves 
 you may depend. It would be too good a thing not to be nursed up with care 
 and attention for the long winter nights, and it will became such a stock anecdd^e 
 that I'll be bound any new man that is employed at Newgate will have it related 
 to him with so many additions,, adaptations, and interlineations, that it will be 
 quite a novelty to us to hear it." 
 
 •- ' 1 ■ 1 f ■ ■ ■ " W ■ " 
 
NEWGATE. 433 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt; but here we are by the passage where you met with your 
 disagreeable adventure." 
 
 " Yes, my adventure that nearly smothered me by dropping the curtain upon my 
 earthly career." 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 THE TALE OF THE MURDER AT GRKENFORD. 
 
 Wf. made the best of our way towards the trapdoor now in the cellar, which we 
 reached without anything happening to terrify us, or to retard our progress, but 
 when we got there, we distinctly heard the sound of voices in the skittle-ground 
 above. 
 
 JTo. §5, 
 
434 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 One of the voices we recognised as that of our friend the pot-boy, while the other, 
 from its deep gruff tones, of which we had some recollection, we had no doubt 
 belonged to the landlord, and when we heard what he said we were further con- 
 firmed in that opinion. 
 
 "What the deuce," Ave heard him say, " is the meaning of keeping a light 
 burning here at this time of night, when nobody is playing, and nobody is likely 
 j to play; for you don't suppose I'd let any one begin now, stupid !" 
 
 The boy mumbled something about having been just going to put the light out, 
 to which the landlord replied, — 
 
 " Yes,- you are always going to do what you ought to have done, but somehow' 1 
 or another you are never going to do it till some one speaks to you about it. Shut 
 up the skittle-ground at once; it's time the house was quite closed, and just you get 
 t( your bed." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the boy, " I'm going." 
 
 " Here's a fix we are in," said I. " We shall have to remain here all night, 
 that's the fact, and only emerge in daylight to-morrow, when the house is not open, 
 and our doing so will not be noticed as anything extraordinary." 
 
 '* I'll be hanged if I stay here just because that landlord happens to be an 
 obstinate brute ; I won't do "it, and there's an end of that, but. I will go and chance 
 the consequences ; but you can stay, you know, this is Liberty Hall !" — 
 
 " Oh thank you ; I suppose, I may, if I like, but if you feel inclined to risk the 
 adventure, I won't shrink, so up with the trap, and here, goes at once." 
 
 We accordingly raised the trap, and emerged from the lower regions into those 
 above, which, however, were in as profound darkness as the vaults and winding 
 passages we wished at that time to make our escape from. 
 
 We had not been above a minute there and were letting down the trapdoor as 
 slowly^and as gently as we could, so as to make as little noise as possible, when we 
 i heard a voice say, — 
 
 " Hist ! hist !-— Is that you? f * 
 
 " Yes," said I, « who are you V 
 
 " Mary Anne, — come this way — do you hear me?" 
 
 " Had I ten ears, I'd hear thee said my friend, " lead on poor ghost, I'll 
 follow thee f 
 
 "Oh! it's not you," cried the voice, u murder ! — fire !" 
 
 " Hold your row, will you V we heard our friend the pot-boy say at this 
 moment; "hold your row, Mary Anne, will you? — 1 didn't ask you to make all 
 that disturbance." 
 
 " Oh, but there's some strange man here." 
 
 ft Well ! what is that to you ?" 
 
 "Oh, if you know him, of course 1 says nothing, only it gave me a sort of turn, 
 and made my blood creep." 
 " Be off with you now." 
 
 In another moment our friend made his appearance with a rushlight in his hand, 
 and when he saw us, he said, — 
 
 " I was quite afeard as you'd be shut up all night, for master has been in a devil 
 of a temper all the evening, and wou!d have the gas turned out Come close after 
 me, and walk as gently as" ever you can ; he has gone to bed, but I'll be hanged if I 
 know whether he has gone to sleep or not !" 
 
 We followed him right through the bar, but just as he was on the point of 
 letting us out, the landlord bawled down the staircase, — 
 
 " Hilloa ! hilloa ! I say, what's that ? I'm quite sure I heard somebody — Bob ! 
 have you gone to bed V 
 j Yes, sir," cried Bob, " but I have been forced to get up do you know, sir, to 
 let out a strange cat. I wish you would come down, sir, and see if you know whose : 
 cat it is, if you please, sir, it's such a whopper, a tabby, with only half a tail." 
 
 We heard the landlord mutter an oath, and then slam the bedroom door, and j 
 in another momeut we escaped. j 
 * * * # I 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 435 
 
 My friend, although I gave him no invitation to do so, for I thought of Retiring 
 to rest as soon as I could, walked home with me, and when we reached my door, 
 he said, — ' 
 
 " Now, as you are a bachelor, I know I shall not be disturbing the economy of 
 your household by coming in, nor shall I draw down upon your head any curtain 
 lecture — I am as hungry as a hound." 
 
 Of course, this was an appeal that it was quite impossible to resist, so I invited 
 him in with as good a grace as I could, making, as I think one should always do if 
 one can, a virtue of necessity, for nothing in the world can be more graceful than 
 •to bow to circumstances, as if we really liked them. 
 
 When we had feasted, as he told me we had, like princes, he proposed a tumbler 
 of punch and a cigar, so that going to bed was one of those things which 1 soon 
 saw had better not be mentioned at all. 
 
 " Now," he said, " I saw, when you were turning over the papers in the I V let, 
 a small lot with to me an attractive heading, because it mentioned the plsco iMvfcfc 
 I was born, that is, Greenford. 1 should like to read, or hear you read, what k f& all 
 about/ 
 
 I consented, and produced the packet of papers, and soon found those he men- 
 tioned, which I was by no means loath to look into. 
 
 This short anecdote, I may call it rather than a tale, was entitled, the 
 
 ©reettforlj ffturfcrrss* 
 
 •V« A- J | i ' 
 Towards the close of one of those close hot days in the mouth of August, that 
 a traveller rode up to the one inn of the village of Greenford. It had been a hot, 
 sultry day, the sun was, as they said, broiling-, and not a cloud to be seen, and 
 yet there was a dim haziness that rendered distant objects somewhat indistinct. 
 
 There were at sunset, however, indications of a change in the weather; dark 
 and heavy masses of clouds came riding up from beneath the sun; they came up, too, 
 without any apparent wind. 
 
 True the tops of the tallest trees, indeed, now and then gave a faint intimation 
 that something was astir in the upper region ; occasionally their leaves would move, 
 as if agitated by a strong gust of wind, bat it was momentary, and soon ceased. 
 
 The traveller looked up at these indications of the leaves, and he turned his 
 jaded horse's head towards the inn-door, with the intention of dismounting, and 
 there remain for the night. 
 
 He had more reasons than one for this, because he felt not only for himself, 
 but for the animal he bestrode, which was dappled all over with sweat, begrimed 
 with dust that had been raised by the slightest motion on the roads, and stuck to 
 his moistened tides ; neither was the traveller himself much better, for he was 
 fatigued and heated to an extreme. 
 
 The horse, when he felt the slackened bridle, stretched out his neck, and 
 extended his nostrils towards the water-trough, as though indicating a desire 
 to become acquainted with its contents. 
 
 "You shall have some, my old servant," said the rider, "and yet you must 
 put a check upon your thirst, else you will suffer." 
 
 The traveller turned his head to look for some one who would attend to 
 him, but he saw no one about, and yet there were plenty of signs of business 
 going on. There was the sound of grooms in the stables, dressing horses ; the 
 sound of the currycomb upon the stones,— the clinking of pails, and the ringing 
 of bells, all denoted unusual bustle at the inn. 
 
 In one corner of the yard was a travelling carriage with * broken axle, and 
 one or two smiths looking at the fracture, debating upon the best manner of 
 mending it. 
 
 Presently a female head was projected from the doorway, when the traveller 
 said, — - ** 
 
 " My good girl, can you tell me if I can find any one who can attend to 
 my horse?" 
 
 Instead of answering the traveller, the girl ran in, and while he was debati n „ 
 
 » I 
 
436 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 within himself upon the probability of his getting no accommodation at all, a 
 little clapper man came to the door, wiping his face, which was very red, with 
 his white apron. 
 
 " Can I get any accommodation here?" inquired the horseman, somewhat 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Yes, anything in reason." 
 
 " Are you the landlord of this place?" 
 
 "Yes I am, your honour, at your service. Here, Jem! — confound that Jem, 
 he's always somewhere where he isn't wanted, — he's got an uncommon habit 
 of drinking ale and talking to the girls.'' 
 
 " That is a pity,'' said the traveller, " because it increases the parish rates." 
 
 "So it does, your honour, so it does, — here, Jem, here." 
 
 " Well," said Jem, appearing from the stables, "here I is, master; what's 
 wrong now ?" 
 
 " Attend to this gentleman's horse, and leave the gals alone, do, you good-for- 
 nothing brute." 
 
 " Lord love you, master, you don't know how unkind it is to me." 
 " See to the gentleman's horse." 
 
 "All right, sir, I'll take care on him ; he's tired, I see. I'll clean him down at 
 once, and wash his legs, give him his feed, and shut him up by himself, so that 
 he can eat or sleep as best suits him." 
 
 " That will do,'' said the traveller, " he has come far, and the day's hot." 
 
 " It is uncommon hot sir, but we shall have thunder and a shower before long ; 
 ay, another hour wHl do it — the air will be cooler." 
 
 '* I hope it may ; and now, landlord," said the stranger, turning to that indi- 
 vidual, " that my horse is provided for, see what you can do for me, for I am as 
 tired as he is, and woefully hot." 
 
 " Come in, sir ; here's a nice cool parlour, and nobody in it, though our house is 
 full otherwise. " 
 - M Indeed." 
 
 ff Yes, sir, there are plenty of visitors. 
 
 " I saw a broken carriage — is that anything to do with your visitors?* 
 " Yes, it has, sir ; and but for that accident, they would have been some distance 
 on the road towards their journey's end." 
 "I see ; broke down, and can't get on.'"* 
 " Not till to-morrow." 
 " Then their misfortune is your gain." 
 
 " Just so, sir. What shall I do for you ? I have cold meat — but we can cook." 
 
 " Well, I suppose I must have something cooked, and that as quickly as you 
 can ; and let me have tea — I am too hot and dry to take anything else." 
 
 " You shall have it in as short a space of time as it is possible." 
 
 As he spoke, the landlord left the room. The traveller threw himself into a 
 chair near the window, so that he commanded a full view of the road, and that 
 span of the inn, and then he sat watching the pigeons and fowls as they ran 
 about feeding in front of the door, and the men employed about the place. 
 
 This was a very picturesque spot, showing a view from the windows across some 
 meadows, which ran sloping towards the valley about a mile, and then it rose 
 upwards for some distance. 
 
 It was a very beautiful spot — the ground being nearly all cultivated meadows, 
 with high timber trees, here and there forming a picturesque tract of cultivated 
 land ; while here the ostler came close by the window, and saw one of the maids. 
 
 *' Mary," said he. 
 
 " Well, Jem, can't yem let me be V 
 " Lord, I haven't touched you yet." 
 
 " Don't say you have ; don't you talk to one so. I'm always getting into scrapes 
 through you." 
 
 " Well, I'm just as badly off. Why, bless you, Mary, master was only 
 grumbling just now ; but never mind, I don't care a bit about it." 
 
NEWGATE. 437 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 " Well, then, let him grumble ; but what will you do for beds to-night V 
 *' What do you mean by that?" 
 " Why, you've got another guest in the house." 
 " Have we?'' 
 
 Yes, to be sure, and one I reckon that will be after staying the night — his 
 >, and I have put him up for the night." 
 
 horse is almost knocked up, and I have put him up for the night. ' 
 " Well ; but where will he sleep?" 
 " In the stable — where 1 have put him, to be sure." 
 
 " I snean the traveller, of course. What a man you are, to be sure, Jem. What | 
 do I want to know about the horses — you have the charge of them." 
 " Exactly— but how will you lodge the stranger?" 
 
 " I don't know. Why do you want to know, Jem ? It can't matter to you, [ 
 can it P" 
 
 " No ; but you haven't got a spare bed, unless you give up yours, and sleep in \ 
 the haunted room." 
 
 u Oh yes — let them catch me sleeping there; if they do, I'll scream the place \ 
 down. No, no ; they had better put the traveller there — I dare say he will sleep j 
 there. I must see about it, and get the room in order, and the beds put in." 
 
 " Don't you keep them there ?" 
 
 " No, they would get damp if nobody slept in them, and I am sure that nobody 
 ever would." 
 
 "He won't hurt there." 
 
 " No, no, he won't hurt if old Scratch don't come to him as he has done to 
 others before now. I wouldn't sleep there for the world by myself." 
 
 " Oh, but if I was there to take care of you, you would not be afraid." 
 
 ? Jem, Jem — confound that fellow — he's always after the girls," said the landlord. 
 
 Away went Jem into the stable as if he had been shot, and Mary ran in another 
 direction, so by the time the landlord got to the door he found nobody there. 
 
 " Well," he muttered, " I could haye sworn I heard them two talking together ; 
 but I'll be even with them — they can run quick ; but if they don't mind, they'll get 
 discharged, and that wont be pleasant for them." 
 
 He then turned away, and came in. 
 
 "Then, there is nothing but a haunted room for me to sleep in afer all. 
 Well, well, as long as it is not haunted by damp sheets, I don't mind. I have 
 heard of ghosts, but never saw one. I think the encounter would vary ihe dull 
 routine of life." 
 
 At this moment the landlord opened the door, and the tea was brought in, with 
 some steaks, and placed before the stranger, who thought this a good time to 
 speak about the prospect of sleeping. 
 
 w This is just what I want," said the traveller ; "but can you tell me whether 
 you have a spare bed in the house ?" 
 
 4t I really don't know, sir, but I'll make some inquiry about it — the fact is, I 
 have more people in the house than usual ; the carriage, you see, having broken 
 down, the riders were compelled to leave it, and will sleep here until to-morrow, 
 when they will resume their journey. 
 
 " Well, see what you ©an do for me." 
 
 " I will, sir." 
 
 The landlord left the room, and did not return for some minutes, and then the 
 traveller went on with his meal, which he seemed to enjoy, until the landlord's 
 return, when the stranger said to him, — 
 
 "Well, landlord, what success have you had?" 
 
 " Why, sir, but very indifferent, very indifferent indeed. What can be ..done 
 shall be done, but we can't do more." 
 
 " That's very kind — quite enough." f f 
 
 * We have a bed, sir, but we are not sure you will accept of it." 
 " I am not difficult to please." 
 
 * You see, sir, that many persons object to sleep in a room that is haunted." 
 
43 8 NEWGATE. 
 
 — j . — ■ ■ ■ . w 
 
 "So they do." 
 
 &( « Therefore, though I have a spare bed, yet I did not like to put you in it without 
 telling you its character beforehand lest you should be disturbed." 
 " 1 understand you." 
 
 " You would not like to venture? Well, I don't know that I would do so myself. 
 I am not fond of strange character coming into my room at night, and horrifying 
 one out of one's life. " 
 
 " Exactly— nor I ; but you have no other bed V 1 
 
 (< None, sir." 
 
 " Then that must do." 
 
 " You will sleep there, sir V 
 
 <c Yes I must have a bed if possible, and I shall permit no ghost to spoil me 
 of that ; 'but I must tell you I shall require it to be well aired." - 
 
 " Of that vou shall have no cause to complain," said the landlord. * I prefer 
 receiving my customer's visits another time, and taking their money, to permitting 
 the doctor to take it for me." 
 
 « Quite right. Have you ever seen the ghost ?" 
 
 f No, sir." 
 
 " Have you slept there V* 
 
 " No, sir. I have other rooms to sleep in, and I never tried the experiment— 
 besides, my wife would never have consented to it." 
 '< Ah I I see. Well, I shall go to bed early." 
 •' Very good, sir." 
 
 The landlord retired, and left the traveller to his own cogitations ; of what 
 character they were we know not, but he appeared to be deeply meditating, 
 and then he muttered audibly to himself,— 
 
 it j WO nder whether I shall ever see my father again, and what can have become 
 
 of him no trace since he returned to England, and no knowing whether he is 
 
 dead or alive. I would I knew— I would I knew !" 
 
 He seemed to be much affected, and buried in deep thought, from which he 
 was only interrupted by the entrance of the landlord. 
 
 « I have had a fire lit, sir, and everything done that will make it comfortable ; 
 but I suppose you would choose to have the fire out before you went to bed, as it 
 is so hot/'' 
 
 " Yes, I should." 
 
 d if y 0U w ill tell me about the time you are going, I will see it done." 
 *' Very good. I shall go about nine. I am fatigued." 
 « I'll see to it, sir." 
 
 " Do you know anything about that ghost 1" 
 
 " Nothing, sir ; only an old man comes to your bedside, and beckons yon away. 
 He don't touch anybody, but people don't like it." 
 ,c Exactly. No one ever followed him V 
 
 "Oh! dear no, sir. He might lead them into harm, and he looks villanously 
 mischievous." 
 
 " Does he % and where could he lead them 1 ' , 
 
 " Oh, we don't know, but somewhere where they could get a broken limb, if 
 not neck." 
 
 " Well, it may be as well ; but you might have found out if it were a ghost or 
 no ghost ; it may be a mere counterfeit." 
 
 " Oh, sir," said the landlord, "let them do it as likes. I don't like; therefore, I 
 let it alone ; besides, the people who had it before me, could not keep the house 
 on that account." 
 
 « They left, then ?" 
 
 <c Yes— there was a flash of light— God bless me, how dreadful !" 
 
 It was a most vivid flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder, that seemed 
 to make the house rock again, and there fell such a rushing torrent of rain, 
 as almost darkened the air, and obscured the vision, so they could see but a very 
 
 short distance. 
 
i 1 ! — ; — -— — < - 
 
 NEWGATE. 439 
 
 . r _ t — , b : . ! 1 — — 
 
 The landlord retired precipitately to secure some things, and to see to some 
 doors, leaving the stranger to his own thoughts. 
 
 The storm raged far more than an hour, and gradually subsided into a steady, but 
 gentle rain. After that, the stranger summoned the chamber-maid, and retired 
 to his own room. 
 
 It was near ten o'clock, and the moon's rays came slantingly into the room, 
 where the traveller intended to sleep, and having secured the door, he placed a 
 brace of exquisitely made pocket pistols close by his bedside, so that he could 
 lay his hand upon them in a moment, if he required them. 
 
 Then, thinking of the probability of an adventure, he, from sheer fatigue, fell 
 fast asleep. 
 
 How long he remained, he could not tell, but he awoke by a deep groan, sound- 
 ing close to his ear, and, on looking up, he was horrified at the sight of features 
 that were to him most expressive, and such as he had not seen for years. 
 
 He lay almost spell-bound, looking the strange figure in the face. The features 
 were all blacked and swollen, and the eyes and tongue protruded, as though he 
 had suffered a violent death, such as smothering. 
 
 For some moments, the stranger lay gasping, and incapable of moving, but 
 suddenly, by a great effort, he raised himself up, and sat upright in bed. 
 
 The figure lboked mournful, wrung its hands, and, with one finger, he beckoned 
 him to follow him. 
 
 After a moment's consideration, he determined to follow the figure, which he 
 did with some emotion, and then he opened the door, and followed the apparition 
 until he found himself in the garden. 
 
 In a very unfrequented part of the garden, the apparition stood still, turned 
 round, and then, with a sorrowful and mournful look, vanished. 
 
 * * * # * * * 
 
 The traveller found his way to the bedroom, and, locking the door, he fell into 
 his bed in almost a swoon. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 The stranger rose in the morning, came down -into the public-room, and there 
 sat until his breakfast was brought to him. 
 
 To every one the stranger was an object of curiosity, because he had slept in the 
 haunted room, and every one was anxious to see and hear, but none ventured to 
 make any inquiry. 
 
 The stranger seemed thoughtful and reserved, and spoke to no one, but kept 
 aloof from all, until the landlord himself came to inquire how he slept. 
 " Well, sir, I hope you have not been disturbed in your sleep last night V* 
 "I have." 
 
 "What ! — have you seen the ghost V* 
 « I have/' 
 
 The stranger was short in his speech, not because he was unwilling to speak, for 
 he had no such desire— he wished to make known what he had seen ii$ the night. 
 <f Well, sir, what did you see V* 
 
 " An old man, who came to my bedside, and beckoned me away* I saw he 
 bore about him all the marks of a man who had died by suffocation ; iind he was, 
 moreover, the exact picture of my father." I 
 
 " Your father !?' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 u Is he living ?" 
 
 " Not that 1 know of, seeing that I have not seen or heard of him for fifteen 
 years." - 
 
 " Did you follow the figure, as he beckoned y#u away 1 You said he did so." 
 
 <£ Yes, I followed." 
 
 " Where did he lead you P" 
 
 " To a part of the garden, and there he vanishet 1." 
 
 " Will you come in the garden, and point it out % It may be that something may 
 be discovered by that means; these things have h een done before, though I am 
 
440 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 far from believing we may do so. Perhaps, you were thinking of your father 
 before you went to sleep ?" 
 
 " I was, most certainly," replied the traveller ; " but I think I am not mistaken. 
 But with your permission, we will have it dug up." 
 
 ** With all my heart, especially as you have recognised in the apparition the 
 features of one tf your family. Let us search into the mystery ; by all means allow 
 us to go through with the adventure." 
 
 !' Will you obtain assistance V 1 
 
 "1 will." 
 
 " I will be answerable fer all the expense." 
 
 " Oh, as for that," said the landlord, " I have only to order in some of the men 
 to do what is necessary, and there is an end of it all." 
 
 " Then, when you have breakfasted we will begin our operations." 
 
 With that understanding the landlord ordered two men to take a pick-axe and 
 a couple of spades, to go into the garden, and there to remain until he came, which 
 was in a very short time. When the traveller and the landlord joined them, — 
 
 "Thib is the'spot," said the stranger, " beneath the branches of these two trees — 
 where they meet, there he vanished." 
 
 "Vanished ! vanished ! !" echoed the two men, staring at each other. 
 
 " Come, come," said the landlord, "no nonsense, else I shall discharge you. 
 Dig that piece up, and throw the mould up against the trees." 
 
 The men set to work, and in about fifteen minutes they came to the object of 
 their search — a dead body. The clothes were all entire ; and no sooner had the 
 stranger examined them than he swooned away, as he exclaimed, "It is my 
 father ! " 
 
 An inquest was held the next day — a crowd of persons were collected. The 
 evidence adduced went to show that about fourteen years ago a traveller stopped 
 there, and most mysteriously disappeared — nobody could account for it. 
 
 The landlord, who had the house a few years, afterwards retired with money — 
 more than it was believed he could have made in business ; but no one could say 
 anything about that, and he was forgotten. 
 
 There had been another proprietor between that and the one who held it at that 
 moment; and after much delay and search, the former landlord was found, and 
 accused of the murder. He was ao terrified that he at once confessed the whole, 
 and was afterwards tried, and convicted of the murder. Some title-deeds were 
 restored, which enabled the stranger to recover certain property he could not other- 
 wise have obtained. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 THE AWFUL DISCOVERIES IN THE CELLAR, AND THE REWARDS OFFERED.-— OUR 
 HAZARDOUS INTERVIEW WITH THE POT-BOY. 
 
 I hardly really expected that such a mine was about to be sprung beneath my 
 feet, as now suddenly threatened serious consequences. 
 
 A day or two had elapsed, and my friend and I began to ask ourselves what 
 ought to be done, if anything, in the affair connected with the Offal Cellar at 
 Newgate Market; for, although neither of the unhappy persons who had perished 
 in the old well, had left behind them any mourning relatives, or appeared to have 
 caused any very great vacuum in society by their deaths, still, whenever we did 
 think over the matter, it was with uncomfortable feelings, such as the reader may 
 well imagine. 
 
 " I do not at all like the id«a," said I, " of leaving those ladies in their present 
 ^.tuation. It is remarkably uncomfortable to me to do so' 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 441 
 
 Is it ?" said my friend. " Well, I did think that you were by far too much of a 
 philosopher for any such feelings as that ; so, as regards my own opinion, although 
 I regret the death, of course, of my ancient female relative most particularly, I 
 cannot regret that all the trouble and bother of burying her has been saved," 
 
 " Well, perhaps you are right there, but I can tell you that more than once an 
 idea has come over me, that sooner or later there must be a discovery of those 
 mortal remains, and then there will ensue trouble to us, for all we know, of a 
 serious character." 
 
 "Oh, rubbish,— when the bodies are discovered, I grant you that somebody 
 must be suspected and perhaps somebody hung, but what cm that mater to us, 
 you know, so long as Ave escape such a consequence V* 
 
 " Upon my word you are wonderfully liberal." 
 
 " Yes, I think I am. for you know as well as I tha f really we are neither of us 
 a nswerab]e for the deaths that have occurred, and if any innocent person is to be 
 ^ung for them, ithadjbetter be some one else." 
 
 *' I admire that course of reasoning very much indeed. The candour of the 
 
442 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 sentiment is immense; but I dare say no one else would see it in the same light. 
 I was thinking now. if we could not yet make an effort to get the Offal Cellar into 
 our own possession, and fill up the well, so that there could be no future likelihood 
 of any awkward discovery taking place." 
 
 " Oh, no. You may depend that this is one of those affairs that are most 
 certainly best left alone. We shall only, if we interfere, at all, interfere to our 
 own cost, I am convinced. Nothing can be more unlikely than that anything of 
 the kind should take place. Who will amuse themselves by grubbing about at the 
 bottom of an old well, and besides in course of time the bodies will become 
 decomposed." 
 
 16 There is some comfort in that, and when they are found they will only excite 
 some short paragraph in 'Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper,' about the discovery of some 
 human remains, &c, and then there will be an end of the matter." 
 
 " There may be." 
 
 It was about three days after this conversation between me and my friend, that 
 I took up one of the morning papers, — I think as near as I can recollect it was the 
 Herald,— and my eye fell upon the following paragraph :— 
 
 " Appalling Discovery. — Recently, in consequence of a presentment by the 
 Court of Common Council, it has been determined to make some extensive alte- 
 rations in Newgate Market ; alterations which it was considered would be highly 
 conducive to the public health, and accordingly it was resolved that several houses 
 should be pulled down, and a large substantial sewer built through the market 
 completely. During the progress of these works, an old well has been cut into, 
 the existence of which was not known until the workmen suddenly came upon it, 
 and a slight flow of water ensued. The well had evidently been built over' a 
 spring which had become exhausted, probably in consequence of deeper wells 
 having been sunk in the same neighbourhood which had drawn off the supply. 
 The works proceeded without exciting much curiosity until about five o'clock 
 yesterday evening, when the workmen were astonished and alarmed by coming 
 upon two dead bodies in a perfect state of preservation. The news spread over the 
 district with great rapidity, and by the time shells were procured for the purpose of 
 taking away trie remains, it was calculated that there were not less than i,000 
 persons present. The bodies were those of a man and a woman. They were 
 both ao-cd, and what invests the matter with a very fearful interest, is that they 
 were both attired in the Costume of the present day, and consequently there is a 
 strong suspicion that they sire the victims of some diabolical crime." 
 
 A little lower down upon the same page of the newspaper, were the words, — 
 
 From a Correspondent.— Furtiier Particulars. — The dead bodies have 
 been removed to the bone-house of St. Sepulchre's ; they are supposed to be those 
 of a Mr. and Mrs. Green, who disappeared a short time since, from a mean 
 lodging in Paul's Chain, but bow they came to be found at the bottom of the old 
 well remains a profound mystery. The city coroner will hold an inquest upon the 
 remains this day at twelve o'clock precisely, when it is to be hoped that some 
 evidence will be procured, explanatory of this most extraordinary affair, and calcu- 
 lated to bring those to justice who have had a hand in the commission of the 
 offence." 
 
 Further down still in the same column were the words — " Latest particulars" in 
 very large letters indeed, and then followed, — 
 
 "Half-past Five o'clock. — We have nothing further to add at present to 
 ! what we have stated, concerning the supposed murders at Newgate Market." 
 * ' # * * * * 
 
 I read all this with some surprise, and, as my readers may be well aware, with 
 considerable annoyance, for of course T could entertain no doubt whatever myself 
 as to the identity of those bodies, which were as a matter of course those oftheol^ 
 
NEWGATE. 443 
 
 mendicant from whom, or rather from whose papers, I had derived such, an 
 immense fund of amusement as well, as T mny say, instruction ; because I con- 
 sidered them the most graphic pictures of English manners that I had ever come 
 across, and my friend's female relative. 
 
 What would be the result of the inquest, it was tolerably easy to predict, for in 
 the absence of any evidence as to the causes of death, without doubt, an open 
 verdict would be returned ; but the danger that T ran consisted in a conclusion as 
 to whether the attempts that had been made to capture me in the Offal Cellar, 
 would be in any way associated with the supposed crime. 
 
 I rather dreaded to think that when the well was traced to have its mouth in 
 that cellar, that all the mysterious circumstances connected with it would come 
 out, and that it would be stated what attempts had been made to capture two 
 persons who had successfully eluded the officers, and then that some accurate 
 description, or at all events a sufficiently accurate one to give me uneasiness, 
 would be given of me, and such a search would be instituted for me as I should 
 find it difficult to elude. 
 
 As might naturally be supposed, my first effort was to hurry off to my friend 
 who, while he shared the pleasures and gratifications of my Newgate papers, and 
 Newgate adventures, I thought had a full right to take part in any little disagree- 
 able that must arise in consequence of them. 
 
 When I saw him, I showed him the newspaper paragraphs; he read them 
 through with great attention, and then he gave a shrill whistle before he said, — ■ 
 
 " Well, I'll be hanged, if I know what to say to it. Here is my old female 
 relati- e — a cousin, I believe, five times removed — is removed again, to my great 
 chagrin, for really, between you and I, I did consider that I was done with the old 
 lady, and that as she had put herself do wn the well, it was just as well to lot 
 well alone." 
 
 " You may depend/' said t, iC we shall be advertised for, and a handsome 
 reward offered for our apprehension." 
 " Indeed ! how much do you think?" 
 
 " There will be a couple of hundred offered by government as safe as possible, 
 and perhaps another hundred by the city." 
 
 " That's devilish liberal, and I tell you what we'll do. I will give you up, and 
 you can give me up, am} I don't see, then, why we should not divide the money 
 between us." 
 
 <f Well said, and you may joke about it as much as you please. I don't mean 
 to say, that it will be a serious matter, but I eertainly do mean to say that it may 
 be for all that." 
 
 45 Oh, nonsense, they don't know us well enough, for anybody to suspect us," 
 ^ Mas it not struck you that if the whole circumstances come out, they may do 
 so ; accompanied by a discovery of the mysterious door opening from Newgate, 
 that our friend the potboy may do some mischief," 
 I " What mischief can he do V 
 
 Every mischief, for if he once suspects that we are a couple of murderers, you 
 j don't fancy, do you, that he will keep our secret any longer?" 
 
 "Why, as to that, it certainly is the most serious view that can be taken of the 
 | case, and perhaps after all it may ha desirable to speak to him about it, if you 
 ! think he is likely to play us any slippery trick upon the occasion." 
 
 " I don't say that, or know that, but it strikes me that if he should take it into 
 j his head we are guilty of murder, a proper sense of public virtue, and of the duty 
 he owes to society, may induce him to make a clean breast of all he is acquainted 
 •with, to our no small detriment ; for you cannot but suppose he has seen enough 
 of us to identify us thoroughly." 
 
 " That is a more serious aspect of the affair, I must confess, than before struck 
 me," said my friend. <: It's all very well to joke when you think you are in perfect 
 safety, but certainly if the potboy chooses to play the traitor, I. am afraid we are 
 in rather a bad case. That is to say, we should have some difficulty, but nothing 
 i further, for you perceive we shall not be the victims even of false evidence in this 
 
r 
 
 444 
 
 matter, for there will be no evidence at all, except such as we choose ourselves to 
 provide anybody with." 
 
 " But what do you recommend to be done ? " 
 
 " Why, generally speaking, the safest and wisest thing is to do nothing ; but in 
 thio case I am not disposed to adopt that doctrine, and I propose, that lor fear of 
 accidents, we go and tell our friend, the pot-boy, exactly what occurred, and so, 
 by taking him into our confidence, prevent the likelihood of his forming any disa- 
 greeable conjectures on the subject." 
 
 " Agreed, I see it ; that is sensible enough, so come along at once." 
 
 We started for the public-house in the city, and when we reached it and entered 
 the parlour, the first thing we heard consisted of a furious discussion with regard to 
 the finding- of the dead bodies, and it was interesting and strange to us to hear the 
 different opinions that were broached upon a subject of which we happened to know 
 the whole particulars. 
 
 It was really a great moral lesson, for it showed us how extremely liable people 
 are to make mistakes, and with what great care persons ought to form opinions of 
 matters of which they really are in ignorance. . 
 
 One would have it that it must be quite a mistake about the costumes being 
 modem, and that the bodies must have remained in the well for many years, and 
 were preserved in the singular manner they were, in consequence of some peculiarity 
 of the water which was at- the bottom of the well, which enabled them to resist 
 the progress of decay. 
 
 Another again declared they were perfectly well-known persons, for that a relation 
 of his, who lived at Manchester, bad written to say that an old man and woman had 
 disappeared, and that they had come to London, it was supposed, with the intention 
 of finding out some relative, and that they had been heard to declare, that if they 
 did not make the discovery they wished, they would commit suicide, and so he 
 jumped at a conclusion that these were the people. 
 
 We. listened to this for some time in silence ; and, at length, when our friend, 
 the pot-boy, made his appearance, we took occasion to whisper to him that we j 
 wanted to speak to him particularly. 
 
 " I can't get out," he said, " till the afternoon, and then I am to have a holiday, j 
 and will come anywhere you like." 
 
 I gave him my address ; and then, as my friend urged me very much to do so, 
 although I really thought there was soing danger in so doing, I consented to go 
 with him to a public-house in Smithficld, where the inquest was to be held, and as 
 it was close upon the hour when those proceedings were about to commence, we 
 found a great crowd of persons waiting, and the greatest bustle and excitement 
 prevailing in the place that could very well be imagined. 
 
 It was astonishing to think that such an immense amount of curiosity could be 
 engendered about a matter which really not one person there had anything to do 
 with, or could in any way be affected by — the result of the examination, be it what 
 it might. 
 
 And yet. these people were striving, and crowding, and pushing each other, as I 
 if their very lives depended upon hearing ail that could be said with regard to 
 the deaths of an old maa and woman, whom, there is no doubt, the majority of them 
 would not have given twenty shillings to preserve. 
 
 But this is always the case, and no doubt it is so in other countries, as Well as 
 our own, that the moment anything mysterious occurs to an individual, he or she 
 becomes an object of marked attention, when before they would have been treated 
 with just as marked contempt. 
 
 By dint of great difficulty, and two shillings spent among the policemen, we did 
 succeed in pushing and elbowing our way into the inquest- room, where we were 
 not kept long waiting, for the coronet almost immediately made his appearance, and 
 the jury were sworn. 
 
 It was rather amusing to me to see the grave importance with which the city I 
 coroner drew the attention of the jury to the mysterious circumstance, and told 
 them of the difficulties they would have to encounter, probably, in the investigation j 
 
NEWGATE. 445 
 
 they were about to commence, while I and my friend knew so well the whole affair 
 was explainable in a very few words. » 
 
 The coroner was right, though, for all that, because while the matter was unex- i 
 plained, it did present a very serious aspect indeed, and gave rise to a presumption 
 that some great crime had been committed. 
 
 He drew their attention to the fact that the bodies were clad in modern costume, 
 and appeared to belong to the poorer classes of society, the man in particular, 
 having the dress of a mendicant. 
 
 He likewise dwelt upon the circumstance, which he said would be shown in evi- 
 dence, that there were no marks of violence upon the bodies, but that either their 
 deaths had been natural, and they had then been cast into the well, or that being 
 thrown into that receptacle was the mode by which their murder had been accom- 
 plished. 
 
 He besought them to pay the closest and most minute attention to the whole 
 affair, and then proceeded to call witnesses to prove the finding of the bodies. 
 
 That was easily and quickly done, and, as we expected it would be, it was quickly 
 proved that the well, at the bottom of which those mortal remains had been dis- 
 covered, had its mouth in a cellar belonging to a house uninhabited, in Newgate 
 Market. • 
 
 The next witness examined was a surgeon, who deposed to having made a care- 
 ful examination of both the bodies. 
 
 This gentleman deposed that there was no external violence at all visible upon | 
 the bodies, and that the deaths must have arisen from natural- causes, or from im- I 
 mersion in the well, but without a post mortem examination he could not posi- 
 tively detect which was the reason ; but he would make such examination if it 
 were at all considered necessary. 
 
 " What do you suppose to be the ages of the parties V said the coroner. 
 
 ** The man, I should say, was seventy, and the woman, from all I can judf.e, was 
 what we may call positively aged, perhaps eighty or ninety years of age — 1 think 
 most decidedly the oldest subject I ever saw." 
 
 The next witnees called was a magistrate's clerk, who stated, — 
 
 " Some time ago, I think about three weeks, Mr. lloupel, the magistrate, had 
 his attention called, through me, to a circumstance which caused some inquiry. It 
 appeared that an individual, whom nobody knew, had been traced several times to 
 Newgate Market, and had always disappeared into a cellar which was beneath one 
 of the houses there, which was to let. This excited the attention of a woman, who 
 gave information to the police of the circumstance, and although there was certainly 
 no evidence that this individual had any illegal intention, yet the matter was con- 
 sidered worth inquiry." 
 
 " With what instructions ?" 
 
 " Why, as the individual was certainly committing a trespass, the instructions 
 were to take him into custody, and bring him before a magistrate, in order that he 
 might be compelled to give an account of himself. , ' 
 
 "And was this done?" 
 
 " No ; an officer upon whose skill and judgment we thought we could rely was 
 posted near the spot at the hour when this individual usually made his appear- 
 ance ; that is to say, just near upon midnight; and he was actually apprehended, 
 but after a desperate resistance succeeded in effecting his own escape." 
 
 " Was any examination then made of the cellar?" 
 
 V Yes, but nothing suspicious was discovered." 
 
 " What was done upon this emergency?" 
 
 " A stronger force was placed upon the spot, and then two men came, probably 
 for mutual protection, and they were allowed to descend into the cellar ; so it was 
 considered that their capture was quite a certainty, but they mysteriously disap- 
 peared from it." 
 
 " But there must be some outlet," remarked the coroner. 
 
 "There is; but I have received instructions from the city authorities not to 
 mention it, except to yourself privately ; and I can unhesitatingly state, that in \ 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 keeping that secret, lam doing nothing in the slightest degree detrimental to public 
 justice, as regards this inquiry." 
 
 The most intense curiosity was manifest upon every countenance, while the wit- 
 - ness whispered something to the coroner, who most provokingly elevated his eye- 
 brows, and exclaimed, — 
 
 Really ! indeed, you astonish me." 
 
 "Eh! what?" said one of the jury, "I think we ought to know that; it's 
 something, perhaps, very curious indeed, and I don v t see a bit how we can come to 
 a decision unless we know it at once in every particular." 
 
 " Oh ! it's impossible, gentlemen," said the coroner, "forme to tell you ; and 
 besides I can assure you that it has nothing whatever to da with the present in- 
 quiry, which is into the cause of death of two parties." 
 
 "Well, but," said the juryman, " I don't see " 
 
 " Nor will you see, sir, for this is an affair which merely concerns the city autho- 
 rities, and wiih which we realiy have nothing to do whatever." 
 
 From this moment we knew well enough that our secret as regarded the little 
 door that communicated from the offal-cellar with Newgate was no longer a secret, 
 and it was some source of amusement to see the intense looks of anxiety that sat 
 ! upon the countenances of the jury, to know what it could be that was made so fear- 
 ! ful a secret of by the coroner. • 
 
 In fact, one or two cf the jurymen were so put out at it not being communicated 
 ij to them, that they made the most vivid remonstrances upon the subject, but it was 
 j all in vain; and the coroner would not be moved from the strong position lie had 
 j taken up, that the private communication made to him had nothing whatever to do 
 
 with the subject-matter of his inquiry. 
 : After this period there was a general laying together of heads, for the purpose 
 of ascertaining what was to be dene next, and a note was delivered to the coroner, 
 which he read with great attention, and then he said,— 
 ! "Gentlemen of the jury, it has been suggested tome, and that, too, upon very 
 ; high authority, that the ends of public justice would be best answered by an ad- 
 ! journment cf this inquiry for a fortnight from this time." 
 
 f What the deuce horse's nest has Be found now?" whispered my friend to me. 
 | " I can't say," I replied ; " but it's qu ! :te clear they think they have got scent of 
 : something, or they wouldn't be whispering in this manner, and proposing to put j 
 i off the inquiry ; it's pretty evident, however, that they know just as little as we 
 j wish them upon the subject." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the coroner. "I strongly urge upon you to pursue this j 
 . course, and then, probably, something will arise which may give you great satis- 
 1 faction, because, when I look upon the intelligent countenances around me, I feel \ 
 that nothing but a strong sense of public justice can actuate you." 
 
 This was an appeal in the right quarter, and although the majority of the jury- 
 had about as intelligent countenances as a fool, they tried to put on looks of great j 
 ! wisdom, and assented to the adjgurnment at once. 
 
 ; We walked home arm-in-arm together, because we were aoxious not on any j 
 
 account to miss seeing the potboy, who had promised to come to my house; for if we I 
 i once succeeded in silencing him, there was certainly no other evidence that we j 
 
 need care a jot about, for we had undergone at all events such scrutiny as strangers 
 j might be expected to undergo in the inquest-room, mA nobody had thought of j 
 j recognising us as the two ruffians that had taken possession of the offal-cellar, j 
 ; and in so mysterious a manner eluded the vigilance of the police, 
 • " I think the affair will blow over," said my friend, "and that really we shall j 
 ! hear no mere cf it." 
 
 " 1 am inclined myself," I said, "to think that this fortnight's delay which is ! 
 ; wanted is for the purpose of making a thorough exploration of the passages of j 
 j Xewgate, which have been discovered to communicate wiih the little door in the j 
 
 cellar, and they are in the expectation of making some discoveries in that quarter ! 
 
 which will tend to criminate somebody." 
 
 ''Their object likely enough is to involve, if possible, some of the officials o$A 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 447 
 
 Newgate in the matter, and that's what all the mystery is about ; but as th?y will 
 not succeed in doing that, the affair altogether ends in a bottle of smoke. 1 ' 
 
 When we reached home we found that our young friend from the public-house 
 was waiting for us, and after I had placed before him some creature comforts, for 
 be realiy had behaved very well to us, I proceeded to detail to him what be did 
 not actually know regarding our Newgate adventures, and I give this lad great 
 credit for being of an ingenuous disposition, for he nevef made the slightest cavil 
 about the truth of what 1 related to him, as many persons might hav'e done. 
 
 Withdut attempting in the slightest degree to take from him any portion of credit 
 he may deserve, I cannot refrain from recording my full belief — a belief founded 
 upon experience and observation — that there is about the truth a certain some- 
 thing which carries all the force of conviction with it, and which almost enforces a 
 belief in it. 
 
 " Well, sir," he said, when I had concluded, " ever since yesterday I have 
 scarcely heard anything else talked about but the finding of those two dead bodies, 
 and I must say I did think some horrid murder had been commuted." 
 
 " Well, now, you perceive how wrong it will be always to judge from ap- 
 pearances." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I do indeed ; but out of all the affair, what I should like to have 
 seen best was the old woman go down the we'll with a candle in her hand." 
 " Should you ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; this must have been an uncommon rich bit." 
 (i I dare say she did not think it was." 
 
 '* 1 think I see her now, holding up the light, and asking you to come down 
 stairj, and telling you it was all right, and then going down the well bang, like a 
 quart pot. I don't seem to care for any of it but that, but I should like to have 
 seen that, 1 must confess." 
 
 ,( I admire your t?,ste," *aid I, ic but, however, now I suppose you are proof 
 against all temptations, and will safely keep the secret we have trusted yon; with?" | 
 
 " Why, after all," said the boy, with more wisdom than I expected from him, 
 "after all, I don't see as there is much to tell, because, if there is a reward offered, 
 it's for a discovery of who did a murder, and not who didn't, and as no murder has 
 been done at all, I expect there is an end to the affair, and that if I were to tell 
 anybody all about it, I should scarcely get a thank-you for my pains." 
 
 " You are about right, and besides you would just lose the knowledge of a 
 secret, which would no longer be one, when it had to be declared to everybody 
 else." 
 
 fi Certainly," said the boy, "certainly, and all I ask of you is that some day you 
 will let me go into the vault of Newgate along with you." 
 
 "Most unquestionably, and that shall be the very next time we visit them our- 
 selves ; but we must let a little time go over first, for great exertions will now be 
 made to discover something or somebody, so that it will not be prudent, until this 
 affair has blown over, to visit Newgate." t 
 
 X» this he acquiesced, and soon after took his leave. 
 
 I had invited my theatrical friend to dine with me, for we intended on that 
 evening to look again at some of the papers that were in the wallet, to see if we 
 coald not pick out something of a highly novel and entertaining character for our 
 evening's amusement. 
 
 We felt tolerably easy now about the result of the inquest, so that Ave could 
 d'evote our whole minds, if we chose, to the manuscripts, and we did do so. As I 
 turned them over, I suddenly came upon a scrap of paper which contained the 
 following words : — 
 
 " About the year 1891, an Italian, of the name of Zacherili, was executed at 
 Newgate for the murder of another Italian, and when he found that his doom was 
 inevitable, smd that there was not the slightest chance of his escaping, for the case 
 was a very bid one, he related to an Italian gentleman, who visited him, a most 
 singular tale, so highly illustrated with continental manners, and of the different 
 
448 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 modes in which criminality is conducted in different nations, that I have not 
 scrupled to incorporate it wfth my traditions of Newgate. 
 
 " I am strongly of opinion that whoever finds these papers after my decease 
 will discover that not the least interesting one of them, at all events, is that which 
 came to me from the lips of the Italian gentleman to whom Zacherili related it. 
 In fact, this gentleman was a friend, although he did not wish it to be generally 
 known, but he and 1 having some time before his death a great friendship for each 
 other, he told me many curious matters which had been revealed to him, not under 
 the seal of confession, for, as he told me, it very frequently happened that parties, 
 after they had confessed and received absolution at his hands, went into long state- 
 ments of their past career, which he felt himself quite at liberty to mention, if he 
 thought proper, snd this was one of them.'' 
 
 " Well," said I to my friend, " shall we read this at once, or pass it over?" 
 
 " Let us have it," he leplied ; " I expect something curious from it, by the manner 
 j in which it is ushered in; and as you are more accustomed to the hands in which 
 j these papers are written than I, let me as on to be so good as to be the reader, • 
 ; while I am the listener." 
 
 " Be it so, if you will," said I, "but your professional habits ought, certainly, to 
 make you the better reader; but I suppose yours is a case of modest merit." 
 
 (( Exactly so," he said. 
 
 I turned over the first page, which w r as a blank, aud commenced Zacherili's 
 narrative, as follows: — 
 
 ©otttmttttal Bantsrtts* 
 
 Not far from the town of Provence, there was once, and is now for all that we 
 know to the contrary, a pretty and convenient hostel, kept by a man of the name 
 of Fellard. He was a widower, and had one child, the prettiest brunette that was 
 to be found for miles round; and well she knew it too. 
 
 Annette Fellaid was one of those good-natured beauties who take so much 
 compassion upon their lovers, that they will laugh and look sly and give them the 
 tips of their tiny fingers to hold when they want aid, but, at the same time, she was j 
 so much of a coquette that she would commit herself to no one. 
 
 She loved the old Vineyard, the name of her father's hostel, and she loved her 
 father, both of whom mmgled with her earliest recollections. 
 
 Her father was her only relative who lived ; he had been a kind and affectionate 
 old man to her, and she would never be able to leave him. No! no lover could [ 
 ever take the place of her father in her heart — 'she was resolved she would never j 
 marry as long as he lived — rot she — not even with Pierre Servettc, one cf the j 
 chasseurs of life Marqn's of Montrisson, who courted. 
 
 Servette was a great favourite at the old Vineyard; he was always a- welcome j 
 euest, and at his appearance her eyes were always observed to sparkle. 
 
 However, ihere was no one who could take the place of Servette ; he was decidedly ; 
 handsome, a young man of some note, he was a good shot, and a brave man : he 
 knew all the woods, and was in high favour with the marquis, his master, and he 
 loved Annette Fellar-1 to distraction, and swore he should die if she refused him. 
 
 She did, however, and yet he did not die; the fact is human nature was peTv^pe 
 and would not let him; indeed he persuaded Annette that by aid of exertion he had 1 
 contrived to live for the one sole object of his life, that of gaining her affections. 
 
 He talked to old Fellard, listened to his old stories, declared they were capital, j 
 almost as good as his wine, and, what is more, he invariably said he never heard the J 
 relation before, and never heard a better; then he was well satisfied, was old Fellard. ' 
 
 Fellard used to say, there was not another young fellow around for miles who 
 could in any way compete with young Servette; he was a noble young fellow, and 
 instead of a gamekeeper he ought to have been a marquis, — he was equal to any- 
 thing that way. 
 
 However, there were many young men who came to the old Vineyard, who used 
 to stop and rest there awhile before they proceeded on the last stage, which would 
 earry them into the town of Provence. 
 
 " Well, well, Jacques," said old Fellard, as he came out of the iun one after- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 449 
 
 noon, and saw the carrier waggon of Jacques Mallet come into the yard. " How 
 does the world use you to-day ?" 
 " I can't boast much, Fellard." 
 
 "-Why, I thought you and the world were always good friends, — how is that V 
 " Why, the world, you see, Monsieur Fellard, has used me scurvily, or rather 
 some of its members, for I have been robbed.' 1 
 " Robbed V said old Fellard. 
 
 "Yes, robbed," repeated Jacques; "and I think the road must have been 
 infected with brigands ; for no one or two men could earry off a whole bale of 
 goods.'' 
 
 " Indeed ! you amaze me. How did it happen ? Come in, and tell me all 
 about,— there's Annette, too, she'll be dying to hear the news." 
 
 " I'm coming ; but I'll just unharness my cattle, and give them some water and 
 some fodder ; while I rest myself, they will be resting and feeding." 
 
 No, 57. "~ ~™ " -~— ™ _ 
 
... ... ■■ — ..... . . . . . ... ! ' 
 
 450 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Very good, Jacques; a merciful man is merciful to his beast, — very good." 
 
 " Ay, ay, that is all very well ; but they have come along at a much faster 
 rate than usual, and my living depends upon my horse." 
 
 " Right, lad, right : I'll get a pottle ready against you come in." 
 
 " Do so, good Fellard ; I'll not delay you long before 1 give you a full, true, 
 aud particular account of all that has happened," 
 
 Fellard went in, and gave the orders to Annette, and then, in a very short time, 
 he had all prepared against the young carrier came in. 
 
 <f Well, Jacques," said Annette; " so you have come to tell us of some rare 
 doings upon the road : upon my word, if men like you are stopped, what will., 
 travellers do ; they want a troop of horse to take care of them. Pray, how many 
 men did it take to stop you?" 
 
 " Oh, Mistress Annette, you talk wildly. You will have your joke at a poor 
 fellow's expense, and I shall have to pay pretty dear for this one." 
 
 e< You don't mean that, Jacques ?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " What! will they make you pay for it ?" 
 
 " Yes, thej will. The goods were delivered into my safe keeping, and I must 
 make them good." 
 
 '* Goods are not good when they come to that, though, Master Carrier," said 
 Fellard ; " ha ! ha ! ha! lor, how Pierre Servette would have laughed at that, had 
 he been here, — Servette dearly loves a joke.'* 
 
 " So he does," said Annette. 
 
 " And so do I, Miss Annette," said Jacques, with obstructed visage ; " but, the 
 fact is, a man cannot always laugh, especially when he meets with misfortune." 
 " That's very true." 
 " Well, but how did it happen ?* 
 
 <c I'll tell you," said Jacques, as he set down the glass, and drew a long breath, 
 after he had swallowed a draught of wine. 
 
 " You see, Mr. Fellard, I was going along the road, and I had been walking 
 some distance at the head of my horses, a all careful drivers should, and I all at 
 once thought I heard some one speaking behind." 
 
 " Yes, Jacques, yes." 
 
 " Well then, 1 knew that there was nobody on the road for some distance ; at 
 least I had seen none, and I thought I must have seen them if there had been any- 
 body at all." 
 
 " Yes, good Jaques ; yes," said Annette. 
 
 "Well, I turned round, thinking to myself that I could not have missed anybody. 
 When I did turn, at first I saw nobody, but upon waiting a moment or twe, and 
 letting the waggon go on, I saw a fellow walking behind the tail of it. 
 
 " Hilloa ! friend,' said I, ' what do you wan't there?' I said to the man. But 
 he made no answer. 
 
 " < Hilloa !' said L 
 
 " N T o answer to me, but he said something that I did not understand, but I found 
 out he spoke to somebody else. They both went over the hedge, and went away 
 until they were clean out of sight." 
 
 «< Well, then, they didn't rob you after all," said the landlord. " Why, I thought 
 you were robbed?" 
 
 •'So I was. I found upon examining the covering, that it had been cut through 
 in one or two places, and a large bale of goods taken away." 
 " Ay, ay t" 
 
 " Yes, and I am afraid that the goods are worth something — I am afraid of it. 
 I hope the rascals may be shot. Why, those fellows may be the ruin of many an 
 honest man, for I cannot afford to pay for such things out of my profits at any rate." 
 
 " Oh ! You can do more than you choose to say*" 
 
 " You may believe what you like, but a few losses like this, ahd I must give 
 up business, and drive for somebody else, as is more lucky than I." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 451 
 
 "1 hope not; but you'll set the police upon the rascals, won't you?* inquired 
 the landlord. 
 
 " Ay, that I will, you may depend ; but what puzzles me is, how they got the 
 bale away, because 1 did not see them carry anything with them." 
 u How did it go, then ?" 
 
 " That is just what I want to know," said the carrier. I think there must have 
 been more men, and they must have seized the bale, and ran off with it across the 
 fields among the stunted trees near the river, or something of the sort." 
 
 " But a bale of goods is not a very light article to run away with, you know ?" 
 
 " It is not, and that was heavy; but it is that which makes me think there are 
 many others in the gang, and these two must have been following to see what took 
 place, or to take something more." 
 
 "To take something more," said the landlord, no doubt; " the rascals, if they 
 had had enough, w«ild have gone clean away." 
 
 " So I think," said Jacques, "and that's why I think there are more than those 
 two in the gang." 
 
 "I hope not; but it appears to be more than likely, however," said the landlord. 
 
 Jacques and the landlord conversed upon the unforeseen event for some time, and 
 each with the other regretted the occurrence. 
 
 Old Fellard thought it would hurt the road, and injure his house, at the same 
 time he himself might eventually become a victim to their depredations; " For they 
 would not mind," he argued, "attacking the house, and turning it inside out, and 
 taking all his valuables." 
 
 " Lord-a-mercy !" said the landlord, as he accompanied Jacques to the door, 
 "what times we live in, Jacques ; we ought to walk about in iron cages, so that 
 people could not knock us on the head." 
 
 " Yes ; and then we should have the lightning down upon us, Master Fellard." 
 
 "Goodness gracious I" said Fellard, looking up; "goodness gracious! how 
 queer are the ways of Providence, it's like a toll-bar ; on every road you're stopped 
 somewhere, go which way you will. I don't understand it." 
 
 "Nor I, nor anybody else, as speaks truly ; but they won't and don't. Good- 
 bye to you, Fellard." 
 
 f Good-bye, Jacques, and may you be more fortunate!" 
 
 " I hope so. Farewell, pretty Mistress Annette." 
 
 " Farewell, Jacques," said Annette, and she waved her pretty hand in token of 
 her good wishes. 
 
 The carrier sighed, and thought of his loss, and of Annette, and then he gave 
 the ward to his horses, and the old-fashioned vehicle moved out of the inn-yard, 
 and it was soon after hidden from their sight by a bend in the road, which was 
 shaded by tall trees. 
 
 " Well, poor Jacques!" said the landlord ; "I am very sorry for him, for he is 
 a very good sort of man, a very honest worthy fellow." 
 "So he is." 
 
 "And as for this robbery, I don't half like its being so close to us." 
 
 " Do you think they will come here, father V inquired Annette. 
 
 " Yes, I dare say they will, that is, if they do not go elsewhere after some other 
 I game. I'll clean my old gun up, and get it ready for action." 
 I "Oh, father!" 
 
 • " Pooh ! nonsense! Don't you go screaming about nothing ; I'm old enough to 
 know what I am about — the rascals, to rob Jacques." 
 
 Thus old Fellard vented his indignation, and his fears at what had, and at what 
 would possibly take place, and he determined to be beforehand with the robbers, 
 by removing everything from the house that could be removed, and placed all his 
 cash in the hands of sate people, and became ready for any emergency. 
 
 Things passed on for a week or two, Jacques had made one or two journeys, 
 and all without any interruption, and they began to hope there was an end to the 
 disasters of the road. 
 
 But it was not so, and, one evening, they were alarmed by another carrier, who 
 
452 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 came the same road, but at a different time of the week to what Jacques used to 
 travel, who came staggering into the old inn-yard, and he no sooner saw Fellard 
 than he said, — 
 
 " Fellard, I am shot, I am shot." 
 
 " Shot !" said Fellard ; " shot !" 
 
 " Yes, shot by brigands." 
 
 " Goodness ! lean upon me. Here you, Andre, come here, and lend a hand to 
 get him up stairs. You'll go to bed, won't you V* 
 
 " Anything till a surgeon sees me — I can't stand — I'm quite exhausted now W 
 tl Goodness, how you have bled !" 
 
 " They contrived to carry him up to bed, and a man was despatched to Pro- 
 vence to fetch a surgeon to look at his wound, and see if he was in any danger ; and 
 then the same man made a communication to the mayor of the place, who 
 immediately set off to see the carrier at the old inn-yard, lest he should die. 
 
 Great was old Fellard's amazement, when he saw the mayor drive up in his 
 carriage, and stop before the door. 
 
 '* Fellard," said the mayor. 
 
 " Yes, gracious sir," said the old innkeeper, bowing most ludicorou'sly politely. 
 " You have a wounded man lying here, a carrier, who has been shot at by some 
 robbers ?" 
 
 <f Yes, gracious sir, he is up stairs. W e have done v for him all that we could, 
 put him to bed, and sent for a surgeon, and to inform you, gracious sir, so that the 
 robbers might be looked after." 
 
 *' You have acted wisely, very wisely, and it. does you great ciedit. I am pleased 
 when I meet with attention and humanity from an innkeeper." 
 
 " Thank you, gracious sir." 
 
 " Let me see him at once." 
 
 "He is up stairs ; will you be pleased to advance this way V said Fellard, who 
 had a notion that the mayor was something between a man and a cherubim, above 
 ordinary sort of men altogether, and he led the way with much solemnity. 
 
 f< This is the room, gracious sir," said Fellard, who opened the door and stood 
 on one side. 
 
 " You may as well come in too," said the mayor, Ci and be a witness to the 
 deposition.'' 
 
 " Thank you, gracious sir," said Fellard, t( T am greatly obliged," and in 
 he walked. 
 
 This was most gratifying to the host, who saw in all this nothing but great 
 condescension to him personally, and nothing less. 
 
 " Well, my man," said he ; " how do you find yourself now, were you muck 
 hurt?" 
 
 " I am struck in the chest by a pistol bullet. I don't know what may be the 
 consequnce, bat I am about to die, 1 think." 
 
 " Well, then, you must tell me as well as you can, what happened to you when 
 you were attacked." 
 
 " I will endeavour to do so," replied the man ; " well, I was coming towards 
 this place, about three miles hence, where the road lays open, but there is many 
 streacled willow trees, alders, and other trees." 
 
 " I know it," said the mayor. 
 
 Well, I was driving my team, and let it pass me, to see if all wes right, when - 
 I perceived a man stooping down, and trying to hide himself behind the waggon. 
 , " Hilloa!" said I. 
 " Hilloa !" said he. 
 
 What do you want there V said I. 
 " Nothing," said he. 
 
 " Then leave the tail of the waggon," said I ; "I shall think you want to rob 
 me, as Jacques was robbed in this road not many weeks ago." 
 
 " Oh ! oh!" said he, and he drew a pistol 1 and fired at me, and at the same 
 moment T felt a shot in bqj chest, which sent me reeling, but I did not fall." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 453 
 
 Another man got over the hedge, my horses took fright, and galloped on, and 
 I fortunately seized the tail of the waggon, and that drew me onward with it, or 
 I never should have been able to have kept up with it ; indeed, it supported me. 
 
 " Fortunately, I clung to the cart, and away we went." 
 
 " Did the men follow ?" 
 
 ** I believe not, it would have been no use if they had, but I didn't look, I was 
 too weak and too sick, but clung for support to the waggon." 
 " And you have escaped?" 
 " So far, I have." 
 
 " Well," said the mayor ; " you are fortunate to get off at all, and it is usual 
 with malefactors, when they have once began violence to the person, to carry it on 
 until death ensues, as by that means their chance of detection is lessened." 
 
 " Well, I got away." 
 
 " Were you robbed," inquired the mayor. 
 
 " No, I believe not, I think I had disturbed them too soon for that." 
 
 " It is very strange," said the mayor ; "we hare an eye to the road, and have 
 made every inquiry respecting the inhabitants around there, but cannot find any- 
 thing at all suspicious. I cannot make it out. It is evident that there are more 
 than these two, a well-organised band of men, who have too many lookers out at 
 different places, and so elude our vigilance by giving each other timely notice. 
 
 " They must have been pretty well aware that there was no one on the road, or 
 they would not have ventured to have made the attack so daringly." 
 
 " Hardly." 
 
 The surgeon now entered the room, and requested to see the patient, and when 
 shown hira, he said he was greatly exhausted, and desired to the wound. 
 
 " This, you see, is the wound," said the mayor, pointing to the wound in the 
 breast. 
 
 " Ah !" said the surgeon ; li I see, you were shot at from a distance, ball lodged 
 in the muscles and bones; I'll get the ball out in the morning." 
 And why not to-night?" 
 
 " It will not be so well, or so safe to do it to-night ; there will be a greater flow 
 of blood, and there will be more danger from inflammation and nervousness." 
 
 "As for that," said the carrier, " I don't care about that; I'd as soon have it 
 out at once, if you can do it at once ; the sooner it is over, the better." 
 
 " So I should say," said the lanlord. 
 
 " Well, I will examine it more minutely." 
 
 This we did, and found the bullet had passed through seme flesh, and had grazed 
 against the bone, covered with but a small layer of flesh — this he cut through, and 
 out dropped the ball on the floor. 
 
 " " There !" said the trembling man. " There, it is ail right ; I thought it would 
 be all right." 
 
 H I'm glad it happened so," said the surgeon ; " but you'll feel more inconve- 
 nience from it than you do now, but if you are quiet and careful, you'll soon be well 
 again. It is fortunate you were so far off." 
 
 " It would have gone into me." 
 
 " Oh, yes : thatit would — it would have gone through your heart, you may depend. 
 
 "Well," said the mayor, M I can d® nothing further in this matter now. You 
 do not suspect any one, I suppose ? 
 
 " No one," replied the carrier. I do not know any one who is so inclined." ] 
 
 " Oh! well, 1 suppose we must leave it to time and chance to unravel the 
 mystery. 
 
 M I hope they won't come here," said the innkeeper. 
 
 " You must take your chance about that, though. I fancy they will imagine 
 you have too many men about you, and they would have some good chance of se- 
 curing them." 
 
 # " Perhaps so," said the innkeeper, " and if they do come, the hold Vineyard' 
 will give them some good grapes as it can find." 
 
454 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " I dare say you will, and cannot blame you ; they risk their lives — hut make 
 prisoners rather than take life, said the mayor." 
 " If I have the choice." 
 " Exactly." 
 
 Soon after the mayor left, promising to call on some other occasion, or what would 
 do better, if the wounded man would call upon him, he would converse more at 
 length with him about it. 
 ^,This was assented to, provided the man should recover soon enough to do so, and 
 t%e doctor was confident he would be able to travel in a few days. 
 '-~ This being understood, the whole of the parties evacuated the Vineyard, and left 
 itin the possession of the original owner, old Fellard. : 
 
 These next agreed that a nine-days 5 wonder was m£de of the affair, and there it 
 was dropped until circumstances arose that in a'shprt time again brought the mat- 
 ter before the eyes of the little community, who were much terrified. 
 
 Another carrier arrived at the inn, and with a pallid countenance entered the 
 house, sat down in one corner of the room, looking wildly from face to face, as if he 
 were bewildered. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" inquired the host of the old Vineyard, after a pause. 
 *$ Ay ! what is the matter V inquired three or four who were present. " What 
 is the matter V 
 
 Now to ask what is the matter is a very simple question, and is altogether a very 
 simple affair; but at the same time it is by no means so easy an one toauswer, 
 especially when the travellers are in a state of complete and entire mistification. 
 
 There was then a repetition of all the questions that had been asked, and the 
 end of it was, that an answer was eventually obtained. 
 
 " Why,'' said the carrier, after having taken a considerable quantity of spirits to 
 enable him to understand where he was, u why, I have been stopped." 
 
 « Stopped?" 
 
 " Yes !" 
 
 " By whom," inquired the landlord. 
 
 " By robbers, ay, I say it, I have been stopped by brigand that is to say, they 
 would have done so had I been fool enough, but I ran away. 
 " Then, there was no mischief done after all ?" p 
 *' If frightening a man out of his life is no mischief, why none was done.*' 
 " Oh, you were frightened then? 
 
 " Yes ! I should say I had pretty good reason to be frightened ; if robbers aint 
 enough to frighten a man, I should like to know what is. I have heard enough of 
 people being robbed and murdered on the read, and I den't want to be put under 
 ground yet awhile to please anybody. I can tell you, Master Innkeeper. 
 
 " Exactly, who does ? — but you have not been robbed after all, you must not 
 complain." 
 
 " Ay, that's all very well, but I may be next time. Who knows? 1 don't, and I 
 don't think anybody else does ; I hope I may not, but who can tell ? " 
 
 "Certainly not, certainly not, but what do you think of matters now, Master 
 Carrier ?" 
 
 "Why, I'll get another road; this will never do for man or beast, not it; I 
 shall go to the prefect of Provence and see if I cannot make a complaint against the 
 community, for they ought to be punished." 
 
 "The community !" 
 
 " Yes, whyjshould they not ? If they were to rise up and drive the robbers away — " 
 " But if the community know nothing of them ?." 
 
 fi In law," pursued the carrier, " they are supposed, in law, to know of the exis- 
 ofany intruder, and they, therefore, should chase him away, and if they do not 
 know of him, why they should learn ; and stringent laws seem to make people 
 careful." 
 
 u Very good," said the innkeeper. 
 
 The carrier after awhile proceeded on his journey, but with a little fear and 
 trembling, until he got to the prefect's house, where he made the formal complaint 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 455 
 
 he said he would make ; but he only obtained the consolation of knowing that he 
 had made a complaint, and that there would be a good look-out kept for the robbers 
 and if they were caught, they would be punished, and he would be summoned 
 as a witness. 
 
 * # * * * * * 
 
 In the meanwhile the love affair of Pierre Servette ani Annette Fellard went on, 
 
 that is to say, — the lovers saw each oLier often, conversed tenderly, and thought of 
 
 the future. What further happiness could they anticipate or hope for? 
 
 Everybody said they were made for each other, and what everybody says is ' 
 
 acknowledged to be true, so upon this occasion it was uncommonly true and 
 
 apparent. 
 
 " Annette," said Servette. 
 
 " Well, Pierre," said Annette, looking up into his face, with an inquiring look. 
 M I have brought you a present." 
 " A present, Pierre/' 
 
 " Yes, a present, I have been to Provence, and then I went to the market, It 
 was market day, and I saw some very fine things." 
 "Did you now ?" 
 
 " Yes, I saw such fine handsome clothes, silks, and ribbons ; the ribbons were 
 especially beautiful." 
 " Where they now ?" 
 
 " They were, indeed, very beautiful; and such a chain, too! I thought of you, 
 Annette, and you look very well in pink : I got some new patterns, some that 
 will make you look like a little queen, as you are." 
 
 " Oh no, Pierre, not like a queen, that will never do, I can't be like a queen— 
 a queen is so handsome, you know, and so rich." 
 
 iC Not so rich in goods, perhaps ; but richer in beauty — richer in goodness 
 and kindness." 
 
 " Oh, Pierre!" 
 
 M Nay, you know you are, Annette. A queen is not so very great a woman, 
 except in her station, beyond what you are." 
 
 '* Well, well, you ought to know best, Pierre. What is it you have for me? I 
 am quite impatient to know what it is. Do show it me." 
 
 " Well, well, but I shan't give them to you, I shall exact a reward." 
 
 " That deprives you of any merit in making a present, since you must have 
 value for it." 
 
 " I must admit it." 
 
 " I don't kn„w that I will have them at all," said Annette, " You quite offend 
 me ; to appear mercenary, indeed. I don't like it. I don't." 
 
 And as she spoke, she pouted her two rosy lips, and Pierre seized her round 
 the waist. We can say no more, but there was some sounds as if lip3 met lips, 
 and that is all" that can be said about it, none being present but themselves." 
 
 After a time, Annette said,— 
 
 " Well, Pierre, now for your present ; you have excited my curiosity. What 
 is your present to consist of — 1 am dying to see it?" 
 
 " You shall," said Pierre, as he pulled out of his game-keepers bag a small 
 parcel, which he laid upon the table, saying, — 
 
 " There, Annette, open it, and see what it contains ; see if it pleases you." 
 
 a It will be sure to do that," said Annette, £< I am sure of it — you are so 
 generous, Pierre, that I am afraid you will never be a rich man.*' 
 
 " As long as I can win means to please you, I shall be very well pleased, 
 Annette." 
 
 " We shall see ! — we shall see !" 
 
 Annette opened the packet— it was wrapped up in several wrappers, and then 
 out rolled several pieces of ribbons of the gayest and most eharmin'g colours, all 
 calculated to suit the complexion of Annette, and to set her off to advantage. 
 
 " Oh, Pierre !" said Annette, after she had opened and sufficiently admired 
 them, " how could you think of getting all these ?" 
 
456 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 "Why, could I do better?" 
 
 " I hardly know what to say, Pierre, about that. But let me see : these 
 ribbons must have cost you a great deal of money — you should not have got me 
 so much ; one piece would have lasted me a long, long time, you know.'* 
 
 " Well, more will last you yet longer." 
 
 " Very true, Pierre, very true ; but we do not buy our clothes in great quan- 
 tities because they will last longer — consider how you waste your money — had it 
 been upon anybody else but me, I would not have said so." 
 
 " Upon my word, Annette, I did not expect such a lecture from you— but there 
 are the ribbons ; if you will have them, they are yours." 
 
 "I will, Pierre," said Annette, "and thank you too — but I won't show them 
 all to my father." 
 
 "Why not, Annette?" 
 
 ** Because I should not like to hear him say that you were extravagant or 
 foolish ; but there he never asks me, and I shall tell him that you have given me 
 some, though I need not show them until he asks me." 
 
 " Very well, do as you please ; but I got them so much cheaper than I should 
 have had them, had I taken only a small quantity. I considered them so good, 
 that I thought I would not let the chance escape.'* 
 
 "Very well, Pierre — but you won't do so any more; you will save your 
 money ?" 
 
 " I will, Annette, for your sake," said Pierre Servette. 
 
 * * # * * * * * 
 
 Again our carrier came to the inn. He had been more fortunate of late ; he 
 had not been stopped or robbed of any portion of his goods ; indeed, he had very 
 nigh forgotten the misfortune he had had some months before, of being robbed. 
 
 "Well, Jacques," said the landlord, "you are once more safe and ?ound. 
 You have had nothing happen to you to-day, I hope— all safe and right?" 
 
 " Quite, quite, Master Fellard." 
 
 "Then our road is once again clear — once more are we free from disturbance." 
 " Yes, 1 hope so. Let me see, there has been nobody of late stopped V 
 " None, for full three months/' 
 
 " Then they are afraid Jthe road is too well watched, and they might be eanght 
 — the proverb of the broken pitcher, I suppose, has deterred them." 
 
 " I am glad of it — but come in, I have a new vintage, just tapped." 
 
 "That is the thing, I will taste that," said Jacques, and he entered ti e inn, 
 having attended to his cattle, and then thought it time he paid some attention to 
 himself, and so it was. 
 
 Having entered the room appropriated to the purpose of entertaining the guests, 
 he sat down, and began to talk to the landlord and taste the wine, which, being 
 exceedingly good, he proposed having another bottle. 
 
 " Here, Annette," said her father; "here, bring another bottle of the same 
 vintage." 
 
 " Very well," said Annette, " very well, I will bring it. Oh ! here it is— I 
 thought it had been down stairs." 
 
 " No, you will find the bottles standing behind the casks of the same 
 vintage." 
 
 " I have one," said Annette ; and she entered the apartment, and placed the 
 bottle on the table before them both. 
 
 "Bless me, how charming you look to-day ; eh, and what fine ribbons." 
 " Yes ; but you might have seen them before." 
 
 "I might," said the carrier, thoughtfully, gazing at the ribbon on the head of 
 Annette. 
 
 "Oh!" said Annette, "they are very pretty, are they not?" 
 " Yes, they are," he replied. 
 
 The carrier looked and looked very hard at Annette and her new ribbons much 
 to her annoyance, but she could not say anything, as it would look very captious in 
 her to complain of such a trifle. At length the carrier, who seemed to have 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 457 
 
 been considering something over and over in his raind, suddenly turned to Annette 
 directly, and said to her,— 
 
 " Annette, I hare seen those ribbons before.* 
 
 "Have you? Lor ! how free you are getting. I told you you might have done 
 so, and you have taken all this time to make up your mind." 
 
 ** Yes. J have been seriously considering about it, and find that I am quite 
 right in my opinion." 
 
 *< Well, and what may that be V* 
 
 " That the ribbons you now wear form part of those ftolen from me some 
 months ago, when my waggon was robbed of a bale of goods." 
 
 " Indeed, Jacques, you must be mistaken : that could never have been the case ; 
 these ribbons could never have been a part of your goods." \ 
 
 No. 68. 
 
458 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " They were, and I can swear to them too." 
 
 " Can you?" 
 
 "lean." 
 
 " What is the meaning of all this?" inquired the landlord ; " what are you talk- 
 ing about, Jacques ? I never knew you had any ribbons at all." 
 
 "Oh ! yes ; I had a bale of ribbons. I saw them; they were new patterns con- 
 signed to Provence ; there was some delay at the place where I brought them 
 from, and I was asked to wait and sit down. I did, and I saw the ribbons packed 
 up, and 1 know them again. 
 
 " Indeed ; but you don't mean to say that my Annette wears your stolen 
 ribbons ?" 
 
 « Yes, I do." 
 
 " You do," exclaimed the landlord, in a consternation and rage at the asser- 
 tion ; "what do you mean by that, Carrier Jacques? . Tell me that, I demand.'' 
 "Just what I say," replied Jacques. 
 
 " That ribbon Annette now wears is that which you had stolen from you ! I 
 tell you what, Master Jacques, you are mad." 
 
 "1 say I am not only in my right senses, but this is some of my ribbons." 
 
 "How can that be? I had them as a present from Pierre Seavette ; he made 
 me a present of this and some more, which I have up stairs." 
 
 " Will you let me see them V 
 
 " Very well," said Annette, who only thought of clearing herself of the charge 
 of having stolen goods. In a few moments she came down stairs, and gave Jacques 
 the whole packet, saying, — »* There, I have had them all presented to me by 
 Pierre, so you must be mistaken." 
 
 The carrier very deliberately undid the paekage, and looked at the ribbons. 
 
 " Ah ! they are all mine sure enough, every one of them ; take care of them." 
 
 " WeH, 1 will tell Pierre what you say, Master Jacques, and then you will 
 explain to him what you mean by such an assertion — that these ribbons are stolen 
 from you." 
 
 " Just as you please,'' said Jacques, and nothing more was then said ; but Jacques 
 thought the more of it, and soon left the house, and proceeded to Provence. 
 * • • • * 
 
 When Jacques got to Provence, he made his way to the prefect, and when he had 
 made himself known, he said, — 
 
 " I now come to you about the affair — for I have seen some of the goods myself." 
 " Have you V 
 
 " Yes. Some ribbons that I can swear to. I have seen them but this day." 
 " And where did you see them I" 
 
 * On the head of Annette Fellard, the innkeeper's daughter. Her father, old 
 Fellard, keeps the Old Vineyard now, where we usually stop." 
 
 " Indeed ; then this innkeeper has something to do with this transaction, and 
 that accounts for our not being able to detect the authors." 
 
 " It may be so." 
 
 tl Yes, he was pretty well aware as to what was being done by the police, and 
 therefore knew how to act ; but what did they say?" 
 "That one Pierre Servette gave her the ribbons." 
 " What ! the marquis's gamekeeper ?" 
 
 "Yes, the same. Now, as he had the ribbons, I think he ought to be made to 
 account for the possession of them, and taken into custody, and detained until he 
 can give a good account of the manner in which he became possessed of them." 
 
 "That is right," said the prefect; "that is right. A couple of gendarmes 
 shall wait upon him to-night, and then to-morrow you must meet him at my 
 office, when the matter can be gone into fully, and the rights of it ascertained." 
 
 With that promise the carrier went away, and remained in Provence until the 
 next day to see the result of the examination. 
 
 ***** 
 
 That evening while Pierre, who had gone to see Annette, was speaking to her, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 45» 
 
 and sitting beside her in the house, two gensdarmes walked into the room' 
 and inquired, as they pointed to Pierre, if he were not Pierre Servette, the 
 gamekeeper. 
 
 " I am," said Pierre. 
 
 " Then we must beg the favour of your company, for we want you.* 
 " You want me V 
 " Yes !" 
 
 « c What do you want me for ? I have done nothing that merits your atten- 
 tion, I am sure. I demand to know of what I am accused, seeing I am to be 
 taken into custody, for that I perceive must be the meaning of this V 
 
 "That it is." 
 
 « Well, of what am I accused V 
 " Of robbery." 
 
 % Robbery ! impossible ! I never yet injured any one, and have never had 
 any occasion to do so." 
 
 " You are accused of having robbed a carrier of a bale of goods." 
 " I V 
 
 " Yes, you ; and moreover the goods have been traced to you. You have 
 given some to the innkeeper's daughter here — some ribbons." 
 " I bought them in Provence." 
 
 " And you are now going to Provence with us, where you will have ah oppor- 
 tunity of proving your innocence by sending for the shopkeeper, who sold them 
 to you." 
 
 " I did not buy them of a shopkeeper.* 
 " Who then?* 
 
 " A man who attends the market, and who is pretty well known there, I 
 believe." 
 
 ** You must come with us, nevertheless," said the officers, and accordingly they 
 took Pierre into custody, and lodged him in gaol. 
 
 Poor Annette was heart-broken when she saw her lover unceremoniously 
 walked away ; but she was informed that she and her father must be at Provence 
 next day to give testimony against her lover. 
 
 She protested that she was sure of Pierre's innocence ; but it was of no avail, 
 and with a heavy heart, she went to a sleepless couch. 
 
 * • * * * 
 
 The next day the whole of the parties were brought before the prefect, when 
 the carrier related all that he had said, and that Annette had said before him. 
 
 ** And now," said the prefect to Annette, " what have you got to say V 
 
 Annette would have said nothing, but Pierre exhorted her to speak up, that 
 by her doing so, she would better serve him than by doing otherwise ; for he was 
 innocent, and able to prove himself so, with good fortune. 
 
 She did so ; and related, how Pierre had made her a present of them, and said 
 he bought th em at Provence, when he was there. 
 
 "Now," said the prefect, "what have you to say, Pierre Servette, to the 
 charge ? " 
 
 " That it is very easy to make an accusation, but not so easy to answer it. I 
 certainly did make a present of the ribbons to Annette Fellard, as she has related; 
 but I bought them of a chapman, who gave me an allowance for taking the quan- 
 tity, and it was so great, that I was induced to purchase them of him ; but I knew 
 not they were stolen." 
 
 " Do you know the man?'' 
 
 " If I were to see him, I should in an instant; for he is a peculiarly marked man; 
 a cut over the ,face he has received, which divided the eyelash, and makes 
 him look very strange." 
 
 ' : I have noticed such a man myself," said one of the gensdarmes. 
 
 •' We must remand you until you can produce the man," said the prefect* 
 
 '* I hope not." 
 
 " But it must be so." 
 
460 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " I can obtain sureties," said the gamekeeper ; " and how am I to obtain the 
 presence of this man 1 I could find him to-day, I have no doubt." 
 " Oh, to-day is market day ! " said the prefect. 
 
 u Yes," said Pierre, " it is ; and allow me to say, if you would send me out with 
 a couple or three officers, then we could have him here, and the affair settled 
 without any delay." 
 
 " Well," replied the prefect, "that may be. I will send you out to the market 
 with the officers, and you can point, out the man, and they will seize him." 
 
 This was done ; and Pierre Servette was sent out, accompanied by the three 
 officers. They went to the market-place, and there was the man who had sold him 
 the ribbons, and who was vending some more of the same lot. 
 
 He was immediately seized, and carried before the prefect, who was yet sitting, 
 when he was placed at the bar to answer the charge of robbery. 
 
 ff Now, carrier," said the prefect* " are those any of your ribbons ? " pointing to 
 the lot on the table. 
 
 " Yes," said the carrier, " every one." 
 
 " Well, is this the man who sold them to you V inquired the prefect of Pierre. 
 M Yes, the same." 
 
 The man then admitted he had sold them to Pierre, adding, — 
 "I have had them given to me for my trouble, in aiding and assisting a 
 neighbour." 
 
 " Then Pierre Servette is completely exonerated from the accusation : this man 
 must be made to answer the charge." 
 
 Glad, indeed, was Pierre Servette when he found himself free from all stain, and 
 that it was so soon made apparent that his innocence was without suspicion. 
 
 Glad, indeed, was Annette, who no sooner found out that her ribbons were really 
 stolen, than she tore them off, and returned them to the carrier, who was glad 
 enough to get them back at any rate ; and he immediately entered into the plans 
 for discovering the real offenders. 
 
 The man who sold them in the market-place had once been a convict, but he 
 had been lost sight of by the police ; and he divulged who were his accomplices. 
 
 They were two discharged gensdarmes, father and son, who had stopped various 
 waggons as well as other vehicles ; many things being found upon them that 
 established the charge, they were all consigned to the gallies for life. 
 
 Pierre Servette and Annette Fellard were soon after married. The old inn- 
 keeper insisted that Annette had shown so much affection for Pierre when he was 
 in trouble, that they ought to do so at once. 
 
 N Besides," he said, ** young people had better marry when they are young than 
 grow up single in the world's ways." 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 TH TALE OF ^ORLANDO THE OWL, OR THE HIGHWAYMAN Or HAMPSTEAD 
 
 HEATH, IN 1746. 
 
 Orlando the Owl was well known in his day — no name was more terrible than 
 his ; it was so well known to all those who had occasion to travel the northern roads 
 round the metropolis especially those that led across Hampstead Heath. There 
 he was king of the highway, and none dared say No to Orlando's demand, when he 
 chose to make one, which he seldom failed in doing. 
 
 Indeed it was currently believed that he was pistol proof, for he had been fired at 
 point-blank, but somehow or other he always escaped ; he was never known to be 
 liurt, and his good fortune was proverbial among his fraternity for such a desperate 
 life as his. 
 
 His cognomen of the Owl arose from two circumstances — one was that he 
 was usually seen only on dark nights, or dark places, and like an owl inhabits ; but 
 
NEWGATE. 461 
 
 the second was perhaps the best. He was a good-looking and well-made man, of 
 somewhat superior manners with large bushy whiskers ; and as his features were 
 strongly marked, his appearance, when those whiskers were combed forward, gave 
 rise to the nick name of the Owl ; but he had the power of altering his appearance 
 greatly, and for so doing, he had but to comb his whiskers back, and lay them flat 
 • towards the ears, and no man would have known him to be^the same as when they 
 were combed forward. 
 
 When upon the road, he [used to comb his whiskers back, and upon such occa- 
 sions, he would appear as if he had but little or none, which more than once saved 
 his life, for no man would undertake to swear to a man with such large whiskers 
 when the one whom they saw had little or none. This was the case once or twice. 
 
 There was a little public- house in the road between Hampstead and Hendon — a 
 mere bridle road then, used chiefly by farmers and country people who might have 
 occasion to come to town, and as a cross-road to Edgware and several smaller 
 places. 
 
 But the public-house itself was a snug place, and gave better entertainment than 
 it at first promised, and the traveller who stopped there was always well pleased 
 with his treatment at that hostel ; for rough and unpromising as it was, there was 
 good entertainment for both man and beast. 
 
 Mine host of the Bell was a hearty old fellow, who was the soul of his own par 
 lour, and made many a merry heart by a bright fire ; but what there was that at- 
 tracted Orlando was somewhat different from all this ; he had an eye to the land- 
 lord's daughter, who was scarce sixteen years of age. Young certainly, but at the 
 same time she was beautiful, good-tempered, and full-grown, and quite a young 
 woman. 
 
 Orlando was, however, chary of being made to believe that there was any one in 
 whom he could place any confidence ; and even beauty he thought no safe reposi- 
 tory for such a secret as that he owned, and on the keeping of which his life 
 depended. 
 
 The Bell was a heavy, low house, and one that was a favourite with him; here he 
 would lie when the dangers of the road were over ; here he spent many a pleasant 
 hour, and here he chiefly slept. How he first came upon the road no one knew. 
 
 One evening as he sat by the fireside listening to the sound of the winds as they 
 whistled through the trees, and those surrounding parts were well wooded in 
 those days, indeed, the road may be said to run through woods, save the bare 
 heath above them ; he sat listening to these sounds and the pattering of rain when 
 the landlord's daughter entered. 
 
 *' Well," she said, as she advanced to the fire to heap on~some more fuel, " are 
 you here all alone ?" 
 
 " Yes, Kate, all alone." 
 
 " That is very unusual, but it is such a bad night that nobody is out and no- 
 body comes here ; we haven't seen a traveller to-day." 
 " I dare say not, Kate, and yet I must go out." 
 
 " You go out ! And why must you go out ? But how it rains, and how the 
 winds rush through the trees, besides, it's so dark." 
 Then 'tis a night for the owls to be out." 
 
 '* Ay, it may be, but even they would remain close such a night as this ; there 
 has been such a large branch of a tree blown down not far from the house, 
 right in the middle of the road. I am sure it was fortunate nobody was there 
 at the time." 
 
 u Well, it is fortunate," said Orlando ; " I might have been there myself, but I 
 must go, lass. I must go and visit some of my acquaintances, my purse empties it- 
 self in a short time, but what does it matter? I can fill it easily again, and that is 
 one consolation." 
 
 '* Well, well, you are fortunate to have so many acquaintances with whom you 
 can make so free with so much property ; you can always get what you want.'" 
 
 "Yes," said Orlando, drily ; " I have such, though I do not at all times get 
 what I want. I obtain short of that often enough, Heaven knows*; but, at the same 
 
462 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 time, I must replenish an empty purse, Kate ; that must be done, you know ; and 
 as for my property, you see, it's very extensive." 
 " Is it an estate ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, quite an estate ; but it requires a strong hand to make it productive." 
 
 " That must be a sad thing when you are are obliged to exert yourself to compel 
 people to part with money ; to the rents I suppose you allude? " 
 
 " Yes; they are my rents, Kate, and the deuce is in it ; but I must have some 
 more, though I do exert myself, and compel the contribution they pull out so un- 
 willingly ; it is a scandalous shame, Kate, is it not ? I am not naturally a hard' 
 hearted man, you know." 
 
 " Why, I know you are not, or you would never have saved old Giles's furniture 
 the other day from the hands of the broker's men." 
 
 " What sounds are those," suddenly inquired the highwayman, starting. 
 
 4t I hear none," said Kate. 
 
 " But I can hear the sounds of horses' feet — more than one — they are now very 
 near us, here — they are coming that way. Who are they ? ** 
 
 " I cannot tell ; I could not hear them at. first, I do now but very faintly ; but, 
 dear me, what good ears you have got to have heard them so soon. I did not hear 
 them ; and then to be able to say there are two ; well, I am sure ! but here 
 they are." 
 
 Kate left the room, having made up the fire, while the highwayman stole to a 
 part of the window from which he could reconnoitre the two travellers, for such 
 they were, indeed, having pulled up before the door of the Bell. They were 
 wrapped up in large, rough great coats, and slouched hats, and little could be made 
 of itiem, save they were both big men. 
 
 " Ay," said the highwayman, as he quitted the spot where he had been recon- 
 noitring ; and returning to his place by the fire, he continued, "ay,!l have good ears, 
 it is quite necessary at times to have it, by Saint George ! I had nearly been lost, 
 but for ray hearing once, and more than once too, in a very short time. I know 
 the sounds of vehicles at a great distance, and of horses' hoofs ;. but who can these 
 travellers be, — two of them, eh, two ? Well, that is but a poor chance, — two strong 
 men ; and they have holster pistols, too. Come, that will never do ; for if they 
 have the spirit of a mouse, they would beat me off ; however, I have been in worse 
 straits before, and now I do not feel any fear." 
 
 He sat himself down by the fire, and thrust his hands into his coat pockets, in 
 which were a brace of very excellent horse-pistols, and a feeling of satisfaction 
 stole over his face, as he listened to the click of the lock, and he smiled as he 
 gazed at the fire. 
 
 " There are few such weapons as these ; I never knew them miss; fire at a moment 
 of need ; but then I look well to the flints, which is a great matter : they have 
 stood by me, and I'll stand by them. Hurrah! then for the king's highway ; it 
 is a fair shop to trade in." 
 
 The door opened, and the two horsemen entered, and as they did so, they un- 
 buttoned their riding coats, showing they wore breeches and large boots that came 
 over the cap of the knee. 
 
 " Well," said one to the other, " this is a better harbour than I thought to find 
 between this and London ; it's quite a mercy to get out of the rain." 
 
 " Good even, sir," said the taller and elder stranger to Orlando, as he saw the 
 highwayman looking at him ; " this is a dull road about here." 
 
 " Very dull, indeed ; does it rain now ? " 
 
 * s Ay, as if heaven and earth were comiug together by means of an ocean." 
 
 " Then, I expect it is wet riding," said Orlando, giving a look at the upper coats 
 of the stangers, which gave evidence of the fact. 
 
 " You might swear to that," replied the shorter and younger of the two, " there 
 can be no doubt of its being wet travelling ; if I hadn't two good capes of the best 
 Yorkshire broadcloth, I should have been wet through, without saying a single 
 garment." 
 
 " How the wind rushes through the trees," said Orlando. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 463 
 
 . c< And blows the rain in your face, so that you are blinded ; for my part, I 
 haven't seen the road these two hours," said the latter man. 
 
 * Nor J, for I have left the -whole affair in the hands of my horse." 
 
 " And how the poor brutes eould see at all, I can't tell ; but they have pushed 
 along through roads I never yet saw the like ; indeed, they are not to be seen at 
 all, and at every fresh gust, off comes a deluging fall of water from the trees that 
 overhang the road." 
 
 " It is a very uncomfortable night. Have you travelled far V 
 
 " From Edgeware," said the younger traveller. 
 Edgeware," said the highwayman, " why this doesn't lay in your road to any- 
 where in particular, either to London or to Highgate." 
 
 ** We are not going to either," said the younger. 
 
 * No!" returned the elder, " I am only going a3 far as Hempstead, to receive 
 some money for hay and horses, which I sold at last Edgeware fair." 
 
 "Ah ! I see, but you have come on a bad night for it; you should have chosen 
 the day time for tne journey, for the roads hereabouts have a bad character," said 
 the highwayman^ kicking the embers into the fire ; " and, besides, it is a bad time 
 of the day to seek payment." 
 
 " No, no ! my man will only be at home in the evening. Moreover, I had not 
 time to get * away before from Edgeware; and, besides, my friend could not be 
 ready to accompany me so far on the road to make it all safe ; it requires two to 
 go safely hereabouts." 
 
 " Yes, so they say, though I never lost anvthing." 
 
 "Nor I." * 
 
 " But then you've always taken care not to run any risks,'"' said the younger 
 man ; " and, certainly, it's no use to lock the door after the steed's stolen, that's 
 bad policy at all events ; but I dare say many people do that because it may look 
 as though they were afraid." 
 
 " That is often the case, very often the case, when a little forethought and care 
 might have saved many a man's purse," said the highwayman ; " but we must live 
 and learn, you know ; we gain experience, but we have to pay for it now and then 
 rather expensively, you know ; however, bet'er late than never. I suppose you'll 
 hardly go on such a night as this, will you r 
 
 " Yes ; as soon as my horse has a bait, and I have dried my outside covering, 
 I shall on again, and be back in two hours after I set out." 
 
 " And I too," said the other. 
 
 " Well," said Orlando, rising, " I hope you may have a pleasant ride, but I 
 doubt it. I wish it was a better night for you, at all events ; but then, you know, 
 good luck vvill or ought to make a good night." 
 
 " Are you for the road ?" 
 
 " No, not I ! I am merely going to see how my nag goes on ; he's very tired, 
 almost knocked up, poor fellow. I must see he is well looked to." 
 
 As he spoke, he left the room, and went at once to the stable and looked at his 
 own horse, and then proceeded to those of the two strangers, which were in the 
 next stable to his own. They were good serviceable nags, fit for the roads, and 
 capable of great exertion, and standing the roagh work of a farmer or grazier, such 
 as he deemed their owners to be, and of whom he thought it might be worth while 
 to know more. 
 
 • " Bob," he said, to the ostler, tl which do you think the best of these two nags ?* 
 " Him, a 'tother side o* you, sir." 
 
 " Well, I think you are about right, he is serviceable ; but the flea-bitten mare 
 is a good creature." 
 "Oh, ay! she'll do." 
 
 " Which of the two strangers does she belong to f* 
 
 " To the elder — the screw, as I calls him! I knows him of old, a precious old 
 skinflint, he is surely; I'd take care to give him all he pays for, and no more." 
 k ' He can't expect more, Bob; at least, if I was you, I'd see that he didn't 
 
464 NEWGATE. 
 
 always get a grain more than he deserves. I'd never let him get the better of 
 me." 
 
 *' Nor shall he, measter." 
 
 As Bob spoke, he left the stable to get some corn, while the highwayman took 
 out of his pocket a small steel hammer, and then he took the other horse's hind 
 leg up, and placed it between his own, and then applying the thinner end of the 
 hammer-head to the iron shoe in the manner of a lever, he completely displaced 
 the shoe, at least so much so, that it was very loose, and hung very slightly to the 
 hoof. 
 
 ** There," he muttered, " policy may do what strength cannot. Now, I tell you 
 this much, old boy, you may make yourself easy upon the score of your jaunt to 
 Hampstead to-night." 
 
 By this time the ostler returned, and entered the stable, and gave the horses 
 their feed, while Orlando looked at them with the eye of a connoisseur. 
 
 " Well, Bob, if these horses were mine, I think I should make them look a 
 little better ; besides, I should take care they were well shod." 
 
 " Arnt they shod, master ? Well, I declare," he added, as he looked round 
 the horses' legs, — " well, I'm blowed if he won't lose a shoe afore he gets out 
 of the yard !" 
 
 " He'll not go to London to-night, will he ?* inquired the highwayman. 
 
 " Go to London P I should think not. He'll no more go to London with that 
 horse, than I shall i Why, the roads between here and there are a plaguey sight 
 worse than those he has come along, I'll warrant !— Why, all the way up there 
 is nothing but loose yellow flints, that will not leave him a bit of hoof ; and how 
 he's to get back, I don't know." 
 . " The roads are not so bad." 
 
 " That is true ; but, at the same time, even on a good road a horse will lose his 
 hoof if he kicks anything, and more than that, he'll never be able to carry a load 
 on his back, — he'll have to stop here ail night. Well, it sarves him right ! only I 
 wish it had been the 'tother one.'' 
 
 «f The flea-bitten mare?" 
 
 M Yes, master. I don't know anything of this un's master, but I do of 'tother 
 — blister him 1 But there's some comfort in it— he'll be put to some inconve- 
 nience, and that^will be a great gratification : it will serve us instead of some- 
 thing better." 
 
 " You had better go and tell them about it." 
 
 "I will, master, — I'll go at once," said the ostler; "they'll, thank me for the 
 hews, I dare say ; but they'd been better pleased if it had been of another 
 character. At all events, I can't help it. I wonder if they'll give us a drop 
 of anything warm." 
 
 M You had better make sure of it before you go and tell them," said Orlando • 
 " Here's something to keep the wet out, lad." 
 
 " Thankee, master, — you've got an open hand if nobody else hasn't. It aint 
 thrown away, master; I'll do what I can for the nag, and thankee besides." 
 
 "And quite enough, Bob," said the highwayman. "I love my horse better 
 than my pocket ; and he who takes care of him, obliges me. You have done 
 him up for the night — have you not?" ▼ 
 
 u Yes, I have ; he don't want anything more." 
 
 "Then don't let any one enter the stable, at all, Bob — he'll sleep undisturbed, 
 and be all the better for it on the morrow." 
 
 " He will so. I have put an extra feed in his manger, but he won't touch 
 'u» now, at any rate ; but they'll be gone before morning." 
 
 As they spoke, they both reached the house, and the highwayman entered the 
 parlour with Bob at his heels. The former walked up to his former seat, and sat 
 down by the fireside, and drank from the tankard that was set hefore him. 
 
 " Well!" said the tall stranger, "how do the horses fare, ostler. Are they 
 both fed?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 465 
 
 "Oh yes, sir, both fed, and fed well." 
 
 « Ah, of course ; but no matter. When will they be fit for the road again V 
 
 One on 'em will be ready in about an hour, sir." 
 "And the other, what of him? You seem to speak as if only one of them 
 will be tit for the road this evening ; what do you mean, eh V 
 
 "That one of the 'osses can't go any more to-night, sir, that's all. It's mv 
 
 « ' OW , at the soenest > as I can see at present." Y 
 
 What is the matter with him?-and which of them is there anything wrons 
 They were well when we brought them in, I'll swear; and if anyLident 
 
 No. 59. 
 
466 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 happens while in your care, you must be answerable ; for they are good 
 horses !'* 
 
 " That may be, and yet their owners mayn't be so good !" 
 
 "What do you mean by that, fellow, eh? You're impertinent! — tall us 
 what's the matter with the nags." 
 
 " Why, that's easy done. One on 'em's got his near hind shoe off, or very 
 nearly so. I wonder how he got into the stable in that plight !* 
 
 " A shoe off !" said the elder stranger, in dismay at this intelligence ; " which 
 of them?" 
 
 " The iron-grey one." 
 
 ''[Oh, well, that's unfortunate. I thought you looked to your horses' hoofs 
 before you came out ?" 
 
 "So I did," replied the younger stranger, "so I did ; and I thought they 
 were right enough — but I was mistaken, I suppose, and yet he wears his shoes 
 well enough." 
 
 " But it's nearly off, sir, now," said the ostler, "and he can't go out of the 
 yard without losing the shoe, I'll wager anything. The road's bad you've come, 
 sir ; but, Lord bless you, it is nothing to the road that lies before you, between here 
 and Hampstead Heath." 
 
 " Ah, well— it's a bad job," said the younger of the two strangers ; " a very 
 bad job. I wouldn't have anything happen to him for a trifle. Is there no 
 smith at hand ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, there is." 
 
 "Then he must shoe him as quickly as he can." 
 
 " He can't do it to-night, anyhow, sir." 
 
 " Not shoe him to-night ! What ! is he drunk then ?" 
 
 " No, sir, he aint drunk, but the forge is out, and it would take much time and 
 some money to heat it again ; and then if that could be got over, I question if the 
 smith would be in a right mind to shoe him : it would be a great deal too wet to 
 do so safely/' 
 
 " Too wet to do so? He could soon get dry by the fire of the forge." 
 
 " No. I mean, sir, he's been to have his pint, and in wet weather he usually 
 forgets when he has had it, and then he takes it again, and so he goes on till he 
 forgets everything." 
 
 "Ah, I see, it's the same thing as I call drunk." 
 
 " Pretty much, I dare say, sir ; we call it wet hereabouts, it isn't so unpleasant 
 as drunk, you see ; so it's much better." 
 
 " Yes it is. Ha ! ha ! ba ! Upon my word you may live and learn. Well, 
 what's to be done ? I can't stir with my horse in such a state : it would cut his feet 
 up. I have been the road before, it's steep and very loose ; it's no use in my going." 
 
 "It is very bad just now, sir; nobody would go over such ground as that, I'll 
 warrant, unless they are unable to help themselves ; it's a bad lot of new yellow 
 stones thrown down, that would tear* any oss's feet off, if he were badly shod, 
 much less not shod at all." 
 
 " I can't go, that's clear." 
 
 " Well," said the taller man of the two, " I must go ; nothing will hurt such 
 a night as this, that is, no one will be ; but, besides 'tis impossible that I should 
 neglect going to him on such an occasion as this. I should lose taking a hundred 
 and sixty-three pounds in cash." 
 
 " Well, you can do as you like ; I don't advise you to go, though I would,'' said 
 the younger stranger. You see I caunot go, I am fixed here for the night. I can't 
 go till I've had my horse shod, but we have come by far the greater part of 
 the way ; why, it can't take above a quarter or half-an-hour at the outside to ride 
 into the town of Hampstead." 
 
 " It is not more than three miles, I think." 
 
 " Three miles ! it isn't above one-and-a-half, if more than one ; why, it's not four 
 miles the whole way, between any part of Hampstead town and Hendon, so it 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 467 
 
 ought not to take you more than half-an-hour, and if you stop an hour, you ought 
 to be back here in two at the furthest." 
 
 " Well, well, we will settle it so. I must go, that is quite settled, and the 
 sooner I can go and be back here the better. Ostler, tell me when my horse is 
 rea dy — saddle him as soon as he has fiuished his food — then I'll be off." 
 
 The ostler left the room, and the two strangers sat talking of various matters, 
 while Orlando sat sleeping by the fire, and apparently taking no notice of them, 
 so that he appeared quite unconscious of their presence ; but from all they said, he 
 gathered that they were both from Edgware, the one having agreed to accompany 
 the other, as they had heard so much of the highwaymen in those parts." 
 
 However, as the appointment to receive so large a sum was peremptory, the 
 elder determined to go alone, so that he would not miss the receipt of bo much 
 for the sake of being afraid of travelling so short a distance as that alone, so he 
 resolved to go alone. 
 
 However, before they were called upon by the ostler, they determined to have 
 another tankard, but just as they had taken the first draught, the ostler opened the 
 door, and poking his head in said, — 
 
 " Oss ready, sir, saddled, and stands at the door." 
 
 "I'm coming," said the taller stranger. 
 
 " Here, take another draught first." 
 
 " Not a drop, 1 have had enough ; what do you think of having for supper 
 when I get back V y 
 
 « Oh, I don't know, anything the landlord has good." 
 
 " Very well, I shall leave it to you, but I saw some good steaks in the larder ; 
 suppose we have some of them, with a Welch rarebit to follow, with some good ale." . 
 
 " I am quite agreeable ; I'll have them ready by the time you come back. By- 
 the-by I'll go down and look at my horse at the same moment." 
 
 He accordingly arose, and went out. 
 
 No sooner had he gone out, than Orlando arose and walked to the tankard, and 
 taking a pinch of a powder which he had about him, he dropped it into the 
 tankard, and then resumed his seat, without troubling himself any more about it. 
 
 The other stranger returned, and resumed his seat. 
 
 " I would not for a trifle," he said, " have had this accident away from home. 
 I like my own smith best to shoe the horse, and then 1 can depend upon the work." 
 
 " That is very true, sir ; there is no smith like the man who knows the horse ; 
 he will act kindly, and humour the animal, and moreover he will not slight his 
 work as it is well known he may lose his customer, whereas this man has not the 
 same fear." 
 
 " That is most true," said the other, " and I and my horse have been old 
 acquaintances, and I respect him because he is such." He then drank from the 
 tankard. 
 
 " Well, I find those men have good horses who take care of them," said Orlando ; 
 "^indeed, good masters make good horses, that is my notion of matters. "| 
 
 " Why, I think you are correct, and more than that, a horse will trot as long 
 again under good treatment than he will under bad." 
 
 *f No douht," s&id Orlando. 
 
 The stranger paused in his discourse, and observed that the fire made him sleepy, 
 when the highwayman told him it was in consequence of the exposure to the 
 elements for some time previously, that gave it tl\ it effect, which would soon go off. 
 
 The stranger appeared inclined to converse, which he did for some time — for half 
 an hour or so, and then he declared he was very drowsy. 
 
 " Well, I feel as bad myself," said Orlando ; ''the chimney corner, however, is a 
 good place to sit in, and as there are two, I will occupy one too. I have ordered 
 my supper, and shall take a nap." 
 
 " And I, too," said the stranger. 
 
 Saying so, he sat down, having first finished the tankard, after which he fell fast 
 asleep in the corner by the fire, and snored soundly. 
 
468 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 et Ay," said the highwayman, " that will do, your nap will last two hours 
 good, I know the quantity, but one hour will do for me." 
 
 As he spoke he softly left the room, and wrapping himself up in a great coat, 
 brushed back his whiskers, so as to appear as if he had few or none, fetched his 
 horse out of the stable, and leaping him over a low wall into a meadow, he quitted 
 the Bell. 
 
 There was no reason for him to traverse through the bad roads ; he knew every 
 spot of earth around, and availing himself of his knowledge, rode round the 
 bad road by keeping in the meadows, or the soft parts of the paths, aud then 
 through patches of wood, until he came upon the heath ; but he remaiued beneath 
 the deep shade of the trees, awaiting the sounds of some person approaching ; but 
 he waited there for nearly half an hour before he heard a sound. 
 
 *? He's later than he intended," he muttered. 
 
 At that moment he thought the sound of a horseman near approaching 
 struck upon his senses, and he listened eagerly for the sounds, and at length was 
 assured of it. 
 
 "Yes, yes, 'tis the same, I dare say — one horseman, yes, that must be him— 
 his pistols are of no use, I have taken care of that." 
 
 The horseman rode on, apparently unconscious of his danger, and came up 
 very near to where Orlando stood, without seeing any one there. He took the 
 left hand road on the heath, leaving the Highgate road to the right, and keeping the 
 Hendon road, but he had not gone the length of the animal he rode, before Orlando 
 leaped his horse out of his place of concealment close to him. 
 
 " Stop, your money or your life." 
 
 *t Very well," said the stranger, " you must have it, I suppose." 
 " I must, and be quick." 
 
 As the stranger spoke, he leaned forward t© his holster pistols, both of which he 
 seized, and presented them at the head of the highwayman, saying, — 
 " There, you must take what you can get out of that." 
 As he spoke he pulled the triggers, but they both missed fire. 
 '* Curses," muttered the horseman. 
 
 i( Ha! ha I ha! Throw them down, or you are a dead man," said the highwayman. 
 
 The order was not immediately complied with, and the highwayman immediately 
 struck the other a blow on the head, which felled him to the earth without a me* 
 ment's hesitation, and then he dismounted, leading his horse by the bridle, and then 
 rifled the stranger's pockets, which contained a bag of gold and silver. 
 
 " That's all I want," he said, as he put his foot into the stirrup, and was soon on 
 horseback again, and galloped off towards the Bell. 
 
 However, he took another route back again, and arrived there in a very short 
 space of time: he soon unharnessed his horse, rubbed him down, and placed his food 
 ready for him, divested himself of his great coat, and then returned to the parlour 
 in which the stranger still slept, and then Orlando disposed himself to sleep also. 
 
 In this attempt he succeeded in reality, and in about five minutes he had fallen 
 asleep. When he had scarce been there a quarter of an hour, the tall stranger 
 entered the room. 
 
 He looked round the room at his companion and the highwayman, both of whom 
 were too surely asleep — he could not be mistaken in that. There was no doubting 
 the genuineness of the sleep that hoth of them were in. He paused, and considered 
 for a minute or two. 
 
 »* Damnation ! ' he muttered, r f it can't be ; tkey have both drunk themselves 
 asleep, as sure as fate, and I have been really done, robbed, and beaten, tricked 
 and assailed ; curses, oaths and curses upon the fellow who robbed me so clean, I 
 say, come, More, come, T have got into a pretty mess ; by Heaven, 1 have been 
 done — regularly fixed." 
 
 " Hilloa !" said his companion, " what is the matter — what you back, and I 
 have been asleep ? Well ,how long have you been gone ? not long ; — bh, no ! 
 you could not have had time to do it in yet, man !" 
 " I have had time enough to be done, if that is what you mean V* 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 469 
 
 u What do you mean ? by Jove, how sleepy 1 felt to be sure — why, T suppose it 
 is the fire and the weather. Where have you been ?" 
 " I have been robbed." 
 
 " Robbed i What! do you mean to say you have been robbed ?" 
 
 " I do mean to say as much ; why, damn it, man, I pulled upon the fellow; 
 and if my infernal pistols did not miss at a moment I most required their assis- 
 tance ; why, curse me, I was knocked off, stunned. Iam lucky in getting off so 
 well, having tried to kill a man." 
 
 ** You are ! — but you have a bruise or two V 
 
 " Ye?, I lave. 1 must h^ve some warm water and a basin — why, here's our 
 friend here, fast asleep ; is he drunk or shamming ?" 
 
 " Oh, he was as sleepy as I, and from the same cause, I dare say." 
 
 ,At that moment, the highwayman hearing a noise, awoke, and, looking round, 
 he perceived the stranger had come in. At first he spoke not, but gazed upon his 
 soiled appearance and bloody head for several minutes, and then he said, appa- 
 rently with much surprise : — 
 
 " What ! have you had a fall ? You bear the appearance of it. I hope you are 
 not hurt much ! A fall is very dangerous indeed — horse slipped— or stumbled ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I have been stopped and robbed." 
 
 " Good God ! how strange." 
 
 " Strange ! no ; but it is strange that my pistols should miss fire," said the tall 
 stranger ; " I am quite sure I would have shot the fellow, if they had not miss 
 fired — what was the cause of it I can't imagine — it's beyond me altogether." 
 
 " Ah ! they will serve you so sometimes — the spark gets blown from the pan — 
 besides, such a night as this, you never can be sure of your arms." 
 
 " I wish I had more fire about my hands ; I might have done better, for I was 
 beaten down, despite my pistols, and have been cleared out of every scurrick I 
 have received." 
 
 *' You don't mean that?" 
 
 " I do, by Heaven !'* 
 
 At that moment the landlord entered the apartment, followed by a female, who 
 came to lay the cloth for the supper. The landlord had not been in before — he 
 had been busy in the cellars, as the rain had got in, and had given him much 
 trouble. 
 
 "T hope you are comfortable, gentlemen," said the landlord. " It's shocking 
 weather out of doors, I shouldn't .at all be surprised if it was to turn to a 
 frost.' 
 
 " I don't care a curse what it turns to !" said the stranger, who had been 
 robbed. 
 
 " Well, sir, we will not suppose you do ; yet most people do, and there- 
 fore I hope my wishing it might be a shade better, is no offence to any one." 
 
 Certainly not, landlord ; but that is nothing much to a man who has been 
 robbed !* 
 
 "Robbed !— oh, robbed!' 
 
 u I have, indeed," said the stranger, sorrowfully. 
 "Not in my house?" 
 
 "No, no! since I left, I was stopped upan the heath, and then I was done as 
 well as could be." 
 
 " Oh, upon the heath ! ay, there indeed, you do meet with disasters indeed. 
 I don't know how they can manage to do these things, but people I suppose are 
 afraid — it seems that people are afraid to fight — but no matter ; it's an unpleasant 
 affair anyhow, but here comes the supper — that's a sovereign remedy for all the 
 evils of life." 
 
 " It's no cure for mine." 
 
 " Sit down to it in a contented spirit, and you will be happy, but at all events 
 when you touch the magic ball, then indeed all evil vanishes." 
 
 ** Well, I must have supper; it's no use grumbling about nothing. I must put up 
 
470 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 with the evil the best way I can ; but I can't recal the past — could I do so, I 
 would soon recal that rascal here, and give him the contents of my pistols/* 
 
 " How was it you left the town at all ? If I had been there and had a heavy sum 
 of money about me, I would have remained there all night, especially as I knew 
 that I could not go all the way home, and you would have saved yourself." 
 
 " I should ; but I haven't, that's all I can tell you.'' 
 
 They all sat down to their supper, and sat up till a late hour, the two strangers 
 being well entertained by the conversation of the very man who had but so short 
 a time before robbed one of them of all his money and who was even at thatmoment 
 enjoying the very means he had taken from the stranger. This was the pleasure of 
 the evening, but they knew not that they were thus entertained at their own 
 expense. 
 
 It was late before the strangers separated for the night ; they fully believed 
 that they had been in the company of at least an honest man. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Orlando the Owl never appeared Jin daylight upon the stage of his adventures ; 
 he preferred the darkest weather, and his knowledge of the locality over which 
 he appeared to be the presiding genius, and over which he governed with a de- 
 spotic sway, indeed he would not permit another of the same class to ride along 
 with him, or to act in concert with him. 
 
 " One may elude the gallows," he used to say, H but two are sure to go there as 
 fast as their enemies can wish them. I am alone, and free." 
 
 Still he was usually to be found at the Bell ; there he was domiciled for a long 
 time, and when the county was too warm for him, he would quit it for a time. 
 On one occasion he had stopped a gentleman near Hampstead town, and the gen- 
 tleman immediately ran into the town, and called out for a pursuit. 
 
 It so happened that the high sheriff was riding through Hampstead at the 
 tirr.e, and he, hearing of theories, at once determined that he would give chase. 
 
 In about five minutes more, a strong party, consisting of the high-sheriff and 
 three officers, besides the gentleman who was robbed, in all a party of five, were 
 in pursuit. 
 
 The cry of "A highwayman! — a highwayman !" was raised, and away they 
 went at a rattling speed, and no sooner had they come upon the heath, than they 
 perceived Orlando at the other extremity ; he saw them — he first heard thetn, and 
 then examining the quarter whence they came, he at once knew the high-sheriff 
 and the man he had just robbed, and knowing that quarter of the earth to be 
 unpropitious at that particular time, he lightly touched his horse's flank with the 
 spur, and took the road to Highgate. 
 
 Away they went in full cry. " A highwayman ! — a highwayman \" * 
 
 Away went Orlando. His bay mare new over the ground — she wanted neither 
 whip nor spur, but right willingly and gallantly she laid foot to the ground, and 
 stride after stride cleared her of space that soon increased the distance between 
 him and his pursuers. 
 
 Thus he went until he reached the Gate-house at Highgate ; there he took a 
 glass of spirits, and turned his horse's head towards Barnet. 
 
 Just as he quitted the Gate-house, he heard the sound of galloping behind him, 
 and he smiled as he thought of the useless ride they were taking. 
 
 "They will tire their nags/* he muttered, " and then they will not take me: 
 I'm too well mounted. Islow, my old girl, they are coining thundering a'ong, 
 they expect a long chase, but thty won't have me. I'm not obliged to go where 
 they please." 
 
 Away he went again, for he could distinctly hear the sound of the pursuers, 
 both hoof and voice, come clear on the night-air. 
 
 " Now then, my bit of blood ! lay to the ground, and we shall soon reach the 
 Finchley -road, you know it well enough — they don't : it will be as dark and as cold 
 as the devil can make it, but that will throw them out. Hurrah, my bold bay!" 
 
 Again he went away, but it was down hill, and he held his horse well in hand, 
 and here his pursuers seemed to lose no ground ; when he came to the up-hill 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 471 
 
 work they lost ground. He made towards Whetstone, until there was the Finch- 
 ley-road on the left perceivable, then suddenly he turned up that road. 
 
 "They will be here immediately," he muttered, and he laid to, until he 
 heard them pass the end of the road towards Whetstone. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" he laughed, " they have gone on the wrong scent, they will find 
 they have got on the wrong traekj but they are on the wrong scent; they will 
 amend that as it is towards towD they are coming, which will be more to their 
 taste — I know now. 
 
 <r Well then, when they get to the Whetstone gate, they are sure to turn back ; 
 and now for my host of the Bell, and his pretty daughter. I must make that girl 
 my wife, that's certain, and yet what does a man like me want with a wife? My life 
 is not worth an hour's purchase, and yet — and yet, why should not I, if life be 
 short, seize those few moments of real happiness? 'Tis not a long life, but 'tis a 
 happy life that we must prize. I do so." 
 
 He paused in his thoughts, and now he crossed the Hendon-road, and turned 
 towards Hampstead. At the Bell, at North End, a woody hollow, was the Owl's 
 nest, where we have before seen him figure, and where mine host and his pretty 
 daughter resided. 
 
 u . Well, here 1 am again," he continued, as he entered the inn-yard — " hilloa, Bob." 
 '* Here I am, your honour." 
 
 " That's right, Bob, now be as quick as you can; clean my mare, and bed her up 
 as fast as you can. If you can do it all well in six minutes, there's a crown 
 for you." 
 
 " Your honour shall stand by and keep time," said the ostler, as he unloosed the 
 belly-band, and had the saddle off in a twinkling, and then the bridle ; a halter 
 was whipped over his head, and then Bob did set to with right good will. In 
 somewhere about the time specified, the mare was cleaned, and well whisped 
 down. 
 
 " Now ,Bob, you have earned your money, just let me beg you will put him in 
 the stable; give him no water just now, perhaps about a quart presently, and rub her 
 till she is quite dry, and then, when you hear any visitors, lock up the stable. I have 
 a wager upon it." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir, here's quick work." 
 
 " It is, Bob, here's your crown ; and there's a glass at the bar, when you choose 
 to have it." 
 
 u Thank your honour, I'll go and have it now ; for this has been a warmer," said 
 Bob, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead ; " it isn't, everybody could do a horse 
 down in that time, I'll warrant ; nor would I do so for anybody else." 
 
 " That will do, Bob, and then give her a couple of good feeds of solid corn— I 
 don't care about the mare's having much hay — it only fills, Bob, and doesn't give 
 her strength. A little is well by way of change, you know." 
 
 €t Exactly, that is what I say, s?r, though master don't always say so — the fact is, 
 a small quantity of corn and plenty of May fills 'em out, and they look big, and 
 people as doesn't know nothing about osse's, you know, sir, think they is all right, 
 and they are well blow'd out." 
 That is it Bob, that is it." 
 
 As he spoke, he left the stables, and entered the house, and walked info the 
 parlour, and seated himself by the fire. He had not been there long, before the 
 landlord's daughter entered the room, and came up to the highwayman with a 
 smile, saying, — 
 
 " Well, and so yoii have returned to us again." 
 
 " Yes, once more the pitcher has returned to the well unbroken, Kate ; but how 
 often shall that be we cannot tell ; sometimes there is an accident, Kate; and who 
 knows whose lot it may be ; but this is idle talk, how is your father to-night? 
 
 " Oh, he is very well, and hearty ; he has been very busy to-day." 
 
 " What has he got for supper V inquired Orlando — (( not that I ought to speak of 
 supper, and you here." 
 
472 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Nonsense ! I come to tell you that we have a nice rabbit pie — a large one. 
 Will you have any of this? I made it." 
 
 "I will with the utmost pleasure! your fairy little hands made it, eh? Well, I 
 shall eat it with more pleasure ; it must be good ! when will it be ready V 
 
 " It is now on the table ; and father wants to know if you won't take supper 
 with him ; he sent me on purpose, he's nobody with hiro." 
 
 " I will ! he could not have sent a better messenger. So, my pretty Kate, I am to 
 sup with you; — you'll spoil my supper, I shall be looking at you all^the while." 1 
 
 " Then you had better stop away then ; because you'll spoil your supper, and 
 displease my father ; and spoil mine too/' 
 
 "Then I'll be more careful, I'll not do so; but come, I'm keeping your father 
 and the rabbit pie ; it would be a pity to spoil either." 
 
 He arose, and catching Kate round the waist, as they were going out of the 
 door, he gave her a kiss ; and she slapped his face for his pains, and then th*>y 
 soon found their way into the little bar parlour, where sat mine host of the Bell, 
 just diving into the contents of the rabbit pie ; which steamed up most odoriferouily, 
 it would have given even an aldermau an appetite." 
 
 " Here you are, landlord, then, as comfortable and easy as a man can be ; upon 
 my word I envy you your berth here, and wish it were mine !" 
 
 "Ay, I dare say you do, and so you would, with a vengeance, if you had the 
 place, when the thunder sours the ale, that's the time to be a publican ; upon my 
 soul it sours one's temper to think of it ; but never mind, don't say any more about 
 it, but set down and enjoy yourself while you may." 
 "A very good precept, and now for the -exam pie.'* 
 
 They all then sat down to supper, and were laughing and chatting right merrily, 
 when the distant sound of horses' feet came plainly upon their ears. 
 u You'll have company to-night, landlord." 
 
 41 No, there's many of 'em ; I think in that case they'll push on for Loadon in 
 company ; where there are so many, they don't care for the road; but they may 
 stop and take a glass here at the door. I dare say they will, they do sometimes." 
 
 " By Jove they are coming at a quick pace I" said Orlando, "a very quick pace; 
 but no matter, we can enjoy ourselves, — Bob can attend to them." 
 
 As he spoke, the whole party came in front of the Bell, and drew bridle. 
 
 " House ! house ! here ! shouted the sheriff." 
 
 " Oh, bawl away," said the landlord, " I'm at supper." 
 
 " House ! house !* 
 
 "Well," said Bob, " here's the house ; what will you take?" 
 " Confound your insolence, fellow! what do you mean, wheie's the landlord ?''j 
 " He's in-doors, at supper with a gentleman, and can't be disturbed ; but if you 
 go in, you can see him, if y m look through the window." 
 " Has there been any travellers here ?" 
 
 " None 'scept the gentleman as is taking supper along with the landlord, and 
 he's been here for some time now." 
 
 " That can't, be him," said the sheriff ; " and yet we had better go in — has any 
 one been by here on horseback ?" he continued to the ostler. 
 
 " Not as I knows on," said the ostler ; '* not as I knows on, they might, and yet 
 I don't think that they would." 
 
 " Well, our cattle are quite blown ; we had better bait here, and then return to 
 Hampstead." 
 
 '« Perhaps," said the individual, " as he was really traced to this road, he may 
 come after us ; having concealed himself until we passed." 
 
 " That has been done before," said the sheriff ; " and I must say our cattle are 
 hardly fit to climb up this hill: we had better go in, and have something, as well as 
 our cattle, for here we can find entertainment for man and beast, I'd have this 
 landlord out in a minute, but, the fact is, I don't want to ride rusty with the 
 innkeepers, as they will then endeavour to give you a false route or direction ; but 
 when they are in humour, you may as well keep them so, and you can do anything 
 with them." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 473 
 
 So saying, the high sheriff dismounted; and, followed by the others, they all 
 having given their horses into the hands of the ostler, entered the inn. 
 
 Orlando saw them enter, and never stirred. He had his whiskers combed forward, 
 so that he appeared as if he really had large bushy whiskers. 
 
 " Here come your visitors." 
 
 " Well, there is a good fire; they can't be better thsn in the parlour, it is warm 
 and comfortable." 
 
 * It certainly is. Bat I never tasted a finer pie than this, landlord ; have you 
 been rabbit shooting lately V inquired Orlando, with a smile. 
 
 "Who.? 1? Oh, no, no! \ don't trouble myself with shooting them— a few 
 snares, and the business is done. I can have a dozen of a night if I want them." 
 
 " Ah, that is by far the best way." 
 
 The sherifr and his party entered the parlour, and rang the bell, heartily, till 
 some one came to answer it. 
 
 No, 60. 
 
474 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Well," said the landlord, " we may as well adjourn now to the parlour, and we 
 can see what these strangers want ; and you, Kate, can see all this cleared away." 
 " Yes, father," said Kate. 
 
 The landlord and Orlando entered the parlour, where the strangers had seated 
 themselves. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, what shall I have the pleasure of doing for you ? " . 
 
 " Why, we want a tankard or two of your best," said the sheriff ; " but, at the 
 same time, we shall be glad of your company to help us drink it." 
 
 " Certainly, with pleasure," said the landlord. Upon which he soon produced 
 the requisite liquors, and they were placed upon the table by that worthy, who 
 placed himself very close to it also, and officiated as steward of the ceremonies. 
 
 " Well, landlord, we expect more company, presently ; we hope you will not 
 say a word about our being here, because we have a mind to surprise our friend 
 upon the road, who, I doubt not, will rather be glad to leave us behind." 
 
 " Indeed, your friend does not seem to do justice to your company." 
 
 " I am the high sheriff." 
 
 " Yes, 1 know that," said Orlando, " I know that ; and I can easily understand 
 why they should be more pleased with your absence than your company. I 
 suppose you are in pursuit of some runaway husband, or, perhaps, soine lady, 
 light o' love." 
 
 " Neither, sir," said the sheriff, somewhat offended ; " but there has been a 
 highway robbery committed on the heath, and we have ridden hard after the 
 offender." 
 
 " Indeed ! you have not gone far." 
 
 " We have, but we took a round-about road ; we followed on through Highgate, 
 Whetstone, then through Finchley, and then round the road here." 
 
 "Are you sure you followed his track V inquired the landlord. 
 
 " Oh, yes, we found no one answering his description had been passed at 
 Whetstone, so we turned back, and an old man had seen him turn up the Finchley 
 road, and saw us go by afterwards ; he was going like mad, the old man said." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha !" said Orlando, " but you are along way behind — you are losing 
 ground every moment." 
 
 " I don't know much about that," said the sheriff, "but we came to the end. of 
 the road, and then we came in here." 
 
 " How do you know that he might not have run off to London ?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no — he would not have done that, because the road was too bad, and 
 they never take to London'when the country lies open to them ; besides we stopped 
 a labourer, and found that a man had galloped down the road, and up this way 
 about ten minutes before. 
 
 " Then you haven't taken him ?" 
 
 " No. Has any one been here ?" 
 
 " No stranger," said the landlord ; " nor has anybody been by. I think you 
 must have been mistaken: he couldn't have passed here without causing some noise." 
 
 " No," said Orlando, "he has done you clean, gentlemen. How much did he take?'' 
 
 " Fifty good guineas," said one of the strangers — the gentleman who had been 
 robbed, " but I would willingly give them to see the rascal hanged." 
 
 " Well, I have been upon Hampstead-heath often enough, but I never yet met 
 with any of these highwaymen; somehow or other, they seem like ghosts, they never 
 are seen by those who disbelieve in their existence. Now highwaymen and ghosts 
 are to me about the same in point of reality." 
 
 " Well," said the stranger, "you are more fortunate than I am; but I have done 
 all I can to secure the rascals." 
 
 "Did you see him at all ?" 
 
 " See him ? could I do otherwise, when he took my purse ? We saw him on the 
 heath, and then we chased him, but he has given us the slip." 
 
 " I, myself, have ridden over the heath this evening, but it must have been much 
 earlier thanfvhen you were robbed ; to be sure, I saw a horseman, but then I rode at 
 a good pace, and he did not seem to have any desire to trouble me." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 " Oh," said the sheriff, " these highwaymen do not stop long in one place." 
 "What sort of man was it that stopped you ?" inquired the highwayman of the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Just about such an one as yourself, but he had no whiskers." 
 " Ah, that's the man I have heard they call the Owl." 
 
 " Well,'' said the sheriff, "there is a reward out for him, and had I been aware I 
 was so near him, I could have ridden my horse harder ; and yet I am loath to hurt 
 the animal ; he's a good one on a long journey, but. he's not so fast as some." 
 
 " You don't always get speed and bottom at the same time/* said Orlando ; " but 
 I tell you what, you must have heels to catch this man, for he is well-mounted." 
 
 " So I hear, and that reminds me of my horse ; I will just' go and look after 
 him.' 
 
 So saying the sheriff rose and left the room, and then proceeded to the stables, 
 and after examining his own horse and those of his companions, he fell into the 
 following conversation with the ostler, to whom he gave a gratuity. 
 
 " Now, my man, you seem to understand the proper usage of cattle, I see." 
 
 a Hope so, yer honour. T have been, man and boy, at it these eight and thirty 
 years, and it's hard, indeed, if a man dont know something of his business in that 
 time. I have been here these fourteea years, and that's a purty good spell at one 
 place.'' 
 
 " Yes, that is very well indeed. Who is that gentleman up stairs f* 
 " Oh, he's a customer of master's." 
 
 * Yes, I suppose so. But had he been long in the house before we came in V 9 
 "Why, yes, in a manner of speaking, he was." 
 u How long?" 
 
 " 1 can't say, sir; his horse was here some time. But he came into supper with 
 master and young missus ; he had supper before you come, so he'd been in a goodish 
 bit you see : a man cannot eat a rabbit pie in a very short time." 
 
 " Well, I don't mean to say he can. Will you show me his horse?" 
 
 " Well, I suppose there will be no great harm in that, though, I suppose it's not 
 usual ; but you shall see it, master, if you come this way. I'll go bail he hasn't 
 stole 'im, he's had 'im too long for that. He's a trump of a customer." 
 
 "* I dare say ; — lightly come, lightly go. But no matter, if he's the man I sus- 
 pect, his horse will be in a pretty state from his ride." 
 
 They now entered the stable where the highwayman's horse was eating his corn. 
 The high sheriff walked up to the animal and examined it carefully, and then said,- — 
 Oh, this animal hasn't seen much service — he's been well looked to at all 
 events, and hasn't been far to-night." 
 
 " Well, I can't speak much for that matter," said Bob, "but I don't think he 
 has, he would show it more if he had ; and as to his being well attended to, why 
 when there's plenty of time to do it, it would be a great shame if a good horse 
 was neglected." 
 
 " So it would, . my man, so it would," said the sheriff, as he left the stable, much 
 puzzled in his own mind, and giving up all idea of the stranger being the highway- 
 man ; and he at once returned to the parlour ; where his companions were seated 
 enjoying themselves. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, I think we must ride again — our horses have had their 
 bait." 
 
 " But we haven't had ours," said the stranger, who had been robbed ; M the 
 rascal did not deprive me of the means of paying for my reckoning, that's one 
 matter of consolation." 
 
 f* Well, when we've finished this tankard, we must away ; but, I tell you what 
 it is, we must be off then unless you are disposed to stay here all night, for I shall 
 stop no longer ; I have other scatters to attend to ; besides, it appears to me, we 
 shall get to London none too soon to save ourselves from a heavy rain that seems 
 to be brewing up in the west." 
 
 "Then we will be ready in a few minutes," said the stranger ; " I have no desire 
 o encounter more of the elements than I am obliged; and as for staying here, I am 
 
476 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 expected in town, and that will not do ; besides, I should be compelled to send to 
 London for money." 
 
 In about ten minutes more there was a bustle in the room ; the ostler came in 
 now to say the horses were at the door ; the time had been spent pleasantly enough, 
 and the whole party left the Bell in good spirits, consoled for their useless labour 
 by the good cheer and pleasant company they had met there ; and then, after 
 making some arrangements, they left the place, and proceeded towards Hampstead- 
 heath with all imaginable speed, until they were out of hearing. 
 
 "Well/' said Orlando, " well, Master High Sheriff, I shall have more of your 
 acquaintance ; you have too good a purse of gold, besides, you looked too hard at 
 me for me to pass that over. You had a suspicion, a very strong suspicion, but 
 yet you had no means to increase its intensity — you were baffled ; but 1 want 
 a little more cash, and you will be the best man to afford it— moreover,' it will be 
 something to lighten the purse of a high- sheriff. " 
 
 " Well, landlord, what do you think of your worthies ?" 
 
 " I think they'll ride a long way after a shadow- — a pack of fox-hounds upon the 
 trail of a red-herring is a clever thing in comparison. That sheriff carries more fat 
 than is good for the health of his horse. I 'll warrant he'll stop in Hampstead for 
 an hour." 
 
 " I think it's more than likely myself.' 9 
 
 " Well, I have had my cup, and I'll see all right and then to bed ; it's no use 
 sitting up now ; it's a good bit after two. Do you sleep here?" 
 
 «< Yes, I shall be in bed in ten minutes more time. I'll go and have a look at 
 my nag, and then I'll go to roost in my favourite room." 
 
 " Ay, the one that overlooks the stable. Ah! Master Orlando, you like your 
 hoise, you watch him while you sleep : you are a good master at all events." 
 
 " I wish to be so, mine host; but farewell for the night." 
 
 if Good night," said the Boniface, " good night, I'm very drowsy. Kate — Kate, 
 where are you, Kate ? Do»'t you know it's time to shut up? Fasten up the doors, 
 and then to bed, ch, lass? time for all good girls to be abed." 
 
 «* Why, I want to go myself." 
 
 The highwayman strode through the yard, and looked carefully over, the stable, 
 and then at his mare; he took her foot up, and examined the shoes, and finding 
 them all good, he gave the mare some water, and then locked up the stable, and 
 hung up the key in the usual place: he then returned to the house, where he en- 
 countered Kate, who waited to shut the door after him. 
 
 " Ah ! my charming creature," said Orlando, " you are the goddess of this 
 hostel." 
 
 " Oh, Master Orlando, you are a dangerous man, I'm afraid. Your neighbours 
 have small thauks to give you for your company." 
 "And why not, my angel?" 
 
 "Because you are not so gentle as might be with them ; but, never mind, do. 
 you be more careful for the future, or you may ha\e a sheriff riding at your back 
 some of these days." 
 
 « Ah ! I would sooner have him riding at my back, than I at his ; but you are 
 the gentlest neighbour I have; indeed, you are the one whom 1 can call my neigh- 
 bour, all others are enemies ; you alone I can call friend: may I not do something 
 else one of these days ?" 
 
 " Indeed, I think that quite enough, but come in and go your ways ; my father 
 has gone up, and will be calling for me ;'go up stairs, with you, and leave me alone. 
 I'll call out." 
 
 " If you do," said the highwayman, u if you do, you will make him very cross." 
 "Then leave me alone, or you will make me cross," 6aid Kate, releasing herself 
 from Orlando's embrace; " you had better go to bed, and sleep the night out safe." 
 " I will. Good night, dear Kate." 
 
 The highwayman then ascended the stairs, and proceeded to his own room, 
 | which was a small bed-room, very neatly furnished, with everything in the old- 
 ( fashioned style 8 long since defunct, and now unknown. There was a double 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 477 
 
 lattice window which overlooked the yard, and from which a man might easily 
 descend, if he were so minded. 
 
 * The night is dark and well adapted for my expedition," he muttered, as he sat 
 down in a wooden chair with a high back ; "J shall wait here a little while, and then 
 I'm off with the wind; and then, Master Sheriff, we'll find that purse of yours. But 
 as for you, Kate, you must be mine somehow, some day. I have made up my 
 mind to that. I cannot marry, that is true, — I might be taken at the moment of 
 the ceremony: that I should deem unlucky." 
 
 He sat down until he heard the last door closed, and then waited until he 
 believed they were all in bed, and he had given them time to go to sleep, and then 
 softly opening the window, he lookedout ; and then, rinding all quiet, he let himself 
 out of the window, which he gently closed, and made off for the stable, which was 
 beneath the wall at the back of the house. 
 
 " No one can see me from this place, and if the windows were this way, there is 
 too much darkness to enable them to do so." 
 
 He crept silently towards the stable, which he entered by means of the key, and 
 having put on the saddle and bridle, again led the horse to a low wall ; then mount- 
 ing it, he leaped him over, and took his way over the sods towards Hampstead. 
 
 He rode sharply and with haste, but yet not to blow his horse, as he would have 
 some good work to do yet, and he might have to carry him for some miles. Or- 
 lando always took care of his horse, for he judged it necessary to have him always 
 capable of performing a long journey in case of accident, and thus it often hap- 
 pened at the end of a long run, he always escaped his pursuers. 
 
 The night was pitc' y dark, the wind blew fiercely, and he came upon the heath. 
 In about a quarter of an hour after he left the yard at the Bell, he saw at a dis- 
 tance the forms of two horsemen, and these he believed to be the same that he had 
 seen at the Bell, the two officers, the companions of the sheriff, who no doubt had 
 been left there to patrol about to guard the place. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! just what I thought," he said to himself, as he rode over the 
 soft turf to avoid the noise of the hoofs ; and then in a few minutes he rode through 
 the town of Hampstead at a rapid rate, until he came half way between that place 
 and the Kentish-fields ; then he listened a few moments until he heard the sound 
 of horses' hoofs ahead. 
 
 " All right," he muttered, " my man's a head of me now." 
 
 He touched his mare slightly with the spur, and then she flew over the ground 
 until he came up to a solitary horseman, who seemed to go along at a smart pace, 
 but who was somewhat the worse for the good cheer he had indulged in on the 
 road. 
 
 " Stop !— Stand and deliver !" 
 
 " Oh ! the devil," cried the high sheriff — for 'twas he ; "do you know, fellow, 
 who you make this demand oil I am the high sheriff." 
 
 " Yes, I dare say you are ; but you have a good purse, I dare say : at all events 
 I don't let you go off without you give it me ; now, you understand. People of 
 your cloth give us knights of the road some trouble, and put us to some expense. 
 You must be made to pay for it ; therefore, I say once more, stand and deliver, or 
 die upon the spot." 
 
 " My good fellow, I doubt not but that I shall have the honour of officiating 
 upon you one of these days beneath Tyburn tree." 
 
 " It is dangerous to say anything about that to me," said the highwayman ; 
 " but be advised, say nothing, but give me your purse at once." 
 
 " Never !" said the sheriff, as he leaned forward to get out one of the holster 
 pistols. 
 
 " Then take that," said Orlando, and he fired at the sheriff's head. 
 
 The ball grazed his forehead, and he fell stunned to the earth. The highwayman 
 got down and began to rifle him, which was very expeditiously performed. This 
 done, he drew the body to one side of the road, and then started the horse on at 
 a good pace homewards, remounted his own, and sped backwards whence he came, 
 leaving the sheriff to his fate. 
 
478 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 In about twenty minutes he had made his way back, come into the yard at tli e 
 Bell, placed his horse in the stable, groomed him well himself, fed him lightly, and 
 then clambered back into his own bed-room, and then into his bed. 
 
 But before he did that, he went to a certain part of the room and deposited a 
 large sum in gold that he had taken from the sheriff and the other man, and then 
 was soon wrapped in the arms of the god of sleep. 
 
 How long he had slept he knew not, but it must have been towards morning, when 
 he was awakened by loud shouting and knocking at the inn gate. The land- 
 lord was aroused, and got out of bed ; opening the window, he put his head 
 out, and it being near morning there was just twilight enough to see that there 
 were several persons, or, at least, more than one, for he could not tell. 
 
 " Hilloa ! what's the reason you couldn't come earlier ? The house isn't open 
 yet ; you must jog on to the next place ; people can't be disturbed thus." 
 
 " My fellow," said the sheriff, "it is early now. We want to come in. I am 
 the sheriff, and I command you, in the king's name, to open your doors." 
 
 " What, in the name of goodness, is the matter ? Has his majesty come to pay 
 me a visit ?" 
 
 " No, but his majesty's representative is here ; and unless you open your place, 
 you will find I shall proceed to force it open ; so you, may take your choice." 
 
 " Why, as for the matter of that, my doors are pretty strong, and it isn't every 
 fool, if his head be ever so strong, that can knock a hole in them ; indeed, I do not 
 know you, or even know that you are the person you say you are. Come in day- 
 light, when I can see, else my blunderbuss will do some mischief to any man who 
 attempts to break into my house. This is a lonely spot, and I am not so much of a 
 fool as you may take me to be." 
 
 " Come, come, this won't do ; I was here last evening, and put up some time. 
 We are in pursuit of a highwayman," svM the ^lieriff. 
 
 "What! again?" 
 
 " Yes, I have been robbed ; after I left your place, about three or four hours 
 since." 
 
 "What! you?" 
 
 4< Yes, I ; but have you anybody in your house at this moment?" 
 
 " I have the same gentleman whom you left here last night. He went to bed 
 when I did, and he is there now ; but if you stop, I'll let you in — now I know you, 
 I don't mind. I dare say you'll want something warm after your ride." 
 
 " Ay, we shall. Damn that fellow, I could have sworn it was the same man ; 
 but I'll have a look at his horse, and if I find he has moved from the stable, I'll 
 have him, dead or alive. There is something about that man. I know he isn't 
 what he appears to be." 
 
 "Well, we'll see if we know him ; and if all is not made right and fair, we will 
 take him ; there are enough of us to do so were he the devil himself." 
 
 The landlord rose and got a light, and when dressed, he came down with it, and 
 opened the door, when the strangers came in — there were five in all. 
 
 " Well, 1 did not expect to see you back so soon," said the landlord. " Why, 
 vou have had a smart cut over the head." 
 
 " Yes, I have; but where's the man we saw last night ?" inquired the sheriff. 
 
 "Up stairs in bed," said the landlord. "He hasn't been out of the house: 
 what makes you inquire for him ?" 
 
 "Nevej mind — we must just see his horse. Never mind disturbing him at the 
 present moment. Just show T us the stable where the animal is — that is all we want 
 at this moment. Come, quick, landlord, quick ! where's the stable?" 
 
 " Lord bless my heart, what a hurry you are in this morning," said the landlord ; 
 " you seem to expect we can do things here without moving ; you must please to 
 recollect, sir, that I am no bird nor bat — I don't fly, though you may — I'm not so 
 solid as you are, though I'm comfortable." 
 
 " I shall be compelled to make you very uncomfortable, if you don't do what 
 I require of you." 
 
 " I will do what you require of me, if it be reasonable, proper, and possible. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 479 
 
 I can't nor won't do anything beyond ; but as you want to look at ray customer's 
 horse, I will let you, though I don't know that I am doing right ; but if you 
 want to buy it, you must remember that I can't fix a price ; it is a rare good ar- 
 ticle ; you won't find a better animal anywhere." 
 
 " Well, never mind about that, we'll examine for ourselves, though I have 
 no doubt what you say to be perfectly correct. I want to see how the animal 
 looks. When was it out of the stable last ?" 
 
 " Yesterday afternoon, or evening, about two hours before you came here." 
 
 " Oh ! it is cursed strange," muttered the sheriff. 
 
 " Not at all, as I see," said the landlord, overhearing what he said ; " not at all 
 singular a gentleman should ride about ; and it isn't strange either, that he should 
 stop ,at an honest house, rather than go scampering about the country like you — 
 now, if you had stopped and slept here, you'd been as safe as he is, or his nag 
 either — but here's the stable, and here's the steed." 
 
 As he spoke, he opened the door, and then held up his lantern to the horse, 
 which was lying down, and lifting up its head, turned to gaze at them, and then 
 made that peculiar neigh that horses give when they expect food to be brought 
 them. 
 
 '* Oh, my bay beauty," said the landlord, sctatching his head, and apostro- 
 the mare, Ct I can't do it yet ; you must wait for your feed till the proper 
 
 " Come, get up," said the sheriff, giving the animal a poke with his foot, but 
 which, either from accident or design of the animal, was immediately returned ; 
 and the sheriff got such a blow on the shin, that he immediately fell to the 
 ground, with a groan. 
 
 " Now, that's what I call a fool's game," said the landlord. 
 
 "Damn you! what do you mean by that? My leg's broken — I'll have you 
 hanged." 
 
 " What ! hang a poor dumb creature. What ! would you indict the mare at the 
 Bailey for an assault, 'cause, recollect, you were the first to begin." 
 
 " I tell you what, Master Landlord, this will not do ; you are in league with some 
 very suspicious characters." 
 
 " Didn't know it, sir, there's nobody at all suspicious, but those that have awoke 
 me up at such unseasonable hours. I can't think what you can mean by it. 
 You ask me to show you another man's horse, and the first thing you do is to kick 
 the animal ; it is, to say the least of it, a brutish trick. Do you call yourself a 
 man? If you want to look at the animal, open your eyes, but don't illtreat it." 
 
 "Very well! very well ! I shall recollect all this," said the sheriff, limping 
 about. ''Get up ! you brute." 
 
 " Then your leg isn't broken after all," said the landlord. 
 
 " No, no, but I shan't get over it one while. I must go back to London, but I 
 can't travel now." 
 " Is she vicious V 
 
 "Lord love you, no," said the landlord, walking up alongside of the creature, 
 " she's as quiet as a dead man. Bless your heart, I'd sleep alongside of her ; she 
 would not hurt a fly ; of course if you kick an animal, they won't put up with it ; 
 they are as good as Christians, and a great deal better than some people ; however, 
 there she is good and fresh, I'll warrant." 
 
 " Yes, she is fresh enough, still I don't know what to say ; here, Mason, come 
 and look at this mare, and see what you think of her : has she been out within a 
 few hours ?" 
 
 Mason came in. He was one of the officers who were riding with the sheriff : 
 he looked at the mare carefully for some minutes, and then said dubiously,—- 
 
 " It's sometimes a hard matter to tell, but she don't seem to be at all distressed : 
 she's well cleaned and cool. 1 can only say that I don't think she could have been 
 out since last night, at all events not since the time you were stopped." 
 
 v Well then, curse me," said the sheriff, " if I aint done again ; but come along I 
 will have an interview with the owner of the horse at all events, and A will see him. 
 
480 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 1 may make something of him— come along ; now, landlord, I must get you to go to 
 this customer of yours, and give him my compliments and tell him the high sheriff 
 of Middlesex wants to see him." 
 
 " Very good," said the landlord. * You're done with th'e stable, I suppose 1" 
 
 «* Yes, 1 have/' 
 
 * Then I'll lock it up again/ said the landlord ; * safe bind, safe find, you know. 
 Now I'm ready to oblige you, but won't you take anything to keep the cold out? 
 It's a raw evening, I've got some excellent cordial : it will soothe the temper, and 
 
 wuiin the body.'' 
 
 " Go and deliver my message, or it will be the worse for you," said the sheriff, 
 angrily. 
 
 *' Very well," said the landlord, u but Lord bless my heart, what a bad tempered 
 man you are ; only to think to offend a good customer and call him up at this 
 hour only because a fat man has got a kick on the shin, — well ! well !*' 
 
 The landlord then went and called Orlando up ; he had heard the sounds that 
 had been made, and now, in being called, he got up, and in a few minutes after he 
 came down to where the sheriff was seated waiting for him. 
 
 " Well, sir," said he as he bowed to the sheriff, i* do I understand rightly that you 
 have anything to say to me ? I have been informed so by the landlord, but I must 
 complain that this is a most unseasonable hour to call upon any one. I trust, how- 
 ever, your object will justify the deed. 
 
 H I should think it would," said the sheriff. 
 
 " Perhaps you will tell me what is it then instead of nursing it up ?" 
 
 H I have ridden in pursuit of a highwayman, who stopped me and robbed me 
 between Hampstead and Loudon, and I have traced him to this house." 
 
 " In that case you had better take the man into custody." 
 
 f I have reason to believe you are the man." 
 
 " Now, Master High Sheriff, if you imagine that your station gives you any title to 
 act in this manner, you are greatly mistaKen, for you will be called to account for 
 such insolence of conduct. You left this place last night, and I remained here, and 
 because you repent having dune so, you have no right to come and be insolent." 
 
 " Insolent, sir, I — I'm the high sheriff, sir ; how dare you speak to me in that 
 way. I'll trounce you for this— damn me ; I'll — I'll ." 
 
 ** Be civil, if you please. If you are the high sheriff, you are unfit for the office ; 
 and you may depend upon it, if you do not lower your tone, you shall hear of this 
 in London. Fortunately for me, as I have such a man to deal with, I have several 
 witnesses who can prove I have not left the house since you were here ; — so I defy 
 you." * 
 
 " Defy me, sir! — recollect yourself. I have not threatened you." 
 
 " You had better not ; but you have talked about suspicion, and I call upon you 
 to justify yourself." 
 
 M Well, 1 had suspicion. " 
 
 " I have something more than a suspicion that you are a fool." 
 
 The high sheriff was red with rage, and stamped his foot, swore, and looked 
 round upon the officers, and then said,— 
 
 " You shall go with me to London for this, you may depend upon it." 
 
 " You must take me into custody first,— -do that, and I go with you ; but you 
 may depend upon it, you will have to account for your conduct, and most bitterly 
 repent it. 1 have friends to whom I can send, and bi in^ them round me to 
 your confusion. This will not be a profitable job for you, my friend ; and if you 
 are no gentleman yourself, you must be taught how to conduct yourself towards 
 one when you meet with such.' 1 
 
 " Well," said the landlord, 14 it does strike me very forcibly that you've hit 
 the right nail on the head ; you are as down upon him as a hammer.'' 
 
 " Silence, sir!" said the sheriff. 
 
 " Oh, bless us and save us ! what's amiss now? Mayn't a man speak in his own 
 house ? That kick of the shin has put you out of temper." 
 
 M Am I to consider you arrest me upon a charge of a highway robbery?" 
 
NEWGATE. 481 
 
 * You may consider what you like," said the high sheriff, rising, but very much 
 crestfallen. " It strikes me I shall have some future acquaintance with you j in 
 which case, you may depend upon my good offices — so, good morning to you." 
 
 H "Why, as for that matter," said the landlord, " if you were a gentleman, you 
 would have behaved as such ; but as it is, you have been scaly enough." 
 
 u If your allusion is meant for me," said Orlando, "ail I have to say is, it is 
 a piece of gratuitous insolence from^ thief catcher, Mr. Sheriff." 
 
 "Very well, very well ; a day of reckoning will come, and that pretty soon, too; 
 for, if you continue in this strain, I shall consider it my duty to take you for 
 obstructing me in my duty,'* 
 
 " But one good thing is, you would have to prove that you have been obstructed, 
 which would be a difficult matter as things have gone; but I have no more to say 
 to you, -mless you have something further to say to me." 
 
482 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " I shall some day, I have no doubt ; but, in the meantime, I shall keep my 
 eyes open." 
 
 " And take your leg out of the way," added the landlord, with a grin. 
 
 The high sheriff was afraid to seize Orlando, lest he should be committing a 
 breach of duty, at least, and subject himself to some heavy penalty; especially as 
 he had really ne pretext — the horse being dry and fresh, and the landlord's 
 assertion, that Orlando was there all night. 
 
 He left the yard, and proceeded with his companions towards London, leaving 
 the landlord and Orlando in the house, listening to the sound of their horses' feet, 
 which grew fainter and fainter until they were no longer heard; and then the 
 landlord shut the door, after looking out, saying,— 
 
 u Well, it's no use in getting up a good two hours before time. I shall return 
 to bed." 
 
 " And t, too/' 
 
 " But as for Master Sheriff, he's got a sore shin to ride to town with." 
 
 "Ha! ha! hal Well, he's got into trouble lately, poor man, and he has 
 enough to complain of ; and with his purse he has lost his temper. 1 ' 
 
 So saying, he returned to his bed, to sleep away the remaining part of the 
 morning, until it was time for the household to be about. 
 
 It was a dark stormy morning, and the Owl could hear the sound of the wind as 
 it rushed through the trees and howled in the chimney. 
 
 " There's no comfort out there," he muttered. " I shall lay here." 
 
 He turned in his bed until his eyes rested upon the lattice window. 
 
 " Yes, yes," iie muttered, " I have enough at this moment to last me a few* 
 months. I think I'll take a turn in London, and enjoy myself; as to lay up 
 money, that is out of the question. I cannot do more just now in this neighbour- 
 hood, I shall be caught ; I must lie quiet for a time. I may as well go to town, 
 and then, perhaps, to some watering place." 
 
 These thoughts appeared to interest him much, until he fell asleep, from which 
 he did not wake up till it was broad daylight. 
 
 u Hilloa ! I have slept away the time, with a vengeance ; I don't usually sleep 
 so sound, but I shall soon remedy this. I am ready for my breakfast." 
 
 So saying he quickly dressed himself, and then descended the stairs and entered 
 the parlour, where he found Kate arranging the table for their breakfast, to which 
 he was about to sit down. 
 
 " Well, my bonny Kate," said the highwayman, " good morning to you. I see 
 you have not suffered for being disturbed in your sleep. The rose sets as freshly 
 on your cheek as ever I saw it ; I may say, as I could wish to see it." 
 
 " Oh, you are as usual full of your games, Master Orlando ; you did not say so 
 many fine things to the sheriff, when he was here this morning.'' 
 
 " Oh, did you hear what passed }" 
 
 " Yes, I did. I threw a shawl over my shoulders, and stood on the head of 
 the stairs." 
 
 " By Jove ! if I had known that, I would not have stopped with him, exchang- 
 ing civilities." 
 
 " And what would you have done, Mister Impudence ?" 
 
 " Why, I would have come where I could have found you, to be sure. Could 
 I find better company than that which I should have when with you ?" 
 
 " Ah ! it's all very well, you mustn't tell me so much nonsense as you have 
 done lately ; it really won't do, you know, because [I am not so silly as what you 
 would make me out. I don't see much of the world here, it is true." 
 
 " Well, my dear Kate, whose fault is that ?" 
 
 " Fault, indeed ! who said it was a fault?" 
 
 "Well, well, I thought you appeared to consider it a misfortune at least, but 
 be it what it may, it is very easily remedied if you will." 
 " Indeed, and how can it be remedied?" 
 
 " By coming with me to London," said the highwayman. "I am going to pay 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 483 
 
 London a visit. You will see plenty of life and fun there. There are balls, concerts, 
 and routs — things of all kinds : theatres, shops, and parties— anything you can 
 mention. Will you come?" 
 " No," said Kate. 
 
 " Not come, dear Kate ? why you and I will make a very happyftour of it ; about 
 a month there, and you would have seen the best of everything." 
 ; v " I should indeed," she replied, with a sigh. 
 ,c But why do you sigh, Kate ?" 
 
 " Because I cannot see all these things ; I must stop with my father — I cannot 
 ; leave him. Besides, he would die if I were to leave him, and I could not have his 
 death to answer for ; I could not go in that way, were I to go after all said 
 and done." 
 
 " And why could you not go? T am sure I would take care of you. Besides, 
 there are enough of churches in London to get married in — a licence, you know, 
 and all is settled.'' 
 
 "And why not here, if at all, Master Orlando ?" 
 
 "Just because I have an objection to have my name pronounced within four 
 walls ; that's all, my dear Kate/' 
 " A very singular objection." 
 
 " Not at all. Some of these days I will tell you the reason, but not now, Kate, 
 some other time." 
 
 "Then you have made up your mind to go to London?" 
 
 " I have. Yes, I must— that is settled. I must go, and I shall start this very 
 day. I had a great mind to ask the sheriff's escort, but then I thought I should 
 manage without it. I shall, however, go, and shall be back again in a month ; 
 shall I find you the same, Kate, as I now leave you ? Tell me that, and I shall 
 rest satisfied.'* 
 
 " Yes, I shall be here," she replied. 
 
 " You may, but will you be the same ? Will you yet be my Kate, and not some 
 one else's Kate# f ' , 
 v "What questions you ask: I am my father's Kate, and no one elses. And 
 here I shall remain along with him." 
 
 " That is a very good resolution, certainly, but one which cannot always be 
 persevered in, at least I hope not. But you must accept of this ring from me as 
 a keepsake." 
 
 As Orlando spoke, he gave a very pretty signet ring into Kate's hand. She 
 looked at it with a smile, and then turning her blue eyes upon him, said, — 
 
 " I will keep it for your sake — I will keep it for your sake, 2nd shall remember 
 the giver while he deserves it." 
 
 " Now that comes in almost ungraciously, but you must' let me take my farewell 
 from your own lips," said Orlando, as he snatched a kiss from them. * 
 
 " Come, you have no right to expect any payment for a gift ; if you wanted to 
 sell it, you should have named your price. I don't think that fair." 
 
 " But we are old friends, and have I not a right to expect such a gift : you would 
 not bid me good-bye without it, would you ? I'niay meet with some accident ; life 
 is short, you know ; and the best friends might, without knowing it, part to meet 
 no more." 
 
 " But you are not gone yet, and when you do, I will then bid you farewell ; for 
 the present I thank you for your keepsake." . 
 
 As Kate spoke she left the room, and Orlando thought he saw a tear in her eye, 
 and he paused in the midst of his meal for some moments in deep meditation. At 
 length he sighed, — 
 
 " Well, well, I cannot help it, I am fixed by 'ate ; my destiny, I fear, is a high 
 "one — a halter — but never mind, I cannot make her my wife. What a fate would hers 
 be to be such a wife ! better be — pshaw, never mind, when I am once away I may 
 forget her ; there are plenty more beauties in London. So much the better if I do 
 forget her, it will be so for her ; but at the same time she had better be my wife in 
 
484 NEWGATE. 
 
 all but the ceremony. I mean I could provide for her as well, and she never could 
 suffer to the extent in case of any adverse circumstances.- 
 
 " However, what's the use of thinking ; time was when things were different, but 
 now that is all altered. Now, hurrah for the knights of the road." 
 
 As he said this, his usually animated glance returned, and he turned to the table 
 and set to his breakfast with increased zest ; at the same time he seemed to throw 
 off the momentary depression that lor so short a time had seized him. The landlord 
 now came in. Mine host of the Bell was a jolly, good-hearted man as ever breathed 
 for his day — a host in himself, and such an one as was in those times seldom met 
 with, with only half the usual selfishness, which is saying a great deal ; for his class 
 were considereJ more particularly sinnei*3 than any other trade going. 
 
 " Well, how are you, this morning, sir? I hope you have slept well." 
 
 "I have, thank you, and have a good stomach upon it too ; but I must be off to 
 London in two hours' time," said Orlando. 
 
 " Indeed ! are you off in that direction V 
 
 u Yes ; but I shall come and visit you again shortly." 
 
 «« Well, we shall be glad to see you again ; here are good quarters for man and 
 beast, and you know what fare we have here when you will return." 
 
 "Yes, I shall com- a^ain, as I said, before long, and here I shall remain as long 
 as I live in this part of the country, for to my mind there is no hostel like the Bell." 
 
 i* Why, as for that matter, I do my best to make the place comfortable to all who 
 come, but when you do come again, I shall be ^lad to see your honour. This is 
 rather a quiet place, and except travellers, and those are very few, I have no 
 customers, save the gentlemen of Hampstead who come here now and then in the 
 summer time, to pass an hour in the woods." 
 
 <« And to meet a highwayman going home." 
 
 " Why, as for the matter of that," said the landlord after a pause, and winking 
 very hard, " why, as to that, it has so turned out on more than one occasion ; but 
 tfien that's nothing to me, and I know nothing about it. They come here in twos 
 and threes to take care of one another, and that makes better for business, for they 
 will come." 
 
 *« You have such good liquors — you are so entertaining, and you have such a 
 pretty place, and Kate is so pretty that you cannot be surprised that so many 
 excellent things should produce a good trade. What do you s?>y to it yourself?" 
 
 m Why, there is some truth in what you say," said the gratified landlord, 
 "though, I must say, I have some good luck ; but at the same time the house is an 
 old one, and the brew is good, I believe, and my wine merchant is honest, and that 
 is a great thing." 
 
 " It just is. Won't you have breakfast with me, as I shall not have one here 
 again, for some time to come, and perhaps it may be a long day ; who can tell V 
 
 rt Ay, who indeed V* said the landlord, thoughtfully, ** as the man said who 
 couldn't pay his reckoning ; but I'll tell Bob to get the horse ready." 
 
 i( He knows all about her," said Orlando ; " I have told him that." 
 
 " Then I will sit down, and make. 'em all wait upon me for once," said the 
 old innkeeper, as he seated himself upon the other side of the fire, and they pro- 
 ceeded to do the honours of the table, though Orlando had already done some 
 execution thereat. However, they sat and conversed together for some time upon 
 various topics, and when the breakfast was ended, and the reckoning paid, then 
 there were the usual farewells ; and the parting cup given, and the bold highwayman 
 
 the famed Orlando the Owl — left the Bell hotel, and rode gaily towards 
 
 London, leaving the innkeeper and his daughter gazing admiringly after him until 
 he could no longer be seen from a turn in the road." 
 
NEWGATE. 485 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 ORLANDO JOURNIES TO LONDON. 
 
 Be^re Orlando left the Bell, he had another interview with Kate, and had a 
 more tender leave-taking than the old man himself was at all aware of, or perhaps 
 than he would have at all heen pleased with had he seen it ; but what the eye never 
 sees, the heart never grieves ; but enough of that— Orlando pushed on towards 
 Hampstead, which he rode through briskly, and took the road through the Kentish 
 fields towards London. At that time, one hundred years ago, there was scarcely 
 a house to be seen anywhere between Hampstead and Tottenham- court-road, 
 which in itself was incomplete; and it is not half that time since some of 
 the squares about that quarter were fields, upon which the cattle used to be 
 grazing, and milkmaids and men, morning and afternoon, were busy at their 
 employment. 
 
 What would the people of those days say did they but see how those acres are 
 now covered ? Every scrap of land is now covered with bricks and mortar — not a 
 single foot wasted — not an inch given away. What huge piles of buildings are 
 now erected ! Nay, some parts would not be known by a person who had been 
 absent not more than four or five years. What, then, must it not have been one 
 hundred years since ? 
 
 Our friend, the highwayman, rode on to Tottenham- court in the first place ; but 
 after some further thought, he rode into Holborn, and put up at the Olive Branch, 
 where he saw his horse in good quarters, and determined that night he would 
 visit the theatre, and Old Drury had the preference, and to that place^he resolved 
 to go to see something of London life. 
 
 There was some policy, he thought, in figuring in life ; he would be able to 
 learn a little that might be of some use to him. He could learn also what was 
 said of himself, and how far he was known among the unfortunates with whom he 
 had come in contact. 
 
 He went to one of the boxes, and found himself between two individuals who 
 soon entered into conversation with him, and disclosed they had but recently come 
 to London, 
 
 " Indeed," said one, M 1 have not long recovered from a wound." 
 u Indeed!" said Orlando, " what was the cause of it ?" 
 
 11 1 was stopped and robbed on Hampstead -heath by the celebrated Orlando the 
 Owl." 
 
 " Ah ! indeed — did you resist V 
 
 " Oh, yes, I resisted, of course — that is — oh, yes — I lugged out my'pistols — but 
 one flashed in the pan, and the other, confound it, got entangled in the reins, and 
 I was shot and fell from my horse." 
 
 " He robbed you, then ?" 
 
 M Oh, yes, he did ; but that can't be helped — better luck next time. If it 
 hadn't been for the pistols missing fire I should have killed him." 
 " He had a narrow escape," said Orlando, coolly. 
 
 " He had, indeed, as narrow a3 ever he had in his life. Why, sir, I'm a dead 
 shot 1 I can snuff a candle at thirty yards ; and I pointed at him, point blank — . 
 the fact is, I saw nothing but my mark, and, as the pistol failed me, 1 was brought 
 down by him. 
 
 " I suppose that he was of opinion that one kind act was entitled to a return.'' 
 " Well, I dare say, but I shall pay him back again on the same plan, when 
 
 next I meet him, and that will not be very long, I dare say, for it is said that he is 
 
 about that part at all times, seen or not seen." 
 
 " How can that be ? I came through there this evening, and I saw no one at 
 
 all ; and if he had been there, he would have come out to a single man." 
 
486 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Have you come across Hampstead-heath V 
 " Yes, 1 have." 
 
 The stranger gazed at hira for a moment as if he thought him an object of ad- 
 miration, and said, — 
 
 " Well, I honour you — you are a fortunate man. You didn't get robbed, I 
 suppose ?" 
 
 " No, I did not," he replied. ^ 
 
 " Ah ! I see how it is ; finding he met with resistance in one place, he might 
 find, he thought, the same in another ; and he might come off not quite so well 
 upon that occasion ; but you are a lucky man, be the cause of it what it may." 
 
 "Well," replied Orlando, "let that be what it might, I came through safe 
 enough, and have done so on previous occasions ; that shows that the highwayman 
 you speak of is not always there. Besides, it stands to reason that he should be 
 like other men, and require rest and refreshment, and that he cannot take these 
 things on horseback ; and he is never seen otherwise.'' 
 
 " Yes, that is correct, but I can tell you this much, that there will not be many 
 days elapse before he's taken into custody." 
 
 " That is news indeed," said Orlando. 
 
 " Yes, it is, but I have a friend who's well acquainted with the sheriff of Mid- 
 dlesex, who's about to put on at least a dozen officers, in different parts of the 
 neighbourhood of the heath ; and he has obtained the promise of the government 
 to offer a reward of two hundred pounds for his apprehension, dead or alive, and 
 it will be paid to any one except the man himself ; even though he be an accom- 
 plice in any robbery or crime whatever." 
 
 "They are determined to have him." 
 
 "Oh yes, the high sheriff, they say, is mad; he will spend a fortune, but that he 
 will secure him ultimately, if possible ; and considering the number of men stationed 
 over so short a space of ground, it will be impossible that he should escape." 
 
 <e He has done so as yet," returned Orlando. 
 
 f* True, but luck changes." 
 
 " It does, there is no denying that ; 1 have, however, every confidence, that that 
 man will elude them ; but what makes the sheriff so urgent ?" 
 
 " Oh, he's been robbed himself, and knocked about; and he's determined to be 
 revenged, that is the faet ; it has become one of a personal feeling with him now, 
 and not a duty appertaining to his office ; however, the fellow deserves to be hung 
 at Tyburn tree." 
 
 « No doubt of it." 
 
 *' It is said, the sheriff has his eye upon a particular person whom he suspects, 
 and has sent men to-day to watch, so it will cost him a pretty penny." 
 
 "'No doubt of it, but have you heard anything more about that affair?" 
 
 " What, the highwayman ? No, except this, that the men destined to watch 
 him, will be sent up by two's and three's to-morrow, until they reach the heath ; 
 most of them will secrete themselves, and the others if they can find hira, will drive 
 him out of his lair." 
 
 The play now went forward again, and Orlando smiled when he heard all the 
 precautions that the sheriff had made to secure his person, and of the safe and 
 certain manner in which he had baffled him, and how frantic he would be. 
 
 "A week or two of that night and day watch," he thought, " will wear the patience 
 of such a man out ; he will be done entirely up ; he will go mad. I will certainly 
 have some further fun with him, if he dare trust himself beyond the reach of aid; 
 I will certainly pay him a visit, but at the same time it is uncommonly fortunate I 
 left the BelL 
 
 f* How frantic he will be to learn the stranger whom he met there is gone ; and 
 nobody knows where, for the old boy there will say nothing ; I at times more than 
 half suspect that he must be well aware of what I am, and yet he never hints a 
 word, and Kate too, I am sure ; and yet I cannot bring myself to think she would 
 countenance me, if she knew all ; and yet, and yet, women have loved men for the 
 danger they run. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 487 
 
 " This has been some of the feelings that have actuated females, and it may do so 
 again ; but what am I thinking of? I'm in London now, I shall seek the pleasures 
 of this place, unalloyed by any drawbacks : I'm here to-day, and at Tyburn to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Thus again did he cast aside serious reflections, and gave himself up to the full 
 enjoyment of the time ; and determined to pursue whatever line of reckless extrava- 
 gance he might be led into ; indeed, his own taste that way he knew well, and 
 then there was little in London that he did not know ; but he had been away for 
 some months, banished to the amusements of a country inn, which are extremely 
 tiring and monotonous. 
 
 Here was a change at all events, and one to which he could give way with ex- 
 treme pleasure. After months of danger and monotony, he was now in the very 
 garden of pleasure, and could it be expected otherwise than he should pluck a few 
 of the fruits ? 
 
 When the performance ceased, he turned to the individual who had spoken to 
 him, and said, — 
 
 *' I'm somewhat a stranger ; but could you recommend me to any place where 
 one can get a good supper in this neighbourhood V 
 
 " We are going to one to which we will introduce you, if you choose," said the 
 stranger. 
 
 " I'm obliged," said Orlando ; " will you permit me to pay for a bottle or two 
 of canary before we part, for your civility ?" 
 
 " We do not wish it ; but still we wiH drink with you. Will you come with 
 us ? We are now going ; the performance is over." 
 
 Orlando was alone. He had some reason for abstaining from his old haunts, 
 where he could have often shelter and concealment. But he did not want either ; 
 the fact was, he knew he should be sought after, and he might run some risk from 
 the fact of the reward being offered, as men even as deeply steeped in crime as 
 he was himself would not mind adding one more to the catalogue, and take the 
 bribe, and sell him for that sum. T ~ 
 
 Therefore he was still more determined to eschew all old acquaintances and old 
 faces ; there might be danger in friendship even, and moreover, in such society as he 
 now moved in, it was quite certain he would not be looked for: this again was a strong 
 inducement to act as he did. 
 
 " I do not think anybody can identify me, but at the same time, if they should, 
 they would strain a point or two to hang me." 
 
 This was a comfortable reflection but it was soon cut short by the whole 
 party stopping before the door of an old-fashioned public-house in the neighbour- 
 hood of the theatre, into which several persons were about to enter, when his 
 guide entered, and said, — 
 
 " I dare say you were never in one of these places before ; you can have what you 
 please, and you are not obliged to take any part in what you see ; at the same time 
 you can do so with perfect safety. People who see l^fe usually come here often." 
 
 " I am glad of it ; I wish for the same." 
 
 « To see life ?" 
 
 " I do 1" replied Orlando. " I will follow you." 
 
 They all three entered the house, and then after proceeding along a passage, 
 came to a door, which opened into a kind of kitchen, with a lot of tables, covered 
 after a* fashion certainly with the appliances for eating, and in one cor ner of the 
 place was a large fire, before which were doing several articles of food, and hot dishes 
 streamed from various parts. 
 
 " Now we can all sup together, or separately, which you please, or make one 
 party, and square accounts afterwards." 
 
 " I am quite agreeable,'* said Orlando, '* order what you please. I am a stran- 
 ger here, and you know the way of the place — you will oblige me/' 
 
 " Then bring venison pie," said one of the strangers, pointing to one that stood 
 smoking before the fire. ''That will do," said he, as it was placed before him. 
 
488 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " You never ate such pieg as they make here; they are good, they are truly beau- 
 tiful—nothing like it here or elsewhere." 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 SCENES IN A GAMING HOUSE.— THE ALARM. 
 
 The supper that Orlando ate in company with his two companions, was good, 
 extremely good, and he felt that he had got into another sphere to what he had 
 been in lately. His two friends were well- used to the ways of the place, and 
 appeared to be men of the world. 
 
 However that might be, Orlando was not of that easy disposition that would 
 induce him to shut his eyes to any slight incident that might turn up. Indeed, he 
 looked out for anything that might be useful to himself on the road. He, how- 
 ever, gave way to the pleasure of the moment, and enjoyed himself to the full, 
 apparently regardless of the consequences ; but yet beneath all this, there was a 
 certain degree of reserve, which enabled him to abstain from excess, so that at any 
 one moment he had the full possession of his intellects, and he was ready, come 
 what might, for flight or resistance. * 
 
 The supper over, they paused a moment or two. 
 
 " Would you like to see the other room V inquired his guide. 
 
 " What other room ?" 
 
 " The card room, where they usually sit to drink their wine after supper, at least 
 those who are known to the house, or their friends ; because, you see, it is a piece 
 of amusement that is indulged in under the rose. We know the law, because we 
 have often been here." 
 
 " Yes," said Orlando, " we will go in there ; there is yet an hour or two to 
 spare before we seek our beds, and a hand at cards or a throw of the dice is not 
 so bad an amusement— it is fit for the gods ; and 'tis a pity that fortune will not 
 let us have our run, to let us go on till we have our surfeit of gaming — till we care 
 for no more." 
 
 " Ah !" said the stranger, smiling, " I never heard of a man yet who was tired 
 of gaming while he had a rap left in his purse to stake ; that is why it ought only 
 to be sparingly indulged in— for my part, I am seldom induced to join the game," 
 
 " But you do sometimes ?" 
 
 u Yes, I cannot always deny myself the pleasure of gaming, merely because it is 
 dangerous. A soldier should never enlist because he may chance to be shot — a 
 man should never mount a horse because he may chance to receive a fall — and, 
 finally, a man should not starve himself to death because there is a chance of his 
 choking in swallowing." 
 
 " That i= quite my opinion," said Orlando. " We will adjourn to the gayest 
 part of the house, and there we may pass an hour or two, and then I must to bed, 
 for I have ridden much to-day, besides running the dangers of Hampstead heath 
 and the far-famed Orlando the Owl." 
 
 " I believe he seldom does any business in the day-time." 
 
 " No, he is a nocturnal bird of prey," replied Orlando; " did you ever see him V 
 
 " Yes, I saw him on the occasion whien I told you of, but upon no other ; 
 however, I have no doubt but 1 should be able to know him again." 
 
 " Ah !" thought Orlando, " you are miserably mistaken, for you little think he 
 it is whom you are talking to at this present moment, but I do not remember 
 ever having anything. to say to you in the way of business : it is all mere smoke." 
 
 They now arose and left the supper-ioom, and entered a long room lighted 
 up in various parts, and was completely illuminated ; there were many tables, a j 
 which sat individuals who were deeply employed in the amusement of gaming. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 489 
 
 The dice rattled from various parts ; there were cries of the players as they called 
 out the numbers they threw; and when the highest of the main three was thrown, 
 there was an exchange of gold. Some looked sad, some pleased, some had looks 
 of satisfaction, while others attempted a hollow laugh, and their hands trembled 
 from excess of emotion they could not hide. 
 
 " There are some here," thought Orlando, " who have come by their fortune less 
 honestly than I [come by mine. I do [play a bold part, but the miserablecheat 
 
 here filches, unseen, and dreads to be told what he has done, lest he should lose 
 such a miserable existence ; well, well, I may say, as I have often said, hurrah ! 
 hurrah ! for the knights of the road. 
 
 * You see/' said his guide, " what they are here ; there is plenty of excitement 
 here, and good wines ; you can have whatever you please. 
 
 "Let me have some claret," said Orlando, after a moment's thought: " what 
 do you take ? B 
 
 No. 62. 
 
490 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 "The same." 
 
 " Then, I will order it — permit me to be the donor in this ease, as I am so 
 much under favour to you for your obliging behaviour." 
 
 " We will drink with you/' said the other, "and welcome; but we will make 
 a return at another time; but here is a vacant table, we can seat ourselves 
 here, and watch what is going on in various parts of the room : we can have some 
 amusement in doing that." 
 
 " Yes, that sometimes is profitable.*' 
 
 They sat down, and ordered some wine, which, being brought to them, the high- 
 wayman paid for ; and then they drank and watched the progress of the game 
 as it was played at various tables. Vingt-un, rouge-et-noir, and dice were played 
 at different tables. 
 
 " You see that old man with the trembling hand and pallid countenance ?" 
 
 "I do." ♦ 
 
 " Well, you would hardly suppose that that man is an earl, but wretchedly 
 poor. He has ruined himself, and cannot be said to have a rap of his own, though 
 he has large estates ,for they are mortgaged, and he is deeply in debt. Every 
 piece of coin he bss he brings here. Sometimes he wins, and sometimes helos 
 but never largely, for he has not the means of playing heavily.'* 
 
 " He has grown old in this kind of work," said the other. 
 
 " Well," said Orlando, " I should like to have a throw with an earl if I lost my 
 stake, not that there is any honour in that ; but then I can say I have diced with a 
 nobleman. 1 am not vain of the deed, but there maybe a day come when it would 
 suit me to say 1 had been the companion of the great."* 
 
 Orlando smiled to himself as he thought what would be the honour at some 
 future period, and it would make a boast at Tyburn. 
 
 " At all events, it will be a reminiscence," he muttered. 
 
 ct You can do so," said his guide ; "just as you please ; but I question if he 
 would not be compelled to go and borrow the stakes." 
 
 " Never mind. Who is that big man, yonder— he with the fresh colour and no 
 whiskers V' 
 
 rt Oh, that man, why he is the Honourable George Templeman — he's fresh on the 
 town. He's at the losses ; he looks gloomy to-night; he is usually one of the 
 merriest of the throng. I'll be sworn he has lost deeply, very deeply, for he's a long 
 purse, and cares but little for small sums : he's worth many thousands a year ; that 
 I have heard from many." 
 
 " He leaves the table." 
 
 " Yes, and in strong emotion, " too ; he has lost more than he can afford ; so he 
 is much disturbed, and evidently trembles. Something has gone wrong; and, if 
 he's ruined, there will be something in the papers to- morrow* : the town will soon 
 be filled with the news." 
 
 " What new3 ?" 
 
 " Why, he'll blow his brains out ; that's my opinion," said the stranger. 
 
 " Or perhaps he may go out upon the road, and take from others what he has 
 lost here; it is not a very uncommon occurrence that, you know," said Orlando. 
 '* I have heard of such things, and I suppose there is sometimes such things 
 happening." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; those who are bold, resolute, and impatient, go upon the road, and 
 when their two years are up, they grace Tyburn tree." 
 
 " And what becomes of those who have not the courage to go out?" 
 
 " Why, they remain about haunting the former scenes of their villanies or follies, 
 and in the end, becoming adepts where they were formerly novices, gaining a living 
 by cheating, by which they were themselves ruined; so what w T as to them a mere 
 amusement — a passion, now becomes a necessity, a means of existence — the only 
 craft or labour they could exert for their maintenance.'' 
 
 " The ehanges are properly rung," said the highwayman. u Who is that young 
 man who has just advanced to the table V 
 
 " What, who hf» is so tall and slim V 
 
 •raws*" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 491 
 
 " Yes, very pale ; with a gold chain hanging so negligently down." 
 
 " That is a new debutant ; he has been here but a week or two, and during that 
 time has been pretty well fleeced. He plays without judgment or system, and runs 
 more than the usual amount of risks ; indeed, his luck is bad, and you cannot get 
 over ill-luck : that gets over you in the long run, and the best fortune in the world. 
 It will see the end of the longest purse in Christendom, though it was as long as 
 from here to Calais or Boulogne." 
 
 «,« It would," said Orlando. " One's luck once gone, you may as well give up 
 altogether ; I am convinced it is no use fighting against fate." 
 
 " It is not in gaming, at all events." 
 
 " He's going to play now — he points to the dice-box — see." 
 
 "Who is the individual who opposes himself to him, with spectacles on, and in 
 a green coat, with large buttons and moustache V 
 
 " That is an old roue ; I have often thought that he's not what he appears 
 to be." 
 
 H What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Why, I mean I don't think he's the same man he appears to be — that is, I 
 never saw him elsewhere ; and yet I am all over the town, and see most other 
 familiar faces, and I could not forget his if I had once seen it : I am quite 
 certain of that." 
 
 " Do you think he hides himself?" 
 
 " No, I cannot help thinking he is now in disguise ; that he throws off that 
 dress, the spectacles, andperhaps undergoes some other change— I cannot say what. 
 But it is my impression he may be some one who does not wish to be known by 
 any one here — he may be some one of consequence, who does not wish his title or 
 person to be known." 
 
 "They are about to play for heavy stakes — watch them." 
 Yes ; you see he rattles the dice with the air of a man who is used to it, and 
 knows the forms of the table well ; the other is either over hasty, or too slow, or 
 too bungling : it shows that his nerves are not well strung." 
 
 " The main is thrown," said Orlando, * by the stranger with the spectacles." 
 
 " Yes, you may be sure of that, and a goodly heap of gold has changed hands," 
 said the stranger ; " and the young man appears flushed at his loss ; see, the fool 
 will try another throw, and he will lose that too — but such men deserve no pity." 
 
 " And he will get none, I'll be sworn." 
 
 " Not here, you n ay depend upon that — that is too common an occurrence 
 here. Men come here to play, and to do that they must either win or lose — but, 
 see, he's lost again — what! a third stake? Well, he's determined to try his 
 luck for once in a way. Well, he can hardly lose three times running, one would 
 think." 
 
 "Why, yes, once in three is not too often to win." 
 
 Again were the dice rattled, and thrownbyeach party in succession, and again the 
 stranger with the spectacles drew the money towards him. 
 
 " Well," said Orlando's companion, " that will do — three stakes running — he 
 ought to make a fortune ; but the tall young man is going to leave the room : he 
 is a shade or two more cadaverous than usual : he's had a loss to-night that has 
 shaken him." 
 
 " Yes, he clenches his hands, and grinds his teeth — he has got something that he 
 won't easily get over." 
 
 " True ; but the man who wins has done so without any appearance of doing 
 anything unusual, or taking any notice whatever of his good fortune. The fact is, 
 he is used to it ; and to be used to good fortune is to say much, and yet I cannot 
 understand it." 
 
 " Fortune is fickle, and will desert you at last ; however long f he may have 
 favoured you, the day will come when you must pay for all, and you find yourself 
 in the same situation you see many in now ; but that says nothing against gaming 
 as an amusement, only when it becomes a business — and life and death depend 
 upon it then."" 
 
492 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 41 Well, I feel an inclination to go and join the dice-table for a short time. I 
 shall not risk much ; and if I lose, it will be but little." 
 
 " Very well — there is the old earl, whom you spoke of, at yonder table, appa- 
 rently with the hope that some one will play with him. You'll require no intro- 
 duction to his lordship. Advance to the table, and he will challenge you, never 
 fear." 
 
 " I will try," said Orlando ; ** and when I have done, I will have a friendly game 
 with you." 
 
 The highwayman advanced to the table — he also knew the usages of such 
 places— the earl challenged, which he accepted, and they threw ; Orlando was 
 victorious. A second and third throw were made, and the old earl observed, with 
 chagrin, — 
 
 " You are fortunate, sir.'' 
 
 He then walked away, having, no doubt, expended his last gujnea in purchasing 
 the mad gratification. ' 
 u Well," said his companions, " you are lucky." 
 
 "Scarcely," said Orlando, "the stakes are but small; and one throw might 
 have decided the fate of thirty such sums as those, though I have no doubt it was 
 all the old fellow had to spare, and I question much if he could have spared these ; 
 however, they have left his purse, and are in mine." 
 
 " Will you have a throw ?" 
 
 " Yes ; what shall it be for ?" 
 
 " Ten if you please, or five. I am by no means tied to a sum." 
 
 "Nor I: let it be tens then. Ten guineas a throw, that is a very neat little 
 sum, and won't hurt any one, — and if it did he ought not to play this game." 
 
 " No, indeed he ought not. There, I am victor for the first, however. See that 
 your fortune does not desert you ; it will sometimes. Will you have another 
 throw?" 
 
 " Yes, eertainly," said Orlando ; " there, it is my turn now, we are as we were 
 before we began the game: shall we discontinue?" 
 " No ; indeed, I intend to have a few throws." 
 
 They continued the game with various success for more than an hour, when at 
 the end of that time Orlando found himself a loser to the tune of about eighty or 
 ninety pounds, which he paid at once in hard cash, saying, as he did so, to his 
 adversary, — 
 
 '* It is your fortune to-night, it may be mine another." 
 
 "That is true," said the stranger, " we a 1 know how fickle the goddess is ; you 
 are her favourite one night, and her aversion the next. To-morrow night you may- 
 be raised to my position, I depressed to yours. Who can tell ? but they do say 
 she favours the brave." 
 
 u And they deserve it," said Orlando ; " but what is all that noise and uproar V 
 
 "Eh!" said his companion, suddenly becoming attentive and listening to the 
 sounds, but he had scarce done so, when he said, with some alarm, — 
 
 " I think there is either some disturbance, such as a fight, or else some of the 
 officers of justice have broken into the place; but in the latter case you must escape 
 in t vie best way you can, for they will seize you, and you will be confined for the 
 night, and be fined in the morning-." 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT IN LONDON. — A FRIEND AT COURT. 
 
 This was unpleasant information for Orlando, who had no desire to figure at a 
 police-office ; so far from that being the case, he would much rather part with 
 
NEWGATE. 493 
 
 every coin he possessed, than show himself to a magistate ; it would by no means be 
 in accordance to his wishes. 
 
 '* They are coming, they are coming ! — look to yourselves ! — look to yourselves J" 
 were shouted out in a loud voice from one end of the room to the other." 
 
 This was perplexing, for Orlando did not know which way to turn, to escape from 
 the place ; but seeing his two companions making for a certain part of the premises, 
 he followed them both. One opened a small window and got out as quickly as he 
 could, until they all three got out, and then shut the window again, and Orlando 
 found himself standing upon a wooden waterspout outside of the house. 
 
 It was a very preoarious tenure, for the waterspout was only made to bear 'its 
 own weight, and, besides that, it was very rotten, also; there was a depth of between 
 thirty and forty feet : Heaven knew where, below: he could not tell, but it was 
 all dark. 
 
 " Well, curse it all !" muttered Orlando, " I am an owl indeed, to be clinging to 
 such a place as this ; I had need of a pair of wings to get clear of this." 
 
 Turning his eyes right and left to discover if there was one less dangerous spot 
 than another, he saw a window a little to the right, which appeared to belong to 
 another house, and to which he resolved to make the best of his way. This, how- 
 ever, was difficult; for, as he stood, he had the window sill to assist in bearing his 
 weight; but to get to the window he would have to leave go of that, and bear his 
 whole weight upon what he really believed would not bear the weight it would 
 have to support if he crossed it. 
 
 " Well," he muttered, " they are rowing and fighting, and some of them will 
 be coming this way before I can escape, and if another comes to stand upon this, 
 why , we are both done for." 
 
 However, he hesitated no longer, but after some slight trial, he stepped along 
 his insecure support, but was fortunate enough to find a ledge upon which he 
 could partially support himself, until he reached an angle where he could just 
 reach the window. It was fortunate he did so, for he would have been precipi- 
 tated the whole depth below, for he had scarcely reached the window, and 
 secured his hold upon the ledge, and the iron hook that propped it open, v hen the 
 waterspout gav« way. and went with a thundering crash into the court. 
 
 " Thunder ! — thunder ! — here's the world coming down upon us ! — here's a row, 
 — thieves ! — where's a ossifer ? — here's somebody's parlour come from above!" 
 
 " What's the matter ?" said a voice. 
 
 "Don't know, but I think the scaffolding that holds up the moon's come 
 plump down with a squash, and if so, why, it's pretty rotten.'' 
 " Where's this come from V 
 
 "Don't know, but I suppose it's as easy as a shower of frogs?'' 
 " Anybody hurt, no bones broken ?° 
 " No, none." 
 
 " What a shame to make all that noise about nothing." 
 
 "Oh, but somebody might have been killed ; and blow my muffin trap if Aere 
 aint a bundle of rags up in the corner there." 
 "Eh! What?" 
 
 " Why, it's as much like a woman as anything up in a heap can be." 
 
 " Well, if it is, she can't be very much hurt, for the timber seems very much 
 rotted ; so it's not hurt her much — and then, you know, it's only a woman." 
 
 " Oh, you monster ! Only a woman ! I wish I was your wife, I do. I'd let my 
 ten claws tell as many tales upon your ugly face as you wouldn't forget in a 
 hurry." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well done : go it, Wenus — two to one upon Wenus — a female 
 against the world ; she's sure to win ; there's no standing against a woman. Just 
 go in and pull the old 'oman out of the touchwood, will you there ? Aint nobody 
 willing to attend upon a lady?" 
 
 " Go, do it yourself ; you're old enough and ugly enough, aint you V 
 " Don't make personal reflections, young man — for though you have one eye, you 
 aint so perfect as if you had two." 
 
494 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 During this dialogue, Orlando had contrived to open the window, and then 
 jumped into the room, but he was perfectly petrified at the consequences, for he 
 stepped, or rather jumped, on to a bed, or, more correctly speaking, on to the 
 persons of two individuals who slept in it, and he was assailed by such cries that 
 completely stunned him. 
 
 " Murder!— -thieves — fire. 0 Lord, spare our lives. Help ! fetch the engines; 
 watch, fire. Mercy on us! Oh, my stomach; I've had a elephant"s foot 
 put upon it." 
 
 Orlando did not wait to hear any more, but at once threw open the door, and, 
 hearing people coming up stairs, he turned the other way, and walked up stairs 
 quietly, until he came to the trapdoor, and then got out upon the roof, which was 
 as queer an assemblage of pantiles and weather-hoarding as could well be imagined, 
 with so many and such diversified shapes and appearances, that it would be difficult, 
 if not quite impossible, to describe. 
 
 " Well, this is a pretty prospect, certainly," said Orlando ; " this is as pretty a 
 pickle as ever I got into yet ; and I am sure I shall feel very well gratified if I get 
 out safe. I wish I could get back to the public-house I got out of, I should be 
 glad. I expect I shall get into a scrape before I get cle«?.r of this place — say what 
 you will, but it's no use staying here night and day." 
 
 Thus, commencing with himself, he left the roof he was on, and scrambled on to 
 another, with much care and caution, and, at length, he contrived to get to one 
 where there was a trapdoor open, into which he at ocne entered without any 
 hesitation. 
 
 He found himself very soon on the landing of a flight of stairs, and had not 
 been there more than a minute, for he stopped to listen, when he heard some one 
 move, and call to another, saying, — 
 
 " Bill, Bill, are they gone ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have been out, and seen nothing of them." 
 
 "Very "well; then we may as well get as quickly out of this mess, and as 
 quietly as we can. Has any one been taken this time?" 
 " Yes, two or three." 
 
 "Well, I'm lucky in getting off this time; and I hope we may get elear off 
 without any bother, that's all. Has the landlord got clear off?" 
 " Yes, quite ; but he's all right — he's at home. 
 
 " Oh ! do you know there's been the devil to pay in one of the houses opposite; 
 they have been calling out murder, and I can't tell what besides — something's 
 wrong." 
 
 "Oh, there's been a great deal of timber or furniture thrown out; I don't know 
 what ; and a woman's killed, they say." 
 
 " Do they, indeed ? well, it's a mercy that it is no worse. I thought that at 
 least a dozen lives must have been sacrificed — but let us out quietly." 
 
 "Yes, yes — but come along; you needn't make so much fuss; you are safe 
 enough, if you choose to stay the night here. Nobody will come here again; if they 
 were, you could get out of their way as easily as you did on the first occasion." 
 
 " I don't feel inclined to tarry ; if you'll let me out, I shall be much better 
 pleased than I should be if I am to stay hefe all night. I wonder if there 
 are any more concealed about; I heard some one over head just now; at least I 
 thought so?" 
 
 " Confound -it, no ; that cannot be ; nobody passed out on the stairs, I'll swear; 
 and nobody shall go down." 
 
 " Oh, but they will, though," said Orlando, coming down, and presenting himself 
 to the gaze of the astonished waiter, for it was one of those worthies that spoke, — 
 " 1 must go out." 
 
 " What do you do here ? v 
 
 " Why, I have come here to get out of the way of the men below— the officers 
 who broke in. I did not want to be taken 1 any more than anybody else, 
 and so I got out of the window, and into the next house, out of the top of that, 
 and into the top of this." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 495 
 
 " Well, you have come a round-about way to get up stairs ; certainly, you don't 
 know much of the house at any rate. Then you knocked the -waterspout down P" 
 "No, I didn't, it fell." 
 "And killed a woman," 
 
 "It would have killed a man perhaps, if he had been in the same pla«e at the 
 same time, I suspect." 
 
 " It will be coroner's matter, at all events." 
 
 " And very properly so, but I didn't do it. Here's a guinea for you, if you will earn 
 it. Will you let me out at the same time you do this person, and then you know 
 nothing and can say nothing? Now, that is very easy done. Will you have it?" 
 " Yes, I'll take it," said the man, holding out his hand, l< and let you out." 
 He took the guinea, and they all went down stairs, until they came to a passage. 
 " Stay here," he said, " until I come back, when 1 shall bring a light, and then 
 I will take you to a door that leads you into another court, which will be safer 
 than going out of the front." 
 
 " Very good, I am quite content," said Orlando, and the man left him standing in 
 the passage in utter darkness, and waited patiently until his return. The man was 
 gone some time, he thought, and then, after a few moments, he began to think 
 all was not quite right, and, therefore, he began to consider what was best to be 
 done in such an emergency. 
 
 The fellow had taken his money ; he had secured that, and now he had some 
 intention, he thought, of selling him to those in authority. 
 
 " That would very well suit him," he thought, '' for he would get money both 
 ways ; but still it would not hurt me much, but I will not be easily done." 
 
 He then began to feel his way slowly along the passage, until he came to a small 
 door winch he opened, and, on looking around, he saw that he had entered a small 
 pantry. There was nothing that he cared for there, save a glass of wine, which he 
 took, and which did him good after the exertion and danger he had been through, 
 and there being yet, probably, much more to go through. 
 
 He left the pantry, and proceeded along he could not tell where, until he 
 came to a door that stood ajar, and which he approached very carefully, because he 
 saw that there was a light issuing from it ; but, when he got there, he heard the 
 voice of the man to whom he had given his money in conversation with another 
 person. 
 
 I have the guinea," he said, " but as for letting him out for that, it's no 
 use thinking about it. He must come down more handsomely than that, at all 
 events." 
 
 " Why, you could get more of the Bow-street men." 
 
 " I just could. They'd give me three or four more for such an one as he." 
 " Well, then, I would go and make the bargain, You can find your way out, can't 
 you, without the light V 
 " I should think so." 
 
 " The first door to the right of this, you know. It is only ajar, and will let you 
 out into the court without making any noise. I'll war. till you return ; never mind 
 him, 1 will throttle him if he attempts to become impatient. You'll have as much 
 from him dead as alive." 
 
 " Perhaps more," said the other, as he turned to leave the room, where he was 
 met full face to face by the highwayman ; and he staggered back at the expression 
 he met in his eyes, and came upon his knees in a supplicating posture, and he 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 "Mercy, sir, I didn't mean what I said— oh!" 
 
 " Curse you, you sneaking hound ! mean or not mean what you said, I care 
 not; you did say it, and shall be punished accordingly." And as he spoke, he lifted 
 the pistol he had in his hand high in the air, and then gave him such a blow that 
 laid him low upon the earth ; then he took the guinea he had given him from him, 
 and, turning to the petrified and astonished witness, the man who had been con- 
 versing with him, he said, holding the guinea out towards him, " Here, show me the 
 
496 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 way out in safety, and this is yours ; but play me any trick, and you share the same 
 fate with him. Choose what you'll do." 
 
 " I'll show you the way out — never mind the guinea — not but what I'll take it, 
 if you give it ; this way, if you please ; there, you see, this is the door, and there 
 is the street ; thank you, sir, that's fair. I believe I have earned it now, at all 
 events." 
 
 "Yes, you have earued it and got it," said Orlando, as he sprang into the street, 
 " and now, confound the house, I am quite clear of it, and if I enter the infernal 
 precincts again, why never trust me with myself again, that's all. I never was in a 
 place where the amusement payed less for the danger, and how people can go there 
 often, and can make a regular use of it, I do not know ; but then many get their 
 -living there. At all events, I have played with an earl— a great man, truly — 
 played with somebody else — lost over eighty pounds — been nearly killed and cap- 
 tured ; so I shall do for one night. 
 
 " I have got through my little fortune very easy, at least nearly half of it on the 
 first day. Well, at that rate it won't last long, and I must have recourse to the road 
 again, and I did not want to do so quit<» so soon. But, never mind; I must go 
 in another direction ; it doesn't much matter. I shall go to Bath, I think ; it is a 
 very good season," 
 
 As he thus murmured to himself, he went along the streets, until he came to his 
 own hotel in Hoibom, or rather the inn at which he put up. Here he arrived 
 safe ; but it was at a late hour, more properly speaking, it was early., perhaps near 
 three o'clock ; and he found no one up save the watchman. 
 
 u Can't come in, sir," said that worthy ; " much too late." 
 
 "But what am I do?" 
 
 " Can't say, sir." 
 
 " But come in I must, somehow or other. I can't stop out for I know not how 
 long, perhaps till breakfast -time — who knows?" 
 
 " Oh no, sir ; if you can walk about till five o'clock, you will find Bill up." 
 
 " Well, but what am I to do till Bill comes V inquired Orlando. " I shall be cold 
 and tired." 
 
 f Very likely, sir, you'll be tired ; but, at the same time, you can't come in ; 
 you can keep yourself warm with walking about, and that sort of thing; you will 
 rind the time soon pass by, sir." 
 
 " Very likely ; but let me in. I have a crown I will give you, if you will 
 let me in." 
 
 •* God bless your honour !" said the old watchman. " A crown did you say ?" 
 " Yes, and it shall be yours, without fail, if I get in." 
 
 "Well, I'll risk something for a crown. I have not seen such a sum I can't 
 tell how long; it will do me good, I am quite sure. Come in this way; but 
 your honour mustn't say a word about my letting you in at all, else I'll lose 
 my place." 
 
 " Never fear me ; they won't dare to ask me ; I shall be too good a customer for 
 them to do that." 
 
 ( * That's your sort ! CGme in, come in. I'll get up the chamber-maid ; she's 
 my own darter, and won't mind obliging her father. So your honour has come to 
 the right quarter at first." 
 
 " Well, I have always heard it was well to have a friend at court, but 1 never 
 experienced it before." 
 
 " Your honour's a gentleman ! " said the watchman, as he pocketed the gra- 
 tuity, and then proceeded to call the chamber-maid, who, by dint of much noise, 
 he contrived to wake up; and then, exerting some persuasion, he induced her to 
 let Orlando in. 
 
 This was done ; and when he reached the bedchamber, he gave her also a 
 gratuity for her complaisance, which she received with a yawn and a curtsey." 
 
 " And now," muttered Orlando, " I am fairly housed and in safety. What 
 good luck ! Nowhere am I so safe as I am here ; I am unknown, unsuspected, 
 indeed there can be no thought that such as I should put up here. But I have 
 
 * 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 497 
 
 had an adventurous night, and rest will do me good ; but T cannot sleep without a 
 thought of my charming Kate; she's the load-star of my love !" 
 
 The highwayman paused and heaved a sigh, as he though I of the innocent girl 
 he had left behind him on the London road, and the jolly old innkeeper, her 
 tather. 
 
 " But it is no use," 'he muttered, "' no use thinking, sorrowing, nor sighing ; it's 
 not the life for a knight of the road. Hurrah ! for my steed and my pistols." So 
 saying, he feU into a deep dumber, from which it would, indeed, have been difficult 
 to awake hiin. 
 
 No, 63, 
 
498 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. * 
 
 LONDON, LIKE HAMPSTEAD, BECOMES TOO WARM TO MVB IN, ANB ORLANDO 
 DETERMINES UPON TOUR. 
 
 It -was late next morning before our highwayman awoke. The sun's beams 
 came full on the window, thin and watery it is true, but it showed that the hour was 
 late ; and when he became fully aware of it, he sprang out of bed, and proceeded 
 to dress himself. 
 
 "I ana not so fresh as I might be," he muttered, "but the water jug must do 
 al! that for me. I have had sleep enough, I am sure ; then to breakfast, and 
 I shall be a new man." 
 
 As he spoke, he gave himself a plentiful ablution of water, and then, by 
 means of a rough towel (and in those days a smooth one would have been rather 
 an unusual thing), he soon succeeded in thoroughly arousing and awakening him- 
 self from the half-drowsiness in which he was at that moment. 
 
 He soon descended, and found that it was late; but what mattered that to him? 
 he had nothing to do. And now he felt at a loss how to apply his time. He 
 ordered breakfast, and, when that was done with, be determined io take a walk in 
 the Mall, and see the nobility and gentry. 
 
 No sooner thought than done ; and he left his inn, and made his way to St. 
 James's Park, and then made the best use of his time for his own amusement. 
 The nobility and gentry were seen walking up and down this fashionable prome- 
 nade, and many public and remarkable characters were there, some of them 
 Orlando had seen before, and more than one he remarked having eased of his 
 purse. 
 
 There was little consolation in what had been, but what might again be. 
 
 u There is some fine cattle here," he muttered, " and the owners ought to carry 
 good purses, and upon Hampstead Heath they would change hands, I'm thinking. 
 But now I do think — what shall i do next ? My purse has been diminished by 
 last night's adventures by about a third or half. Ah, well, it" was intended that 
 we should have and spend ! What I get goes as lightly as it comes.- . What 
 matters ? I'll try a week here, and then I will run down to B*th, recruiting my 
 purse on the road. 
 
 Filled with these cogitations, he walked on towards Hyde Park, through St. 
 James's and the Green Park. The walk was a long one, and he felt much revived, 
 and returned to his inn by two o'clock to dinner, which was a very late hour, but 
 he was not alone ; several other persons had just come in from the country, who 
 appeared to have ridden hard. 
 
 Orlando sat down to his table, and ate his dinner in quietness, while these other 
 individuals sat at one table and ate in company, talking much all the while. 
 
 " Well," said one, " I have come over the heath, at all events, safe to-day." 
 
 " You didn't see the highwayman, taen, who stops everybody, and won't let the 
 sheriff alone." 
 
 "No, I didn't see any highwayman myself, though I had the honour of 
 being taken for one, and was like to have come to unpleasant treatment in 
 consequence." 
 
 " Aye, you don't mean to say you were taken for a highwayman, do you ?" 
 « Yes, I do." 
 
 " And yet you don't look very much like a furious, bloodthirsty highwayman. 
 How did it all come about ?" 
 
 u I will tell you. From what I can understand, I was mistaken for a man 
 called Orlando the Owl — a very noted highwayman indeed, who is well known 
 thereabouts." 
 
 " Oh, we all know him very well." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 499 
 
 "And I Lave particular reason to know him," said the the third person ; " about 
 six months ago he took my purse ; I was unarmed, and could not resist." 
 
 "Ah ! oh I ha ! Well, you were worse off than I. But 1 was coming across 
 the heath, and I passed one horseman, who looked very hard at me, and then 
 another. I didn't like it at all, and pushed on faster to get near the town, and be 
 more secure than I was there ; but I had no sooner quickened my pace, than I 
 found I was pursued, and a loud whif tie given behind me, and in another minute 
 another horseman appeared before me, ahead of me some few hundred yards, and 
 bearing right down upon me." 
 
 " Why, that was rather alarming." 
 
 <c Yes, and when the one coming towards me met me, I saw a pistol in his hand, 
 and drawing his horse quite across the road, he called out to me to stop. 
 
 " Of course I reined up, and then the other two were on my back, and I was in 
 a moment surrounded by all three, and both my hands were seized, and pistols 
 presented te my head, and then told to surrender in the King's name, or I should 
 be shot. 
 
 " Oh, very well," said I, " I am very glad I am in good company ; I was afraid 
 of being robbed of my purse, whereas you only want to shoot me. 1 find my pocket 
 is safe, but not my person ; pray, what is it you want of me ? I am unarmed." 
 
 " We arrest you as a highwayman," said one of them. 
 
 " You may arrest me for what you will, I amno highway robber. I am a country 
 gentleman coming to London on business, and 1 can prove that much. At all 
 events there are enough of you to take one man ; therefore, I need not be seized 
 in this manner ; you can search me, and satisfy yourselves that I tell you the truth, 
 when I say I have n-o arms about me." 
 
 " Well, 1 ' said one, " we do not wish to put you to any inconvenience, but you, 
 quickened your pace as if you had some suspicion that we wanted you." 
 
 " You were perfectly correct in your surmise," said I ; " I had some suspicion 
 that you wanted me, or more of me than I liked to part with, and I did quicken 
 my pa^ce to get as far away from you as I could, and should have done so but for 
 your comrade in front." 
 
 " Well, we are upon the look-out for a man hereabouts, and there is no knowing 
 which way he may come, or how he may come, day and night, and he has 
 escaped so often that we are determined to stop everybody, and if there's the least 
 cause for suspicion, to secure them." 
 
 " Well," said I, " Iiave you any idea of taking me to town?" 
 
 ^•No, sir, we are satisfied, and are sorry to have troubled you ; but it is for the 
 public benefit we have done it. You can proceed, if you will.'' 
 
 " I wished them good day, and came on as fast as I could." 
 
 U I should think they would soon take that man ; he's the terror of the whole 
 neighbourhood — nobody can come by after dark." 
 
 * l I believe not ; but he's hemmed in." 
 
 " Oh, my opinion is that his time is not yet up ; he'll get away there, and go 
 somewhere else. We shall hear if he is not heard of in some other quarter, 
 and then some strong measures will be put in force in that quarter, until it 
 is useless." 
 
 " Well, then-; accordisg to that account, they never will be able to take him ; 
 such impunity has never yet been granted to any one that ever I heard of." 
 
 " Some accident or other will turn, and then he'll be taken ; that is what I think 
 will get the better of him. He may guard against all the ordinary incidents of 
 his profession,, but something more than the common run will be the cause of his 
 being secured." 
 
 " Yes, that is possible ; he may be thrown, shot, or a dozen things may happen, 
 to secure him." 
 
 " Well," thought Orlando, " what may happen, I don't know, though I dare say 
 what they say is quite correct, and it will be one day my fate to be overcome by 
 accident, for I think I can guard against any of their attempts to catch me ; but 
 
500 NEWGATE. 
 
 extraordinary exertion I eannot always meet, and besides some unforeseen occurrence 
 may happen to put me into the hands of the Philistines." 
 
 He took his dinner, and then some wine, after which he walked out for the 
 afternoon and evening, to see some other place of amusement ; and thus he passed 
 several days in London, and at length he determined to make a visit to one or two 
 places where he knew he could obtain refuge if he were hard pressed ; not that he 
 ever contemplated remaining in such places, for he was of opinion that he should do 
 better by secreting himself in some plaee where he would not be looked for ; but 
 such a plan might be useful for a short space ; for a long one he thought it was 
 only affording temptation to them to betray him, especially as the authorities had 
 offered a large reward for him. 
 
 The house was situated near Water-lane, and afforded facilities for an escape by 
 the liver, should such be necessary, and was well calculated for such a purpose. 
 
 He entered the house, and seeing the landlord, he nodded to him. 
 
 " Here," he said, " come this way." 
 
 " Anything wrong V inquired Orlando. 
 
 ** Wrong, by Jove I What induced you to come here V 
 
 " Because 1 could not come to London without paying you a visit, and having a 
 glass of wine together. What would you have thought of me V\ 
 " I should have thought you had a reason." 
 "And so 1 should, if I had done so ; but I had no reason.'* 
 w Come in, come in — quick." 
 
 Orlando stepped into the little parlour, and sat down behind a door, and he had 
 scarcely done so before two men entered the house, and went into the parlour beside 
 the bar-parlour, and when they had gone, the landlord came in, saying, — 
 
 '* You are looked very sharply after ; I heard that they have offered heavy rewards 
 for you, and yet here you are right in the middle of the mischief ; why, you have 
 come into the lion's mouth." 
 
 " I am rather required, I believe, and Hampstead is rather too warm for my 
 health, so I have come here for a change of air, and to enjoy myself.'' 
 
 " Well," said the landlord, lifting his hand, " did I ever hear such a man ; enjoy 
 yourself, eh? Why, just come this :.vay, and I'll let you hear something that will 
 amaze you." 
 
 " If it is anything about meyou will indeed astonish me." 
 " Then come tbis way." 
 
 «* Well, well," said the highwayman, as the landlord led the way through a 
 small door, and, motioning to him to come very quietly, h% stopped at a certain 
 point where they could distinctly hear all that passed in the next room. 
 
 " Well, Belton, what news of our man V 
 
 " Oh, he's not there, that is pretty sure ; besides the Bell has been searched, 
 and that is empty — there is no one about that at all answers his description." 
 
 "1 suppose he has gone to some other part of the country?" 
 
 " Yes, that is pretty sure, and it is not very uncertain that he is not in London. 
 I am of opinion myself that he has come here to avoid suspicion —it is by no 
 means unlikely, and if he were known, I should say he could be found ; but the 
 worst of it is, he is not known to us by sight." 
 How do you account for that ?" 
 
 "Why, he has come full-blown to the road. He has not risen to it from one 
 crime to another till he has come to that ; but he has come to it from some cause 
 or other that we can't tell — perhaps lost a fortune in racing or dicing, or something 
 of that sort." 
 
 " That accounts for his not being discovered at the usual places of resort for 
 people of his condition ; but as he's so uncertain, all we can do is to keep 
 one's eyes open ; such a reward is worth having, even if it gets shared among 
 several." 
 
 " It would well pay us for our trouble at all events," said one. 
 
 " I wish we may have a chance, that is all. At all events the chase grows hot, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 501 
 
 aud he must find himself hard pressed ; and should such be the case he cant be 
 found out on the road, aud then we may catch or shoot him — it doesn't much 
 matter which." 
 
 Orlando heard enough, and stepping back as lightly as he could, he stalked into 
 the little parlour. 
 
 " What do you say to that V inquired the landlord. 
 
 " Why, that it will do for a sample— the other's much like it, I dare say." 
 
 "Very much," replied the landlord, "all in that strain. It is comfortable at 
 all events. But what do you intend to do ?" 
 
 "Why, I shall have a bottle of wine with you, while they are consulting 
 together, and when that is drunk, I must bid you good-bye, for a time." 
 
 " Well, you are a rum 'un, you are ; but I respect you, upon my soul I do— 
 you are such a fellow ; but here is the wine, and of some right good sort, I can tell 
 you. It's only had out upon certain occasions such as the present, and my best 
 and most respected friends order it." 
 
 " Then, here's your health, landlord." 
 
 " And here's the same to you, and good luck when you most need it." 
 
 " Thank you, I hope I shall, else there may be some one who will play a higher 
 game under a tree than he cares about doing." 
 
 "You are right: these blood-suckers," said the landlord, nodding his head 
 towards the room in which the officers were seated, " are like carrion crows ; they 
 hope to feed off a man's body, and they care not whom they destroy, so that their 
 maws may be full." 
 
 " That's exactly the case," said the highwayman; "they haven't the boldness 
 and courage of a highwayman ; they have only the brutish ferocity of the bear and 
 dog, which destroys all before them, merely because such is their instinct to destroy 
 and fight, and they take pleasure in it." 
 
 " So they do. Why, did you hear of the case of young Sholto V* 
 
 "No, I did not ; I have been hidden from the world lately, you know, and being 
 hunted there, I have come here for life and information." 
 
 " Well, well," said the landlord, laughing, " but you have come at an odd time — 
 but young Sholto was a rattling young blade as any, and never did an ill-deed to 
 any one. He raced and gamed a little, and swindled a little more, as we could 
 do, or have done, you know." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Orlando, sipping his wine. 
 
 " Well, money must be had to do the thing comfortable, you know. Well, the 
 old gentleman stood him a long while ; but he refused to afford him any supplies 
 and the young chap couldn't do without money at all. It wasn't Christian- 
 like to expect he could, so he swore about it, and went out upon the road, and said 
 4 stand and deliver/ like a true man." 
 
 " Whatever he got, you see, he spent like a trump, and nobody wanted a guinea 
 while he had two in his purse ; and what could he do more ?" 
 
 " Nothing at all." 
 
 " Weil, then he went on for some time — he was prosperous enough ; and, Lord, 
 Lord, how he did keep the pot a-boiling surely. Why, he was a trump, but there 
 must be an end to the longest rope, and Sholto's rope was of the shortest, for he 
 hadn't the art of keeping close and quiet — the consequence was, the officers had 
 their eyes upon him, and he was known to them ; they expected they should have 
 him one day, and they were pretty correct — they let him alone until there was a 
 swinging reward offered for him, and then they went and took him finding plenty 
 of proof about him of what they wanted," 
 
 '* He was not fit for the road." 
 
 " No. He was a star, but his light was soon put out," said the landlord, philo- 
 sophically — " a shooting star, i Well, they had him up at the Bailey, and then he 
 was sentenced to be hanged, and hanged he was, like a trump, as he lived, but his 
 time was very short." 
 
 " How long V inquired Orlando. 
 
 *' About seven months." 
 
602 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 <• That was a short notice to quit, certainly. Well, the wine's out, and I think 
 I must attend to my own safety now, and hid you good-hye. Well, I shall leave 
 London, as I am so much looked after here. A change of airwilJ do me no harm. 
 You must take the reckoning out of that, and if it will afford another bottle or 
 two, you must keep it to drink my health, should you hear of me publicly." 
 
 " I will, my boy/' said the landlord. " God bless you ; may your days be long 
 in the land." 
 
 *f I hope so," said Orlando, as he shook the landlord by the hand, and then he 
 left the house, and proceeded quickly to his inn, where he took up his quarters as 
 usual, with ease and comfort. 
 
 " This is because I have kept myself quiet, and nobody knows me by sight. 
 One's identity is not a matter of notoriety, and I can go into the midst $>f them, 
 and yet they shall not know or suspect me. But I will not tempt my fate by being 
 fool-hardy. I will leave London and proceed to Bath — that will be the best pro- 
 ceeding ; "they will believe the owl has fled his lair, and gone to some other quarter, 
 and I shall be able to return then again in a few weeks or months, as the case may be." 
 
 CHAPTER LXV1. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE ON THE BOAD. — THE JOtJRNEY TO BATH. 
 
 Notwithstanding what he told the landlord, he did not leave London till two 
 days afterwards, and then he found he had barely funds that would last ti ; /l he had 
 performed half the journey — indeed, if he could reach Reading, it was as much as 
 lie could do, though he had some doubt even of that— if anything should happen 
 out of the ordinary course of events. This, however, was less to him than to 
 many men, and he determined that the road should pay its own expenses, for he 
 considered that sufficient for the day was the evil thereof. 
 
 He started out the night before he intended to go upon his journey, and took 
 the Great North-road, to ascertain if he .could not secure means for a day or two's 
 expenses. He haf? nigh given up the*fiope, for the road was bare of passengers; 
 but at length a carriage came rattling up at a rapid pace. H« considered it a 
 desperate case, and he called out to the driver to stand. 
 
 This, however, had the contrary effect, and the coachman lashed his horses, 
 expecting he could get away by dint of speed, or so far that he should overtake 
 some one on the road. 
 
 " Pull up! pull up ! or I'll fire." 
 
 " Fire away," was the answer. 
 
 Orlando did fire, and the near horse fell dead, and was dragged some distance 
 before the vehicle was stopped, which it did, and one of the leaders fell also. 
 
 " Now stand and deliver," said Qrlando, a%'he presented a pistol at the head of 
 a young gentleman, who got out with a drawn sword. 
 
 " Scoundrel, how dare yoiiT 
 
 " Not so hot, sir — your purse; save your scolding for your lady." 
 
 ,6 Don't you expect to be hanged V said the young man, bursting with rage. 
 
 " Yes, some of these days; but, you know, care killed a cat, and it forms no 
 -part of the creed of a knight of the road to be down-hearted about the future, 
 and until the time arrives, I turn my back upon it, till it won't be denied ; and in 
 the meantime I must live, and you can afford to support me. I shall trouble you 
 for your purse ; resistance is useless." 
 
 " Is it, indeed ? Are there many of you?" 
 
 " No — myself only ; but I am armerl. 
 
 " And so am I." 
 
, NEWGATE. 503 
 
 (t Very well," said Orlando, cocking his pistol, and taking a deliberate aim at 
 the coxcomb, as he said, " You are for war ; have it now as you will. I can take 
 your gold, dead or alive; there is no fear about that. I did not, however, wish to 
 kill you, but I must have mon«y ; and now, once for all, will you deliver your purse 
 into my hands ?" 
 
 " No, I will not ; and if you attempt to approach the carriage, I will cut you 
 down." 
 
 " Then take it as you get it — it is your own fault ; your pig-headed obstinacy 
 is such that you deserve your fate." 
 
 As he spoke he fired, and the young man dropped ; and then Orlando 
 dismounted, rifled, and opened the carriage ; there was only an old woman in it. 
 It was quite evident that she was incapable of moving, being unwieldy, fat, and 
 diseased ; therefore, snatching her reticule from her, he emptied the contents 
 into his pocket, to the inexpressible astonishment and fear of the fat woman, who 
 looked at him with open eyes, as though she never would shut them again. 
 
 " There, all this might have been saved," he said to the fat woman, 66 if that 
 young fool had given me the purse when I asked it of him. Good night, ma'am ; 
 and, remember, never to be out when the owl flies." 
 
 Touching his hat in a gay and gallant manner, he rode away, leaving the whole 
 party in a state of horror and amazement, difficult to deseribe. 
 
 ******* 
 
 After a smart ride across some fields, he came to the London-road, and then he 
 entered another quarter, and returned to his inn, where he put up his horse,, and 
 then, for the last occasion, he proceeded to the theatre, there to spend the evening ; 
 after which, he resolved to retire to bed in good time, to be ready for his journey 
 in the morning. 
 
 Before he went, he examined the booty he had obtained in this affair, and found 
 that it was not so very good, being only a few pounds over thirty guineas, which, 
 however, would answer his purpose very well, as it would help him>all the way 
 down to Bath. 
 
 Then he went to the theatre, and there he sat for some time ; but finding no one 
 with whom he could fall into any kind of conversation, he left, determined to return 
 to the inn, and see the company ; the piece that came after the first he had seen, 
 and therefore cared nothing about it. 
 
 When he got out, he first determined to return to the inn at one, but a sudden 
 shower coming on, he entered the first public-house he came ne^and this was not a 
 very choice abode; but it was a shelter, and that was enough for him at the 
 moment. 
 
 He entered the parlour, but there was such a dense smoke arising fromthe 
 fumes of tobacco that he could scarcely see any one in the room, nor they him ; 
 but, at all events, he went in and sat down in one corner, and by degrees he 
 became used to the place. 
 
 There was but a motley throng ia the room ; they were noisy, and all talking at 
 once, and had very recently a quarrel among them ; and by way of promoting 
 harmony, one of them proposed a song, and called upon a quiet-looking individual 
 in the corner to sing, which he instantly obeyed, and began in a maudlin manner 
 and a voice, the compass of which extended to nearly two notes by the gamut; 
 but, unfortunately, they were not consecutive notes. His song was the celebrated 
 ballad of Lord Bateman, which, consisting of many verses, produced much 
 laughter at first, and then they all resumed their conversation, while the individual 
 kept on singing for a long while, heedless of the fact that nobody paid any 
 attention to his exertions, or heeded his song. 
 
 There was one man among them who appeared to have plenty of money, and 
 was drinking hard. H< was a rough sort of man, with a scowling brow, and 
 featares that would do him mischief in any quarter where a prepossessing exterior 
 was required. He was in fact a very ruffian, and one who would commit any 
 brutal, act. 
 
 " Well," he said, after a pause, " I don't care for any man : one may as well be 
 jjiing for a sheep as a lamb, as far as I can see, and for the difference in the end." 
 
504 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Ah, you don't do things by halves." 
 
 " No, indeed, I don't. When I say a thing, it must he done." 
 
 "Well, there's nothing like it, go where one will ; by sticking to that, you do 
 get something ; people will stick by you— -but what are you after now." 
 
 " Nothing bnt what concerns myself to know, and nobody else.^ I wish that 
 fool up in the corner there would hold his tongue, and not make that ding-dong, 
 like a cracked bell." 
 
 "It's no use talking to him, for he will not leave off for an hour ; he hasn't got 
 the sense to do so, poor fellow! he's more than half a natural. Once set Billy in 
 motion with a song, and he'll sing away, ding-dong, for a couple of hours at the 
 least." 
 
 " i'll put an end to it. I'm not going to stand that, at any price. Here, I say, 
 you, Bill, shut up, and give us no more of that, will you? Do you hear? — you 
 know me, and if you don't, I expect you'll feel the weight of a tankard on your 
 
 sconce." 
 
 " No, don't touch the poor fellow, he's not himself— he'll go on for a 
 
 fortnight." 
 
 " I won't stand it — make him hold his tongue." 
 
 " No, it's no business of mine, I shan't interfere : only the poor fellow isn't 
 aware he is vexing anybody ; besides he was asxed to sing the song, and he thinks 
 he's right to do so. All I say is, don't hurt the poor fellow, he never harmed 
 a fly." 
 
 " Then let him be quiet." 
 
 u Well, let him he quiet, nobody wants to disturb him." 
 
 "Come, are you going to put an end to that miserable din ? If you don't, I'll crack 
 the pot that rings so loud. Are you going to leave off or not V 
 
 The unconscious object of this fellow's anger sat with half-closed eye, singing 
 in the manner described, nodding, at the rise and fall of the verse, in a manner 
 that showed where the emphasis lay, but quite unconscious what was going on 
 around him. 
 
 " Then you won't give in, won't you ? — then take that." As the furious 
 monster spoke, he jumped up and rushed upon the helpless man, and struck him 
 one or two terrific blows that made the blood spirt out all over the unfortunate 
 victim, and he was about to repeat the savage attack, when Orlando jumped up, 
 and calling out as he made his way towards him, — 
 
 " Cease this brutality. Strike another blow, and you will feel the weight of my 
 vengeance ; you cowardly hound, to strike a man like that." 
 
 This astounded the man for a moment, and several cried out, "Bravo;" when 
 the fellow turned round, exclaiming, — 
 
 W Who are you, I should like to know ? Keep clear of me, unless you want to be 
 well licked." 
 
 " As for who I am, all I want to know is — what is that to you? and as 
 for your licking me, I'll beat you to the ground if you dare strike so helpless a 
 man as that while I am here." 
 
 This was said in so resolute a tone, that the fellow was absolutely amazed, and 
 would perhaps have sat down but for shame ; for at that moment he could hear 
 the tittering of some of the guests present, and saw the marks of approbation which 
 Orlando received, which reminded him of the fact that he should be laughed at by 
 his companions, and then, with an oath, said, — 
 
 "As tor you, you shall have something to boast of if you live after this, but I 
 don't think you will, for I'll break your back." 
 
 As he spoke, he rushed forward, with the intention of closing and throwing 
 Orlando down, but having his pisiolsin his pocket, he seized one, and struck the 
 fellow so hard on the head that he was stunned ; in which state he was dragged 
 into the passage, where he took his money from him, and then quitted the neigh- 
 bourhood, after leaving the ruffian on the outside to repent at leisure when h°. 
 should come to his own senses, which did not appear very likely to be 
 soon. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 505 
 
 After this he proceeded towards Holborn, which was at that time not quite the 
 place it is now, and by no means of easy navigation ; requiring some acquaintance 
 with the way and some nerve, for the lighting and paving were then not fit to be 
 called by that name, in comparison with what we have now. Indeed, robberies 
 were often committed after dark, and the perpetrators escaped with impunity ; such 
 things were of much greater frequency than they ought to have been. 
 
 However, this little disturbed the equanimity of Orlando who walked along with 
 
 confidence, and in security ; for he had about him the means of resistance, and his 
 nerves were strung to any such encounter, which was in itself an advantage which 
 many men do not possess. 
 
 There was no need, however, to exert himself ; and he got to the inn without 
 any incident, and found that there was a room full of guests, some travellers, and 
 some persons residing in the neighbourhood, but who wished to pass away an hour 
 or two, and hear what news had come in from the provinees. 
 
 No. 64. 
 
506 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 «* Well," inquired one, " what news is there in the north ?" 
 
 " Oh, all quiet now. I believe there's no immediate fear of the Stuarts, now." 
 
 " But the young Pretender is now in France ; he's safe. What happens will 
 happen through one old enemy, and nothing more. They aint got any means. 
 The Jacobins have all the inclination in the world, but they aint got the material 
 for an army." 
 
 " May be not; but I wish they would spare us one of the horse regiments they 
 have northward." 
 
 Indeed ! and why do you wish that? " 
 
 " Why, I wish they would post them all over the northern parts of the metropolis ; 
 I mean the villages of.Hampstead, Highgate, and all those parts." 
 
 " Ay, there are enemies enough there — honest men's enemies ; but, above all, 
 there's that fellow called the Owl, and a very owl he is, for no one has ever seen 
 him by daylight ; some say, that when he is taken, there will be but little fear of 
 securing all others of that fraternity." 
 
 " He has eluded them a long while." 
 
 " Ay, but no one ever saw him by daylight ; no one that ever I heard saw his 
 feature's fairly enough to be able to recognise them." 
 " That makes it so difficult to take him." 
 
 " Ay, but he is taken, nevertheless," said a tall stranger, who had not been in the 
 room long. 
 
 "Indeed! The Owl taken, eh ?" 
 " Yes, he is," said the tall stranger. 
 
 " How, when, and where V were the cries in every individual's mouth. ''The 
 Owl taken, how h that? Tell us all about it." 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, I came over Hampstead Heath this afternoon, after dark I 
 should say, when a man rode up to nie, and bade me stand. I did so, but that was 
 all. He wanted my purse, and that I couldn't part with upon such easy terms 
 as that ; he snapped a pistol at me, and I closed with him and called for assistance, 
 which came in a very few minutes in the shape of a couple of mounted patrols, 
 and the man was secured. 
 
 " Did he say anything?" inquired one of the guests. 
 
 " No, he was obdurate, and would not speak; the officers, however, nfrve no 
 doubt but that he is the man known as the Owl, and the man whom they have 
 been looking out for, which will bea few pounds in their pockets, for I understand a 
 good reward is offered." 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 The guests talked over the tale, and appeared pleased enough that the Owl was 
 at last caged, while Orlando thought that there was the very man himself in 
 amongst them, free and enjoying himself, and that they had got hold of some 
 minor oifcrder, which the officers would very soon find out to be the case when they 
 came to inquire into the matter. 
 
 However, he arose and retired to bed, and there fell asleep in a very short time, 
 and slept soundly, without a dream, until the hour next morning at which he 
 desired to rise and set out on his journey. At an early hour he arose, and break- 
 fast being prepared after the fashion of the times, which was not then as it is now, 
 he sat down to it with a relish and zest that showed how well he slept. 
 
 The day was well up when he rode out of the inn-yard, though it was but very 
 early. He rode through the town to the end of the Oxford road, or street, as it is 
 called now, passed through Tyburn-gate, and looked up at that fatal tree upon 
 which so many of his profession had expiated their crime?, and then been 
 forgotten by all, even their friends." 
 
 How brief, indeed, is a man's life, when suddenly cot short in such a manner! 
 What a fearful thought, that from the branches of that far-famed tree, the soul of 
 many a man has fled to heaven, to ask its Maker's forgiveness for the deeds it had 
 done on earth, while clothed with its earthly vestments! 
 
 The highwaymau could not pass the tree without some emotion ; he lifted his 
 hat to the tree as he passed it, and a thought crossed his mind, caused by a 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 507 
 
 kind of emotion somewhat akin to that of the Indian, who leaves the hair on his 
 scalp to grow, that his enemy, when he has conquered him, may seize it, and bear 
 it off as a trophy. 
 
 '* It may he my turn one of these days. I have had a long lease of it ; but I 
 must attribute that to my solitary and nocturnal habits. I am known to none, 
 and I may yet remain so for a long time. Accident alone will be my ruin : I am 
 too careful for anything else ; but no matter — Tyburn-tree is as good a place as 
 any for a man to make his bow to the audience.'' 
 
 At this thought he smiled, looked back once more at the tree, and then rode on at 
 a smart pace until he came to Colnbrook, a small straggling place upon the river of 
 that name, where he determined to stop an hour or two, and there bait his horse 
 the while. 
 
 He dismounted at the sign of the Stag, and entered the house, giving orders 
 respecting his horse, and then sat down, lost in thought. 
 
 " This journey/' he muttered, "will be a change, at all events; I shall have 
 that satisfaction, if no other ; but no matter, it will be productive of a living, and 
 the merrier the better. I must, however, keep somewhat in the shade. I don't 
 want to be seen by any one, to be recognised, under any circumstances at all, Jhder 
 suspicion or no suspicion ; and then I run far less danger than I should other- 
 wise do." 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII. 
 
 THE INN AT MARLBOROUGH.— THE TRAVELLERS' ROOM, AND A TRAVELLER'S 
 
 ADVENTURE. 
 
 After about an houi&s rest here he left the Stag, and proceeded onwards to 
 Maidenhead, and thence to Henley-on-Thames, where he resolved to stay the night ; 
 and here he put up at the White Hart, a decent inn, where he remained that night ; 
 but there was nothing remarkable there, and he left early next morning for Reading, 
 and thence in the afternoon he proceeded towards Marlborough. 
 
 It was after dusk when he entered Marlborough, and an incident occurred on 
 the road that was somewhat remarkable, and caused him to feel assured his appear- 
 ance was by no means suspicious ; for about five miles on this wde of that place a 
 man rode up to him, and pausing a inoment, said, — 
 
 " Stand and deliver!" 
 
 «* Eh !'* said Orlando, " stand and deliver, I command you." 
 "What !"*aidthe man, "do you set no value upon yeur life, that you speak in 
 this easy tone V 
 
 " Ay* I have risked my life so often think nothing of it now. T only tell 
 
 you to stand and deliver, and unless you do so, we must exchange shots, for I 
 am not to be robbed by a brother knight of the road. I have often done this 
 myself." 
 
 " Oh !" said the stranger, " that is all very well for a tale, but it will not go down 
 with me ; so you must just deliver." 
 
 " Since you are so obstinate you must take the contents of my pistol ;" and as he 
 spoke he turned his horse's head, and pressed him suddenly up to the other, and 
 seizing his weapon, presented his own. 
 
 " Now, if you do not deliver to me your weapons and money, I will shoot you. 
 No hesitation, but do it at once, and you escape with your life. I told you wiiat I 
 was, and now you shall feel, since you would not believe. Deliver all up to me at 
 once." 
 
 " Well, well ; there are my weapons, but you will not take my money ?" 
 
 " But I will, though ; you have doubted my word, and I will prove you had no 
 
508 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 reason to do so, and you must give up what you have about you. 1 am in no mood 
 to speak twice ; hand over your purse ; or you are a dead man. I'll speak no 
 more." 
 
 The man then gave up his purse, which was well filled ; biat as he did so, he 
 said, — 
 
 Give me a guinea back to get a bed and a supper; do that, and I shall not 
 much care for my loss." 
 
 "I will do that," said Orlando ; "and mind you be careful when you next meet 
 me again — I am not to be trifled with. And now you have what you want, ride 
 on, and do not wait this side of London, if you want to be in safety." 
 
 The fellow received the money, and when be had done so, put spurs to his horse, 
 and rode away at a rapid pace, until he was no longer in sight. 
 
 Orlando then rode on to Marlborough, where he stopped. It is a quiet, old- 
 fashioned place. He entered the inn, upon which he fixed as the most likely place 
 that he could find where traverkrs would put up ; and having seen his horse in 
 saiety and well cared for, he entered the travellers'' room, which happened to be 
 full #n that evening, and the company very merry. 
 
 Upon his entry into the room, there was a pause in the conversation. The 
 evening was cold and somewhat inclined to be stormy, wkich turned out to be the 
 case in an hour afterwards. Having ordered his supper, he took his place as 
 near the fire as he could get, and sat for some time in silence, gazing abstractedly 
 at the fire, which burned brightly, and afforded a delightful contrast to the weather 
 outside, and awaited patiently the appearance of his supper. 
 
 " Have you travelled far, sir?" inquired an elderly man, in a blue broad cloth 
 coat. 
 
 * Not very far," replied Orlando. 
 
 M The roads are heavy now, sir," he remarked, after a short pause. 
 
 " Yes, they are ; but we must expect them to be so after the rains we have 
 had lately — it is to be expected-— but they are not so bad as they might be." 
 
 h Very little short of it though," observed another traveller ; '« the mud was 
 over the felloes of my wheels. What between the softness of the roads and the 
 danger of highwaymen, there is little pleasure in travelling in these days." 
 
 «' I wonder what they will do to clear the country of them ?" 
 
 '* Aye," said Orlando, " it will be a clever thing that will effect that." 
 
 " Yes, but like a good mauy other clever things, it has yet to be found out/ 
 said the old man who spoke first. " I have travelled about for many years, hut 
 I never yet hear* any chance of such a thing taking place. As long as there are 
 
 Jeople to be robbed, so long will there fee i-o&d rohbers as well as housebreaker?, 
 f people were all to determine to resist and use their arms, they might succeed 
 in making stopping the king's lieges on the highway so dangerous, that it would 
 cause those who call themselves * knights of the road,' to hesitate before they 
 adopted that mode of obtaining a living." 
 
 " Well, there is much truth in that," said one of those present. 
 "Yes," said Orlando, "that would do. There could be no better plan devised 
 in my opinion." 
 " I think so, too." 
 
 " But there is one drawback against it," said Orlando. 
 
 •« And what may that be, sir ?" inquired the old man. " I can see none, if 
 people were resolved. ,, 
 
 " Exactly ; if people would but be resolute, why much might b» done ; but 
 there's the evil — people won't be be resolute. People are not fond of sacrificing 
 themselves for the good of society, but, at the same time, while there is an if, you 
 may always reckon a thing will remain as it was. No person will say, * I will 
 risk my life as an example to encourage society to do the same.' People generally 
 look to the immediate advautage arising to themselves, and look to society to do 
 them some benefit, but they do not see any benefit arising to themselves by doiig 
 good to society at their own risk." 
 
 *« That's uncommonly true, too," said another. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 509 
 
 " Well, for my part," said the man who had spoken, " I never advise what I 
 am not prepared to follow myself. I have done what I advise." 
 "That is then speaking from experience," said Orlando. 
 
 " Truly it is ; and a man may speak upon his experience, though it be less than 
 another's. I have found that courage is a better plan of action than cowardice. 
 You see by the latter you lose all, whereas by the former you only risk all. You 
 may lose in the one case, whereas, in the former, you must lose all." 
 
 " That is a very true distinction/' said Orlando, " or it would be, were the cases 
 truly stated ; but in the one case you risk life, and in the other you do 
 not ; so if you are victor, you are fortunate— but, if not, you lose both life and 
 purge." 
 
 Well, that's a very just remark," said the same individual, who appeared to 
 have an inclination to conciliate everybody and everything. 
 
 11 And so you have had some experience in resisting highwaymen," said one, 
 turning to the individual who had given the above advice. 
 
 " Yes, I have ; I have been stopped more than once by highwaymen." 
 
 " Indeed ! more than once !" 
 
 " Yes, I have." 
 
 "Will you relate under what circumstances, sir?'' inquired one, who appeared 
 to be somewhat timid in himself ; with the permission of the company I should 
 like to hear 'it." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly," cried everybody. "Will you relate it? We shall be glad 
 to hear it." 
 
 " I will with pleasure ; it may very well pass an odd half hour away, if it does 
 no more. You must know, gentlemen, that I have travelled now for many years, 
 and about seven years ago an occurrence took place that caused some stir at the 
 ' time." 
 
 " Indeed ! To what do you allude ?" 
 
 " Why, to the affair in which young Davis got shot, at the entrance of this very 
 city, by a highwayman, who was leaving the town as he was coming in." 
 
 " I recollect the event very well ; he robbed some one afterwards and got 
 taken." 
 
 " Yes, he did. Well, I was coming down the road; I had a good round sum 
 about me. I did not come that night for that very reason, but I had to serve a 
 friend, and I did not like to allege as an excuse that I was afraid to travel. The 
 fact was he wanted the money, and it must either have been had that night, or it 
 would have been useless." 
 
 " I therefore resolved to set out, and I did so, but had not got over above 
 three-fourths of the way, thinking that I was doing very well and should get safe 
 into Marlborough without any mischief, when my horse suddenly shied at some 
 object in the road which I did not see. 
 
 " * Curse the horse,' I muttered to myself, giving the animal a touch of the spur. 
 * What do you mean 1 Go on without any more nonsence.' 
 
 " I had scarcely uttered the words, when I heard the sound of some other horses' 
 hooves besides my own, and, on looking before me — it was very dark — what should 
 I see but a horseman, who had drawn his horse quite across the road, presenting a 
 pistol at me as long as my arm. t 
 
 " ' Hilloa !' said I, ' you might as well have told me you were here ; I didn't see 
 you. Are you dumb that you can't speak, or are you only above iti' 
 
 " ' Stand, and deliver !' said a deep voice. 
 
 " ' I can't stand that,' said I, * at any price;' and I popped my horse close up 
 to him, but he pointed his weapon close to my breast. I thought this was a 
 poor chance, and knew not what to do ; if I could get the pistol away I should not 
 mind, but there was the difficulty. 
 
 " < Stand, and deliver !' said the same voice. ' Any trifling will cost you your 
 life! 
 
 " ' Well,' said I, 'I, don't want to trifle ; it is much too serious an affair to do any- 
 thing of the kind ; though I tell you honestly, since you must have my purse, 
 
510 NEWGATE. 
 
 you must; but had there been only one of you, you should have had some trouble 
 to take it ; but one cannot be expected in reason to resist two armed men at one 
 and the same time." 
 
 " I no sooner uttered these words and pointed with my riding whip to the other 
 side of him, than he hastily looked round in the direction in which I pointed, to 
 see who was there. This was all I desired, and while he turned his head, I felled 
 him by a blow of my riding rod, and the^ horse he rode galloped off, leaving him 
 senseless on theroad." 
 
 " And what did you do then V 
 
 " Oh, I galloped on towards Marlborough, but before I got here, I was met by 
 several horsemen who asked il I had met any one on the road, or had been 
 stopped by a highwayman, or had seen any galloping from any point in the road." 
 
 " ' Yes, said I, *I have been stopped, and the man was lying senseless on the road; 
 his horse has left him, and has gone on without him. If you ride hard, you will 
 catch him, perhaps, before he comes to himself.' I then.described the man who 
 stopped me. 
 
 " ' He is the man we want,' said one of the horsemen. 
 " ' What has he stopped any one else V 
 
 " 4 Yes, he has stopped Mr. Davis, and shot him through the heart ; close to the 
 town — we must have him.' 
 
 " { If you don't go too far/ said I, for he will try to conceal himself in the hedges. 
 However, hasten on, you'll catch him anyhow." 
 
 " The men rode onwards, and I came to Marlborough, without any further adven- 
 ture, where I saw my friend, and spent a very comfortable evening ; and, I heard 
 in the morning upon inquiry, that ray friend had been caught sitting down by 
 the road-side, but quite bewildered, and didn't know what had happened, but sat 
 stupidly staring the officers in the face. 
 
 " Of course they took him. He was an hour or two before he became at all 
 aware of his capture, and then he could hardly believe it. Had it not heen for the 
 chains upon his legs, he would have attempted to resist, and fight his way out of 
 the prison ; but it was madness, and he gave up the idea. 
 
 *' I saw him, and he admitted the blow he had received was so violent, that it 
 had confused his faculties for a long while — a complete disturbance of the brain, 
 and had it been a little harder, it would no doubt have fractured his skull, and been 
 the cause of his death." 
 
 " Well, did he suffer?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! he was hung in chains on the very spot where he shot Davis, and 
 there he hung for "several years ; indeed I don't think he has been long taken 
 down." 
 
 " No, he has not been taken down more than two years. The body had moul- 
 dered away, and the bones had dropped out, or been pulled out by the boys who 
 used to climb up the gibbet, and amuse themselves by so doing. The chains were 
 taken to the gaol to serve for another occasion, and the gibbet iteelf stands where 
 it did, being too rotten to be of any service, and now it serves to point out the 
 spot where the murder and execution took place." 
 
 "Well, then, that affair is done and settled." 
 
 " Yes ; so I am sure that they who look at the matter coolly, will see that by a 
 little coolness and resolution, they may succeed in extirpating highway robberies-." 
 
 "Well, I have given my opinion," said Orlando, " and I have not heard any- 
 thing that alters it. One successful case of capture does not weigh against the 
 numerous escapes; besides, you had a loss of life in this instance, and if a high- 
 wayman is only to be captured but by the death of some one person, I fancy there 
 are few who would like to be concerned in such an affair ; for who could say that 
 he would escape with his life? Not one.' 
 
 " Certainly not, and I'd sooner part with a few pounds than risk what to me is 
 worth so much more, what is indeed to me invaluable, and, if once lost, can never 
 be recovered. Life once fled, and all is over then.*' 
 
 " Yes, I would sooner do as you say, lose a few pounds than lose one's life^ 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 511 
 
 which, after all, is a dear price for a capture ; besides, he did not succeed in per- 
 forming the capture ; he failed and goi shot. True, the man/was brought to justice 
 for it, but that don't satisfy the dead man's family." 
 
 By the time this conversation ended, the supper was brought in, and Orlando 
 sat down to it with much relish, while the other travellers, having arrived earlier 
 and had their last meal, were enjoying their wine, and were- occasionally conversing 
 rather noisily. 
 
 "Well," said one, "I don't mind, I will have another bottle. I'm off to 
 Calne to-morrow early; I'll be here back again in the afternoon, and I'll have 
 another." 
 
 " You won't be back by daylight," said another. 
 
 " Oh,. but I will though. I don't intend to be out after dark at any rate," 
 " What are you afraid of meeting with highwaymen ?" 
 
 " No, I'm not exactly afraid of that ; but I think it is just possible, so I will 
 not run any unnecessary risk for the sake of bravado. I'll be back by daylight, 
 and I shall be better prepared against the gentlemen of the road ; as I shall have 
 rather a large sum about me that I do not wish to risk, I shall choose broad day- 
 light for my expedition. Let those who choose be courageous, and be done 
 after all." 
 
 " Well, I think you are right ; run no unnecesary risk, for money isn't so soon 
 got but what you may be careful of it without being too venturesome." 
 
 " There is much alteration in the roads now, that I do not think you run the 
 same risk you used to ; there were times when you couldn't go out of doors after 
 dark but you ran a risk of being slashed across the face with somebody's 
 hanger." 
 
 *' Ah, there were many disbanded soldiers and others at that time who would 
 not or could not work, and who thought it no sin to rob on the highway; indeed, I 
 have heard decent people say, that if they and their families were starving, they 
 would sooner rob on the high road, than suffer them to want. I know that this is 
 a very general opinion among hundreds." 
 
 " That I can bear witness to — they say when they have done all they can do, 
 they will not starve; they don't care whose fault it is, but they were not made to 
 starve, and they will not do so ; they'll have means somehow or other." 
 
 Thus the hours passed away, and the time for retiring for the night came round; 
 once again did Orlando go to the stable to see if his horse was properly attended 
 to, and which done, he sought his bed, there to repose till the morning. 
 
 As he lay, he thought of the conversation that had passed among them in the 
 traveller's room, the death of Davis, and the fate of the man who had murdered, 
 and then of his own condition and probable fate, but he soon dismissed that from 
 his mind. Then his thoughts returned to Kate, and the neighbourhood of Hamp- 
 stead, every spot of which came back to his own mind clearlv and distinctly. 
 Then he thought of the morrow, and the traveller who was to come from Calne, 
 with a large sum of money, that he thought would be a good opportunity, for he 
 should use much money in Bath ; and he was resolved he would mix in the highe 
 circles, he would see what there was to be seen of pleasure, and when he was 
 surfeited or his money run low, he would return to his calling again. 
 
 4 • ~™ 
 
 CHAPTER LXVIII. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER'S ROOM AT BATH. — SLASHING TOPHAM. — THE FORCE OP PATE. 
 
 On the morrow Orlando arose and descended to the travellers' room, where some 
 substantial matters awaited his appearance at the table. These days were not 
 such as those when weak liquid and insipid fare were set before the traveller. It 
 
612 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 was quite the reverse — solids formed the staple of the breakfast ; good beef and 
 pork were spread upon the table, garnished by large flagons of strong ale. 
 
 He ate heartily enough, and looked round him, but saw that one was wanting, 
 and that one was he who had spoken of going to Calne and eoming back again. 
 
 " I see one friend is determined on being away in time." 
 
 M Yes, he had an early breakfast, and determined to proceed to his destination 
 without loss of time, and so make sure of being able to return in good time to 
 dinner, for he has ordered dinner at a late hour on purpose that he will not stay 
 or be over-persuaded by his friends." 
 
 " Then he will be back before dark ? " 
 
 M Undoubtedly he will ; he does not intend to be a yard from this house after 
 sun set, I assure you, he hopes to be fairly under cover for the night." 
 
 * Ah, well, I shall not see him ; I shall be gone before his return, but I wish 
 him a safe journey." 
 
 " You will not be this way again, shall you ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, in about a fortnight or so," replied Orlando, as he threw himself into 
 an arm-chair, and gazed out upon the road, " I hope so, at least ; but I may prolong 
 my stay there, if I am much pressed by friends. In that case I don't know which 
 way I may turn myself ; when I leave my destination, I may go further or may 
 come direct back." 
 
 The breakfast over, most of them left the room, but Orlando resolved upon 
 staying till mid-day, when he thought he would make the best of his way towards 
 Calne, and there meet the traveller, after which he would take cross-road on to 
 Devizes. 
 
 He sat nearly the whole time in the travellers' room watching the traffic of the 
 room that passed the window, at which he sat until they brought him word that 
 his horse was ready to travel ; when he paid his bill, and rode out towards Calne. 
 It was a fine clear day with a bracing wind, and he entered on the road with much 
 spirit and good humour. 
 
 It is astonishing the effect that riding has upon the spirits and mind — they feel 
 as lightsome and mettlesome again, and he rode onwards with the full conviction 
 and feeling that he was superior to any accident that might happen on the road. 
 He felt himself above any human being, as if barn to command slaves, and that 
 the world alone was formed for his use. 
 
 After about three hours' riding, he saw the individual approaching whom he at 
 once recognised to be the man whom he wished to meet with ; he cantered slowly 
 towards him, and saw the country was clear as far as the eye could reach, and he 
 drew up close by his side. Holding a pistol in each hand, he cried, — 
 
 *' Stand, and deliver your purse, as you value your life." 
 
 <k Not. in such a hurry, Master Highwayman; ** I will not part with what I have 
 got upon such easy terms ; we must have something to say about it first." 
 
 "1 have no time nor inclination," said Orlando, and he struck the traveller 
 upon the head with his pistol, which caused him to reel in his saddle, but he did 
 not fall ; but Orlando seized the advantage to deprive him of his pistol which he 
 had pulled out to defend himself with, but not. being quick, lie had been overcome 
 by the superior address of Orlando, who demanded his money, telling him that 
 it was useless to resist, as he had no means of doing so successfully. 
 
 " Well," said the stranger, " I cannot help myself. 1 know well I must submit 
 with what grace I can, though you cannot expect me to be overjoyed at the 
 occurrence." 
 
 " Oh," answered Orlando, " I don't expect that. I shall dispense with any 
 appearance of satisfaction on your part. It is not necessary at all. Just hand me 
 the money you have received at Calne, and I shall be satisfied." 
 
 " I think I have seen you before," said the traveller. 
 
 " Very likely ; but, if ever you should see me again, let me persuade you not to 
 know me again, because it would be some inconvenience to you in the long run. 
 I may have the power of doing you more mischief than you can imagine." 
 
 The traveller gave up the money with a reluctant air, and when he intimated 
 
NEWGATE. 513 
 
 that he might pursue his journey, he d'd so with great earnestness, as if he thought 
 that the highwayman might change his mind, and recal him ; but he was soon 
 out of sight, and Orlando retraced his steps a few hundred yards, until he came to 
 the cross-road that led to Devizes. After resting a couple of hours there, he 
 determined to preceed to Bath, and reach that place before night. It was about 
 two-hours-and-a-half 'sgood journey, he reckoned perhaps three hours, if the roads 
 were bad, which they really were ; but, he got over the ground, and entered Bath. 
 
 Here he slept at a quiet, but respectable inn. He was much pleased with this 
 place. It was quiet, so far as any trade bustle was concerned, though there were 
 many visitors, who enjoyed themselves, for Bath at that time was noted for 
 its wells. 
 
 The evening was somewhat advanced, when Orlando entered the town. He saw 
 there were but few persons at the inn, and those few were only recently there, for 
 visitors who stay, usually take lodgings, and are not found at the public inns. But 
 
 No 65. 
 
514 NEWGATE. 
 
 this not being Orlando's intention, he had put up at one of the most respectable 
 inns, and he was resolved that he would remain there. 
 
 A week soon passed by, and he visited all the different places, but became weary 
 of the life he led there ; and, having lost much money at the fashionable parties that 
 were given, and to which he was invited, and after having an intrigue with a fashion- 
 able beauty ,ywho was captivated with his deportment, and the freedom with which he 
 dispensed cash, and which affair became noised about, he suddenly determined to 
 make a trip to Bristol. 
 
 This accomplished, Orlando found his purse, which was a heavy one when he 
 entered Bath, sunk to about one half. 
 
 However, there was enough left to permit him to live a roving life in Bristol, 
 and back again to London, if he did not waste it ; but, " lightly come, lightly go," 
 is an old saying, and Orlando could not for the life of hina resist, or help being an 
 example of its truth. 
 
 However, he took an affectionate leave of his inamorata, and then left Bath and 
 proceeded to Bristol, where he arrived after a morning's ride, and put up at 
 an inn, where, as usual, he saw his horse attended to, and then went a walk over 
 the town. 
 
 In the evening, he went to the travellers' room, where he found several persons 
 sitting round the fire, conversing upon matters current in the town, and in which 
 he took no part. 
 
 " Have you heard/' inquired one, " whether that man is to be executed in the 
 m orning J' '*00i 
 
 " WnaW!B^^^^5reaT)rlando, to whom the question had been addressed. 
 
 "The highwayman who is to be hung to-morrow morning." 
 
 " No, I have not, I am a stranger here," replied Orlando, "and have but just 
 arrived, and I have heard nothing about this matter, at all." 
 
 " Oh, the whole town is alive with the exploits of Slashing Topham." 
 
 " Indeed, I never heard of him." 
 
 " Nor [I," said another person, " I have just arrived from London, and though we 
 haven't a Slashing Topham, we have Orlando the Owl." 
 
 " Well, that is a pretty cognomen, certainly. Has your public character been 
 hanged yet, sir." 
 
 " No, he's not promoted yet ; but^they seem to have some hopes that he will be, 
 but they will have to catch him first, but this is a matter not so easily done as 
 talked about, for they have tried hard, but they haven't done it as yet — and I don't 
 see they are nearer to it than they came." 
 
 u Oh, it is eas\L to set a thing going, but it's not so easy to finish it. ,, 
 " You are right, sir, but what of this Slashing Topham? I never heard of him 
 before." 
 
 I will tell you ; I was present at the assizes, and heard the whole trial, and a 
 curious affair it was — I may say I never saw anything So strongly illustrative of 
 the force of fate in all my life. He began life with a prediction, and ended with 
 its fulfilment. 
 
 " Indeed, I should much like to hear it," replied Orlando. 
 
 w Well, then, it was this, as the facts came out upon trial. H e was a mercer's 
 son, of Bath, where his father had made some money, a decent independence, and 
 kept the business goirfg for the sake of his son against he should come of age, that 
 he should have a good beginning in life. 
 
 There were more than one child, but this Charles Topham was the eldest, and he 
 designed that he should engross the business, and he would provide for the others 
 in the best way he could, for he could not give up his business entirely till his son 
 was married. 
 
 He broached the matter to him one day, as his son was inclined to be gay. 
 " Charles," he said to him, " you are destined one day to be the head of this 
 business ; see that your conduct is such that you merit it." 
 
 " I will do my best, father." . 
 " Ay, you ought, but to do so you must forsake those nightly revellings — late j 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 515 
 
 hours, destroy all business-aptitude, and you will not be able to hold up your head 
 in society, for you will get into debt, and you will become a marked man, and will 
 sink from one depth to another. I know so well the approaches to this change in 
 station, for I have marked it in so many. 
 
 e< But you are harsh, father, in saying so much to me." 
 
 " Not a bit, Charles, I have seen your conduct of late with sorrow ; let me see you 
 alter it, and that, too, permanently — then you will restore my confidence and 
 my joy." 
 
 " I will do my best, father/' said the young man, " but you must not judge me 
 too hardly." 
 
 " I will not, boy ; I will give you time never fear, I will give you time ; I was 
 once a boy myself, and if you have formed connections, I know it takes time to get. 
 rid of them ; though I believe the better, and shortest, and I may say the most 
 effectual way, is to get rid of them at once ; but act as you think best, and if I 
 find you have acted well, you shall have my countenance." 
 
 The young man promised, and began his reformation ; it was hard work, and 
 at times temptation overcame him ; and what between striving one way, and leaning 
 another, he was pretty much in the same situation at the end of a twelvemonth as 
 he was at the beginning. 
 
 He might be said to be . worse, because he had not conquered ; and he had 
 got somewhat into debt, and knew not how to release himself, and dared not ask 
 his father, from whom he concealed as much as possible all the evils of his 
 career. 
 
 One afternoon he accompanied one of his companions to a party, where he was 
 to spend the evening, and it was one of those assemblages which he knew his 
 father would not have approved of. The hours sped gaily by, and the laugh and 
 joke were at the highest; at length, one kind of amusement had followed another 
 in quick succession, until one of the party said, — 
 
 " Have you heard of Old Betsy, the gipsy V 
 
 " No," said one. 
 
 Oh, but I have," said another, " and a true fortune-teller she is, too. 1 ' 
 " Yes, that is the truth. I know seveial people who have had their fortunes 
 told them, and they declare she speaks like an oracle — every word a truth, they 
 ha*d never seen her equal, and 1 believe she must be a witch, if nothing more ter- 
 rible. She is very old, too." 
 
 "Well, then, suppose we make up a party to go to Old Betsy and have all 
 our fortunes told ; it will be a good piece of fun, and as good a way of passing an 
 hour as any other. " 
 
 " So it will — let us go." 
 
 Charles Topham went with the rest, and they came to the spot where Old 
 Betsy was to be seen. It was a mud hut, only inhabitable in summer. 
 
 Here they one after another had their fortunes told, until it came to Topham's 
 turn, and he laughed the whole affair off as a joke, in which he took his part 
 among the rest, so that he should not laugh at them for their share. 
 
 The old sibyl looked at the palm of his hand with care, and then at his face, 
 and, after a pause she said, in a low tone, so as to reach his ear onlv, — 
 
 " Young man — however far it may be from your present thoughts — you will 
 die a violent death ; not one with credit to you, but a violent death brought 
 upon you by the hands of the hangman. Your destiny is fixed, and you can no 
 more escape it than you can elude the eye of Him who sees all." 
 
 "Ah! you would scare me with an old woman's tale." 
 
 " No, no ; believe whpt I say or not, the event will speak for me in the ful- 
 ness of time, and you will then say the old gipsy told the truth. If T were to 
 please your ear with some love tale, you would reward me more, but I tell you 
 the fate I read in your hand." 
 
 H Be it so ; should it turn out as you say, you may depend upon it 1 will 
 remember your words ; but I do not at present see any probability of such an 
 jeyent taking place." 
 
516 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " No ; you do not, I am sure — but nevertheless it is so, and if I am not mis- 
 taken, but a very few years will prove the truth of what I say. A short life and a 
 merry one will be yours, and I shall live to see the day on which you will die." 
 
 "You may do so, dame," he replied. " but yet it may not be because you have 
 foretold it." 
 
 In that you are right," said the old gipsy, " things do not happen because I 
 foretel them — but because they will happen of themselves, it is that I can foretel 
 them. I read a language that is hidden from many, and which is open but to 
 few.'' 
 
 Charles Topham gave the old woman a piece of money, and retired somewhat 
 impressed with the revelation he had just received. 
 
 For some time it was observable that he was grave and thoughtful, and his 
 father thought there was some hope of him, when his debts pressed him heavily, 
 and he plunged into dissipation more readily than ever, and money was absolutely 
 necessary, and he took to the road to supply the wants thus created, and the same 
 at first proving easily got at, be repeated the same attempt with like success, and 
 became more extravagant, reckless than ever, and had more want?. 
 
 Thus it was that he began a career of crime, which is about to end. He became 
 reckless and daring, and was known at length as Slashing Topham- He was 
 well known, and did not conceal himself, though he contrived to elude the officers 
 sent in pursuit of him. 
 
 Things continued in this state for some time, until a few weeks previous to the 
 present sessions, he was seized, after a desperate struggle, haying killed one 
 man and wounded another ; his pistols became useless to him, and he was then 
 captured, and of his fate there could not be an instant's doubt : he was then taken 
 beiore a magistrate, and committed for trial. 
 
 That I heard, for I was present, and the case was too clear to admit of doubt. 
 Indeed, they did not take a moment in convicting him of his crimes, and the sen- 
 tence of death was passed upon him ; and I believe he will suffer to-morrow 
 morning, and then we shall see the last of him. 
 
 u Then the piediction of the old gipsy will be verified, " said Orlando. 
 
 •'Yes, it will." 
 
 " Is she to be found now ?" inquired Orlando, after some thought. ,l I suppose 
 not, because these people change their place of abode, for fear of the consequences 
 of becoming obnoxious to the country people." 
 
 " They do generally, but I believe Old Betsy is to be found now, and that easily 
 too; she wanders about her old spot, and I have seen her within the last two 
 months, though I was not aware of the influence her prediction had upon the fate 
 of the unhappy young man." 
 
 " You think, then, she is in some measure the cause of it V 
 
 ** Why, it cannot be doubted but that a prediction like that would have some 
 influence upon the mind of the young man. He might, in moments of trouble 
 and anxiety, have thought it useless to bear up against fate, and thus give way to 
 the impulses and necessities of the moment; and this has been the cause of the 
 first step in crime, and which is sure to be followed by others." 
 
 " Ah, well!" said a young man, "in my opinion it's all gammon about the 
 gipsies. I have seen some of the best unable to tell what they shall come to 
 themselves ; they know as much about .the future as you and I do, and no more." 
 
 u Don't you think they have no means of reading the stars?" 
 
 " Well, as for reading such a book as that, it would be a difficult matter, seeing 
 that there is no two characters alike — it's all a delusion." 
 
 Well," said an old man, who had hitherto been silent, " I have heard mnch 
 said upon that subject, and I am sure there is much more in it than many people 
 choose to believe. I have heard such tales, that I am sure these women know 
 even more than they choose to confess." 
 
 " Well, 1 have heard much both ways," remarked another ; " and for my part 1 
 cannot well tell what to say about it, and I hold my opinion midway. I don't say 
 
NEWGATE. 517 
 
 one thing nor the other. It might be true, you know, and it might not. That's all 
 I say to it.'' 
 
 " Well, you are quite safe upon that matter, at all events, " said Orlando. 
 
 " Yes," said the old man, who had before spoken. " I know very well that 
 there is more in it than is usually admitted. There are, no doubt, many pretenders 
 in the secrets of ; the future, which they pretend to have the power of reading, 
 and these, of course, tend to throw the true professors into disrepute, and injure 
 their calling, and all are injured for a few." 
 
 " Well, do you know of any real instance in which people have been foretold 
 what would happen to them in the future— something not brought about by the 
 prediction, or even influenced by it?" 
 
 '* I do know of such cases." 
 
 " Will you relate it, that we may know what it is ?" 
 
 " I will. A young man sent to this very same Old Betsy, of Bath, many years 
 ago — for she was called Old Betsy there, and appeared as old as she is now- — 
 and told her he wished to know something of the futtue as tar as regarded himself." 
 
 " I will tell much that has happened," she said ; and she proceeded to tell him 
 matters that he himself had a long time forgotten, but which he remembered well 
 upon being reminded of it. Then she related some things she said would happen 
 at a future time, but of which he took no notice ; in the course of time he forgot 
 what had been predicted, and never remembered it until it became true. 
 
 " And what was the prediction?" inquired Orlando. 
 
 " Why, that his first wife should die, and his first child should die also at the 
 same time." 
 
 " And it came true?" 
 
 " Yes, she did die with her first child, and mother and child were buried in the 
 same grave ; and then, and then only, did he recollect the gipsy's prediction. It 
 was a sad moment to remember such a thing as that, but he did so, and it flashed 
 across his mind like a flash of light." 
 
 " And are you sure it was only recollected at that moment, and that it has not 
 influenced him to take some precaution that might have caused the catastrophe, 
 and thus have fulfilled the gipsy's prephecy ? Can you answer that ?" 
 
 " Such was not the case." 
 
 " I can answer for myself," said the old man, solemnly. '* What I have told 
 you concerns myself, and I can solemnly declare T . t ^k n~ other precaution than 
 such as the case warranted at the time. There ivue, bo .. v.Voi, no saving her; but 
 it was quite unexpected. Until the moment of consigning her to the earth, I 
 never remembered the gipsy's prediction, and I cannot tell why I did so then, but 
 I did." 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 There was a long pause after the old man had spoken — each one seemed to be 
 buried in his own thougnts until the couversation was again commenced ; but 
 when it did, it was by no means with the same freedom that it at first began. 
 
 There was that want of ease which is so necessary to keep up a moral 
 communication of this character. However, it passed off drearily enough ; there 
 was but little said, and when the usual time for retiring to rest arrived, it seemed 
 rather a relief to each one present; for even the liquor kad not the usual effect of 
 inspiring them with a spirit of conviviality — they were unable to keep pace with 
 their wishes ; and onee they appeared more inclined to contemplation than to 
 conversation. 
 
 Orlando seemed much impressed with the conversation and the truthful 
 predictions of Old Betsy. It was one of those cases which would do so upon some 
 minds ; and from his peculiar situation, and perhaps aided by the state of the 
 body at that time — but be the cause what it might, he went to his bed full of 
 thoughts concerning O'd Betsy, and dreamed of her 
 
 7 
 
518 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIX. 
 
 THE VISIT TO THE GIPSY S HUT.— THE PROPHECY. 
 
 Early next morning Orlando arose and walked about the town to view one 
 place and another before the inhabitants were about, when he saw that there was 
 an uncommon stir in the streets for the morning, and not thinking at the moment 
 what could be the cause, and not remembering what he had heard on the previous 
 evening, he inquired of a person that was abroad what was the cause of it. 
 
 " The highwayman is to be executed this morning," he replied. 
 
 " Where will he be hanged ?" inquired Orlando. 
 
 M Without the town, where he shot the officer. He will be hanged in chains 
 about ten o'clock." 
 
 This information was enough, and Orlando now saw that he was in the vicinity 
 of the gaol, and people were waiting to witness the cavalcade when it should form, 
 and to follow it to the place of execution, which was to be about a mile from 
 the town. 
 
 Orlando immediately returned to his inn, where he breakfasted, and related to 
 some persons who breakfasted with him what he had heard, and some of them 
 agreed they would witness the whole occurrence, follow the procession, and witness 
 the last struggle of the unhappy victim. 
 
 " In that case we had better do so at once ; we shall have no time to spare ; 
 for, by the time we have done, they will have begun the march." 
 
 " Well, we can easily overtake them, and when we have done that, we have 
 time enough to see all we can desire. I am sure, poor fellow, it is a sad fate, 
 and a sad spectacle/' 
 
 "But it is deserved," said another; "he has not only taken life, but he has 
 committed a vast number of robberies, and it is believed that this is not the only 
 occasion upon which he has shed blood ; but it is suspected, and more than sus- 
 pected, that more than one man has come by his death by his means ; therefore, he 
 richly deserves all that he has come to." 
 
 " Well, that cannot be denied ; but still it is a sad thing, an unpleasant spectacle, 
 and one that will cause many an one pain, and even render travelling towards 
 evening more unpleasant than it is ; for who will like to pass and listen to the 
 swinging of that dead body in its chains ?" 
 
 fi To be sure ; but then it is done to scare evil-doers." 
 
 u Which will not be easily done, because those who do these deeds care not for 
 any of these means of scaring people ; in fact, they would as soon shoot a man 
 beneath the gallows as anywhere else ; and they only succeed in frightening those 
 who are timid and who have business which they dare not pursue, because of the 
 precautions taken to frighten those who are not to be frightened." 
 
 " Certainly it is very ridiculous." 
 
 " Well, when you are ready," said Orlando, " I am ; so do not wait for me. But 
 I see there is a commotion in the streets, and the sooner we go out the better." 
 " 1 am ready — and I." 
 
 About six of them rose, and declared their intention to go and witness the whole 
 of the ceremony, just to see how the man w r ent through the uncomfortable ceremony. 
 They accordingly left the inn, and when they got into the streets, they found them 
 fu.l of people, who were urging along in one direction, and upon inquiry, it was 
 discovered they were going in the direction of the spot where the execution was 
 about to take place, and then they directed their course to the prison, 
 and posted themselves in the vicinity to witness the first appearance of the 
 prisoner. 
 
 They had not to wait long before the prison doors opened, and the prisoner 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 519 
 
 made his first appearance before the inhabitants of Bristol, who greeted him with 
 a loud shout. 
 
 The unfortunate malefactor made his appearance with a jaunty air, and stepped 
 into the car that was to convey him to the spot, with the air of a man who was the 
 principal actor in a theatrical piece, and looked around as if he expected applause, 
 rather than regret and sorrow, because he had acted a bold and daring part under 
 peculiarly discouraging circumstances. 
 
 Thus it was at different points the multitude cheered, vraved their hats, and the 
 culprit appeared gratified by the applause ; and thus they went along the whole 
 distance. At times, those more deeply read in the human heart could trace, 
 however, a powerful tinder-curren't of feeling — that clinging to life which all have 
 strongly bred in them. 
 
 Beneath the assumed air of ease and gaiety appeared a blanched cheek, a 
 quivering lip, and an unsettled look, which, however, were repressed, and which 
 would pass unnoticed by a less careful observer. He conversed with those in the 
 car with hira$ and appeared anxious that the ceremony should be abridged as much 
 as possible ; for human nature was human nature, and an impending and violent 
 death is no comfortable matter to contemplate, and his must be nerves indeed who 
 can view it without emotion, or, rather, he who can do so must be utterly insen- 
 sible — not brave, but callous. 
 
 They, however, moved on but slowly, and the people increased in numbers, and 
 now moved on more quietly; and then many of them hastened onwards to reach 
 the spot where the execution was to take place, to secure a good position for 
 viewing the ceremony. 
 
 When they came in sight of the spot, it was seen to be occupied by a large 
 concourse of spectators, and the ground kept by a number of constables, while a 
 large body were accompanying the cavalcade. The gibbet was erected, and all 
 things were in readiness. 
 
 The malefactor then asked permission to address the crowd, which was granted, 
 and he then began by telling them how he had run from one piece of extravagance 
 to another, and how he had come to an untimely end. 
 
 "But," he added, " my life, though justly forfeited, and a short one, has been 
 a merry one. I have had the lease out, and I must not, do not complain, [now 
 the term has expired. Farewell to you all, and remember the gipsy's prophecy 
 is fulfilled. 0 
 
 There was a great shout, and he ran up the ladder with alacrity ; the halter 
 was adjusted round his neck, and he sprang into the air, and was dead in an 
 instant. The body was hung in chains and properly secured, and after some time 
 the mob gradually dispersed, there being nothing further that afforded food for 
 excitement, or even curiosity. 
 
 <e Well," said one of the party who had accompanied Orlando, u it seems to me 
 that the poor fellow has gone off without properly understanding what was the 
 nature of the journey upon which he has just set out, or why he was sent." 
 
 " It matters little ; the less he understands, the less he'll have to repent of." 
 
 " I cannot see that." 
 
 lt Why, if a man does wrong while meaning to do the best he can, and is 
 attempting to do so, surely you do not look upon him in the light of one who does 
 wrong for the sake of doing wrong." 
 
 " No, but as a man may do wrong to his neighbour to benefit himself, and yet 
 be what you describe, we may be excused for dealing with him in the light of 
 a criminal." 
 
 * Certainly, in that sense of the word he must be punished, and yet it is a very 
 hard case that any man should be hanged because he merely touched another's 
 gold." 
 
 " And took his life." 
 
 " Ay, that was wrong; there can be no manner of doubt it is too bad to destroy 
 • ^fe, but then it is not intended that life should be taken ; only as one deed follows 
 
520 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 another, why we cannot resist the force of circumstances, and arouse ourselves 
 when we ought. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Thus they conversed until they reached the inn, where Orlando sat alone, gazing 
 on the fire, thinking of the scene he had just witnessed. 
 
 " I'll not stop another night in Bristol," he muttered to himself. " I don't know 
 what brought me. I must have been a fool to come here. I'll go back again, 
 and they may depend upon it that this will be the last time I visit Bristol." 
 
 Having made up his mind upon that subject, he left the apartment, and 
 sought the ostler, and gave instant orders about his horse, saw him fed, and desired 
 him to bring him to the door in an hour, when he would mount and ride him back 
 to Bath. 
 
 Then he sought an early meal, to provide against the contingencies of the road. 
 This being over, but a short time elapsed before he quitted the inn-yard, and 
 the rising town of Bristol, for the more fashionable city of Bath. As he went 
 along, he could not avoid looking at the highwayman whom he had that morning . 
 seen consigned to eternity. 
 
 The man hung his head, and swung to and fro in the winds as they blew over 
 the country around for miles. The sound of the chains are sad, and the clanking 
 sound was a matter of reflection of no ordinary sadness to Orlando. 
 
 However, a sharp pace soon carried him past, and out of sight of, an object that 
 gave him so many unpleasant sensations. 
 
 a Hurrah !" he suddenly exclaimed, after a long meditation — "hurrah!" and 
 he struck the horse he rode a smart blow- — "hurrah for the knights of the road." 
 
 Then, with better spirits than he had felt before, he rode on towards the town 
 of Bath with greater speed than be usually put his mare to, when he was simply 
 upon a journey; for he always deemed it necessary to preserve her equal to any 
 grout effort, should it be required by any sudden and unlooked-for emergency (of 
 which he then did not dream), because he knew that a man in such a precarious 
 mode of life as he was living, might be called upon to make an exertion of that 
 kind for his own safety's sake, at a moment when he believed himself in security. 
 
 " Well, well," he muttered, " I will go to this Old Betsy, and hear what she 
 says to me. I shall have some pretty good idea as to what may be the amount 
 of credence one can bestow upon her predictions. I have heard that of her 
 which I think would justify me in believing she has some strange and unaccosnt- 
 able knowledge of the future." 
 
 It cannot be wondered at that Orlando should have any thoughts of the old 
 woman as one "capable of telling him anything of the future ; but things were 
 currently bePeved in those dajs, and they are not even now wholly exploded, many 
 people believing in the sc'.ence of fortune-telling, even parting with their hardly- 
 earned cash to get a peep into the future, which, however, consists of very general 
 assertions applied to particular instances, and then they look very much Kke a9 it 
 they were fitted for action. 
 
 However, there could be nothing more common then, and when Orlando 
 arrived at Bath, he put up at the same inn. He partook of seme refreshment 
 which he needed, and had he not, at that time it would have been deemed a breach 
 of etiquette, and he would have incurred the ill-will of the innkeeper, and that 
 might have done him mischief. 
 
 Finding his way to the stable, he examined his horse, and then inquired of the 
 ostler if he knew Old Betsy, the gipsy fortune-teller. 
 
 "Lord! yes, sir, I do," he replied, "and a precious, hideous, old toad she is. 
 She's a witch, there's no mistake about that. I'll hold against any odds, she's 
 dealings with the old one." 
 
 " Indeed, and what makes you think so ?" 
 
 f« Why, she told me I should break my leg, 'curse her." 
 
 "And did you do so V* 
 
 " Yes, as 1 came away from her place, curse her. I'll never go near her again, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 521 
 
 Til take good care, or she'll predict I shall break my neck next; and if she do, I'm 
 fttire to do it." ~ 
 " Where is she to be found V* inquired Orlando. 
 
 u You will find her about a mile and a half north of the town, near the edge of 
 a wood; you will see the smoke of the cabin, and besides after you get out of the 
 town, the path across the fields takes you close to her place, and a path a little to 
 
 the left that's close to her house ; lor people have worn the path going and coming' 
 to the house or cabin where she lives." 
 " And is she always at home V 
 
 " I never heard of her going away from her cabin, or garden, and about ; but 
 there will be sure to be somebody who will tell you where to find her." 
 "Orlando left the inn, and pursued the track which had been pointed 6ut to him, 
 ___ ■- 
 
522 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 and found it led, as the groom had informed him, to the wood, and taking the 
 deviation to the left, he came to the hut ol Old Betsy, the gipsy. 
 
 It as a miserable-looking place, and there was a small enclosure in front, in 
 which grew a few herbs, and some vegetables for her own use. At the door of this | 
 cabin was a large black cat with a brass collar on, with a small bell attached, j 
 which was said to have been put there to let its mistress know if it attempted to 
 escape her in the night, for everybody used to insist that the cat was the im- 
 prisoned spirit of darkness, her familiar ; and wonderful were the stories related of 
 that cat. 
 
 He walked softly up to the door, and the cat gave itself a shake, which caused 
 the bell to ring aloud. 
 
 "Come in," said a voice, within, that neither appeared to be a welcome nor an 
 inviting one. 
 
 Orlando entered the hut, and there saw the object he sought with her head and 
 shoulders wrapped up in a red cloak, the hood being drawn over her head, sitting 
 on a low chair before a peat fire, the fumes of which weie stifling. 
 
 " Well, and what came you for V 
 
 "To see Old Betsy," said Orlando. 
 
 " Ay, but ye come not for that alone. You would know from me something of 
 the future. Well, I can tell ye as truly as I told him who has this morning died, 
 and whom ye saw die with your own eyes this very morning." 
 
 " And how know you I saw him die ?"' 
 
 " Nay, ask that not of me, for 1 tell you nothing concerning myself. Ask 
 yourself if what I say be not true." 
 
 " Yes, it is true enough," said Orlando. 
 " Then would ye have me tell ye as true V 
 
 "Yes, I would, dame, even though you had to tell me the self-same fate you 
 predicted for him. But here is something to cross your hand with, and propitiate 
 the fates and as he spoke, he placed some money in her hand which she turned 
 over several tin: ,.3, and dropped her head forward for several moments, as if in 
 deep meditation. 
 
 Orlando did not attempt to disturb her reverie, but waited in silence what 
 should next happen : hut he waited v» ith something like care p.nd anxiety. 
 
 'Gold," she inu lured — "gold, 'tis not often I see this coin. A generous 
 heart, and an open hand. But lightly come, lightly go — lightly come, lightly go. 
 Ay, 'tis so, as sure as the sun returns day after day to his place in the heavens. 
 Let me see your hand." 
 
 As she spoke, she bent her withered countenance over Orlando's hand, which 
 she seized with -her long, skinny, and olive-coloured fingers. 
 
 "The span of life is short," she muttered, " ay, it is so, indeed, cut short, 
 suddenly. The thread is spun — the line is run — 'tis snapped asunder." 
 « " What read you of my fate, darnel" 
 
 " Your fate? ' she said, looking up in his eyes with a peering expression, 
 
 " Yes, my fate." 
 
 " 'Tis a short one ; your day is come — you have but a short time now left you. 
 You* are hurrying on to its completion." 
 
 " But what may it be, I wish to know," inquired Orlando. "I fear not to 
 hear it." 
 
 " W r hat was the fate you saw completed this morning before you left Bristol." 
 " Why, good dame, I saw a man hanged in chains ; but how came you to know 
 I had done so ?" 
 
 " How I come by my knowledge I cannot tell you, it is not for you to know. 
 AH I can or will tell you is, that you will meet with a similar fate ; you will very 
 soon commit that deed for which you will suffer." 
 
 " But when, Betsy ? 1 would know how long I have yet to live and enjoy 
 myself in." 
 
 " Jt will not happen just yet, some months you have yet left good ; but the day 
 a whiehyoti mast pay for all will coma. The blood of the innocent and beau- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 523 
 
 tiful wiil cry aloud for vengeance — for that vengeance which it will not cry for 
 in vain." 
 
 " The blood of innocence and beauty will never be shed by my hands." 
 
 <l It will — it will," exclaimed the old woman, vehemently. " I say it will, and who 
 can tell better than I ? I say it will be shed, and for that deed you will die. You 
 are a man of violence — of blood ; and yet you do not contemplate the act. I can- 
 not tell you how it will be done, but I can tell you that it will be committed. 
 And when you have done the deed, remember that the old gipsy told you, and 
 remember also that you will suffer for that deed, but you have many months yet to 
 live. Hush! say no more, quit me, and remember that your career is drawing to 
 a close. Speak not — hush !— utter no sound here, begone. I have told you all 
 you can ' now. Go hence ! and remember the gipsy prophecy — it will, it must be 
 true. Time daily works out the predictions of Betsy. I have lived long enough to 
 be out of this world, and I can see some of the future." 
 
 CHAPTER LXX. 
 
 HAMPSTEAD HEATH. — THE MURDER OF THE BRIDE, AND THE BRIDEGROOM'S VOW. 
 
 Urged by the old sibyl's vehemence, Orlando left the hut, but without uttering 
 a word, and it was not until he had traversed half the distance between her hut and 
 Bath, that he had so far recovered as to be able to think and reflect upon what he 
 had heard. 
 
 " Well," he muttered, " I don't see why the old woman's words should scare 
 me ; I have lived this life long enough to know the danger I run, and that the end 
 of it will be what she has predicted; indeed, I may say I have lived in continual 
 expectation that it would be so ; therefore, her prophecy can be no great evil." 
 
 Having somewhat recovered from his surprise, he walked back with a lighter 
 step until he entered Bath, and then returned to the inn, aud as he entered it, he 
 muttered to himself, — 
 
 " Well, well, since it must be so, the few months allotted to me may as well be 
 spent in as much happiness and gaiety as possible. If my run is a short one, it 
 shall at least be a merry one. Who can blame me for that?" 
 
 He entered the traveller's room, and he fancied some of them looked very 
 hard at him. 
 
 " Pshaw !" he muttered, " 'tis only the effect of imagination ; the old hag's, 
 prediction will hang like a cloud over me, and embitter my time; but I will have 
 a hard fall for it, though. I shall see company to-night — I know^a plaae ; I can, 
 I think, stake a little money. Wine, women, and dice — if a man wants any other 
 means of getting rid of money, time, and sadness, why the Lord help him ! He 
 must have more than other men by such quantity, as that I will not trust myself 
 to think of, nor even imagine." 
 
 That evening he went to a saloon where there was a scene of life carried on to 
 which few are ever admitted save those to Avhich the place was an usual resort. 
 But Orlando had the pass to many of these places. 
 
 Here there were wines of the best quality, and females of great personal attrac- 
 tions, but not overburdened with virtue ; there was music, and there were cards 
 and dice, all of which seemed in full use. Here he stayed for some hours — quite 
 long enough to lose the greater part of his money. But one time fortune run so 
 much in his favour, that he was possessed of some thousands of pounds ; but being 
 seized with the infatuation of the game, he only played on till he lost all, and had 
 but a few pounds only left. 
 
 Then in a fury he left this scene of vice and folly, and found his way to his inn, 
 
524 
 
 and after a few hours' sleep arose to breakfast ; after which he paid his bi'l and 
 ordered his horse, andproceeled towards London, with the intention of going to 
 his old resort, which he thought would be the safest place after all. 
 
 H There is, besides, no fear at present," he thought, " for the old gipsy gives 
 me time ; and when I think there is danger, I can, at all events, remove 
 my quarters." 
 
 After about two days' riding after the one on which he left Bath, he came up to 
 London, and found when he got to the neighbourhood of Hampstead, he had changed 
 his last guinea. He was now without funds. 
 
 M This is unlucky !" he muttered, " but the road is clear. No one's about, and 
 I must help myself, as I have done before." 
 
 He found that the officers had been withdrawn, and sent to some other part, 
 where it was deemed he had gone, and therefore he was tolerably safe on Hampstead- 
 heath. Here was the home of Orlando the Owl. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of carriage wheels came upon his ears. He paused and 
 listened ; yes. 'twas carriage wheels he had heard., and placing himself beneath the 
 shadow of a tree, he awaited its approach with patience. 
 
 It was not very long before the carriage came up ; it was driven by a postillion, 
 and had but two horses. There was a servant behind — two, a male and female 
 servant, but who was inside the chariot he could not tell. However, he determined 
 that he would risk it and stop the carriage, and for that purpose he spurred his horse 
 forward. He called out, — 
 
 " Stop the carriage — upon your life stop the carriage." 
 
 As he had experienced before, he found the carriage driven all the faster ; but 
 he was well mounted, and he shot the horse nearest to him, and then the carriage 
 was stopped. 
 
 Then riding up to the carriage he opened the door, but scarcely had he done so, 
 when a pistol was fired at him. In an instant Orlando discharged his pistol, and 
 there was an instant scream in a female voice. 
 
 There was no more iesistance. Upon looking in, he saw that he had wounded 
 a young man, who was dead, or appeared to be so, for his head was bloody, while 
 a beautiful young woman lay dead, covered with blood. She was in a wedding 
 dress, with some costly jewels upon her person, and these he tore off, and rifled 
 their pockets. 
 
 By this time the male occupant of the carriage appeared to revive. He had only 
 been stunned by the ball passing across his forehead, which ball had pierced the 
 brain of his newly-made bride. 
 
 Orlando rode off, having secured his booty, and was soon lost sight of, and then 
 made the best of his way to the Bell-inn, into the yard of which he rode soon 
 after dark. Bob was there in an instant, and expressed his satisfaction at 
 seeing him. 
 
 t* Oh, master," he said, " are you back again ?" 
 
 " Yes, Bob. So you are alive and well, I see : how are all here V* 
 
 *' Oh, well enough, master, but dull enough too. We thought we had lost you." 
 
 "Did you indeed ? Well, you see, here I am. How is your young mistress, 
 Miss Kate ? Is she as well as when I left?" 
 
 u Not quite, I think. She's been dull and mopish ; she's been fretting after 
 you, master, I am sure on it, for she only did so after you went, and now you've 
 returned I am sure she'll be all smiles and spirits — I am sure on it." 
 
 " Well, if 1 can do so much, I shall be glad, but I think you are out of your 
 calculations, Bob. But look after the mare ; she's a rare good bit of horseflesh, 
 and deserves care. I'll be down and see you again4by-and-by."g 
 
 " Very well, your honour, I'll take care on her, never fear. He's one of the 
 right sort," muttered the horsekeeper to himself ; u and if any man ever does 
 deserve to iide a good bit of horseflesh, why it's he, and no mistake, and Bob will 
 see him done justice to." 
 
 Orlando now entered the inn, where he was warmly greeted by the landlord, who 
 was well pleased to see his customer return. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 525 
 
 "Well, we've bad a busy time since you were here, sir." 
 "Indeed! whooame?" 
 
 " Oh, a good many ; that troublesome fellow, the sheriff, sent here and played 
 the very devil ; there's been a lot of men, officers from him ; he'd been ill-used, he 
 said, but at the same time he didn't come, and we had a Jot of patrols, and people 
 upon horseback were taken into custody upon any pretext, till it made a stir.*' 
 
 * Oh, I heard something of that.'* 
 
 " I dare say, but they were obliged to give up that kind of fun, and they have left 
 these part? altogether, and now there are none." 
 " Well, there is an end of that sport, then." 
 
 " Yes, they are tired of it, I dare say. I have heard they have been doing the 
 same thing in some other parts of the country, but I can't say whether they have 
 been successful." 
 
 " I think they have not." 
 
 "Well, I think so too,'' said the landlord,—" I think so too ; but here we are all 
 comfortable. Will you have supper with me? " 
 
 " I think I will, if you have it in your further parlour; I may be inquired after, 
 and there will be no risk of my being seen," 
 
 " Very good ; we will have it there, and enjoy ourselves for once in a way." 
 
 * Well, I shall go and take possession of the room up stairs till you are ready. 
 I see a light up there, I think." 
 
 " Yes, there's a fire — we can have supper up there, if you please." 
 " That will do better than elsewhere ; I will wait there for you, and we shall be 
 out of the way of all interruption. What will be the tin? ? " 
 " In about half- an -hour " said the landlord. 
 
 Orlando immediately left the bar, and went up stairs, and on entering the room 
 he discovered Kate, who had been there to a cupboard, to take something down, 
 and when she saw Orlando, in her agitation, she let the jug fall to the floor and 
 hesitated as to what she should do, but there was not long to hesitate ; for Orlando, 
 finding she was ashamed to throw herself into his arms at once, took her into his, 
 and impressed upon her lips the fact of his return. 
 
 " Are you indeed returned, safe and sound, to us again? " she said, after a time. 
 
 " Yes, dear Kate, once again I am here ; 1 am glad to see you, how have you 
 been all this time — have you been merry and happy? " 
 
 " I cannot say we have been either." 
 
 " Let me hope you will be so, by-and-by. I have some presents for you." 
 " Have you — where are they V* 
 
 " I will give them to you, by-and-by ; they are a secret, and you must put them 
 away and not let any one see them until you are mine." 
 " Yours, indeed— upon my word *' 
 
 "Well, well, come this evening, after your father has gone to bed, and then I 
 will give them to you — will you come? " 
 
 " I will," replied Kate, who then tore herself from his embraces, and ran away 
 down stairs, leaving Orlando alone. 
 
 ****** * 
 
 " Well," he mut tered, after he had examined the spoil he had seized from the 
 persons of the occupants of the carriage which he had stopped on the heath, this 
 booty will do well, very well ; these jewels I will give to Kate, they will be perfectly 
 safe with her, and will form something of value she can keep by her in secrecy 
 and safety.*' 
 
 " Then he sat some time in silence, gazing at the fire, in deep meditation, when 
 he again broke out in an audible exclamation, — 
 
 " So the first part of the old gipsy's prophecy has already come true — I did not 
 think it would have so soon come about, though I had every confidence that it 
 would. A pretty stir this will make ; I'll give my life the whole place will be in 
 arms and I shall be obliged to decamp — but no matter, one place is as good as another 
 to live in. However, they will one day catch me, that is fated, and I am sure 
 
526 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 they are not always to he disappointed : I shall run my time and must give in when 
 the time comes for me to do so." 
 
 His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the landlord and the supper, and 
 then Kate followed, and all three sat down to a good supper, which consisted of 
 roasted chickens, followed by some excellent wine which he had provided for the 
 occasion. 
 
 ''Well, landlord," said Orlando, as he took the glass, " ashortlife and a merry 
 one ; we ought to reckon time by the pleasures we enjoy, and then we should 
 reckon a short merry life a long one, and a sad one, because long, only a short one." 
 
 " That's very true," said the landlord. 
 
 '* For sadness and sorrows are not to be borne except upon compulsion; which 
 is not a life for the free ; indeed, I consider both sadness and sorrow as so much 
 taken from a man's life, and even a day of sorrow added to a man's years makes 
 his life so much the shorter." 
 
 " So it does," said the landlord. 
 
 Thus the evening Avas spent until the old inn was shut up, and Orlando pleaded 
 fatigue and retired to his room, having seen his mare attended to, and after giving 
 Bob the fee he looked for ; <md he whispered into Kate's ears as he passed, — 
 
 " Come to my room when all is quiet. I have some jewels to give you as a 
 present : be sure to come, and I will wait for you." 
 
 ******* 
 
 About one hour after Orlando had retired, there came a gentle tap at his door, 
 and before opening it, he discovered that Kate had come. 
 
 "Ah, Kate," he said, "1 had begun to despair; I thought you had for- 
 gotten me." 
 
 "No, I had not forgotten you," replied Kate; "but T have been considering 
 whether I should come or not, and have been thinking I was doing wrong." 
 
 " You could not, dear Kate, you could not ; see, here are the jewels I have 
 brought you, they are rich and beautiful, they are yours ; but do not wear them 
 while you live here, they are too valuable, and you would be troubled on account 
 of wearing such valuable jewels here ; wait till you are a wife, and then wear 
 them, or keep them till you want money. They will bring you a very handsome 
 sum, I assure you, they will be a fortune." 
 
 " And yet you give them to me ?" 
 
 " 1 do," replied Orlando. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Before daylight next morning Kate returned by stealth to her own room, where 
 she passed an hour or too in abstracted spirit, until the usual hour to rise ; when she 
 arose from the rest, sadder than she had before been. 
 
 A week or two passed before any change took place ; when one evening a country- 
 man came in. He was a kind of bailiff, and entered the parlour where Orlando was 
 sitting by the fire. 
 
 " Well, master, have you heard the news ?"' 
 
 " No," said Orlando ; " we hear nothing here, T believe." 
 
 u Well, then, there's been somebody murdered on the heath. Some say it was 
 a young woman shot right through the temples." 
 " Ah, ah !" 
 
 " Yes, and her husband, for she had only been married that morning, was also 
 wounded in the forehead. He was stunned, else he had a fire at the highwayman. 
 Tht-y were robbed of money and jewels." 
 
 " Indeed, that was a bad job." 
 
 " Oh, yes, she was so beautiful, they say, that the husband has gone frantic, quite 
 mad, and swears he will never know rest or peace,' until he has shot the man 
 who did the deed : he won't lead any life but that of a murderer. He will ride 
 about on horseback, and follow the track of the man who killed, until he is 
 killed too." 
 
 " Well, that is doing things with a good resolution at all events, but they will 
 have to find out the man who did it ; and when that is known, they had better put 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 527 
 
 some ordinary officer on the watch, to catch the man whom they will arrest as soon 
 as they see him." 
 
 " Exactly, but some say one thing, and some another ; they say, however, that 
 it was done by Orlando the Owl, while many say that he is not in this neighbour- 
 hood ; however, be it as it may, he will deserve hanging, if it is he who did the 
 murder." 
 
 " So he will ; do you know if there is anyone put upon his track already." 
 
 " I believe there will be before the morning, for I understand that the sheriff 
 and a number of men are about to search up the truth ; they will leave no hole 
 not turned over ; beside which, the gentleman says, he can perfectly recollect the 
 form and features of the highwayman, and he never can forget them or that of his 
 horse, which he said was a remarkable one." 
 
 " Indeed, he must have had a good long look at him." 
 
 " He did, before the carriage door was open ; besides, he has been robbed by 
 him before." 
 
 " Ah ! where were they going to V 
 
 "Who? the party in the carriage? Why, they were going on to Highgdte, 
 and to some other place beyond where they were about to go farther to spend a 
 week or so before they again returned to their friends ; and they have had thus 
 their happiness cut short." 
 
 "Ah, some such thing must happen to us all in the course of time, but that 
 must be left to futurity to settle." 
 
 " Ay, so it must — so it must," said the man. | 
 
 i( And when do you think we shall have the officers upon us?" 
 
 " Well, that may be to-night ; yes, I should say to-night. Beware ! they 
 would leave town about ten o'clock, and proceed singly or in couples till they reach 
 the heath and its neighbourhood." 
 
 "Ah ! then they may chance to take him if he yet be in these parts, which, 
 however, I should doubt ; for after such a deed, I should think he would never 
 think of stopping, because it is sure to make a great stir, and there would be extra 
 precautions taken." 
 
 " Ay, they always lock the door when the steed is stolen ; and yet th#re have 
 been some very bad deeds done about here, and he has got off ; nobody is 
 able to take him ; however, I must be on the road again, else I may be stopped." 
 
 " You are safe, I should think." 
 
 " Yes, sir, they don't often stop a man with a smock frock— they would get 
 more kicks than coppers, I'll be sworn. Good night, sir." 
 
 " Good night, and a safe journey to you," said Orlando, and then he muttered, 
 "Well, well, I'm glad I have heard this : I will quit this place, and take up some 
 new quarter, at all events, where I slaall be more safe, else the gip y prophecy may 
 be true too soon. What a precious hornet's nest this affair has brought about me. 
 I never thought of hurting the young woman, that was purely an accident, and one 
 that could not be helped ; he should not have fired, and then I should not have 
 fired, and then, of course, the accident would n*t have happened." 
 
 Thus he reasoned, but he soon after sought for Bob, and desired him to get his 
 horse ready." 
 
 " What, off already, master V 
 
 " Yes, Bob ; I have business elsewhere." 
 
 He returned to the house, where he took a hearty farewell of the landlord, and a 
 much more tender and protracted one of Kate, who shed tears at his departure, but 
 he swore he would in a few weeks come back and marry her, if she chose, and make 
 her his wife ; but at the same time she was to keep all that had passed a perfect 
 secret." 
 
 This she promised to do, and with a tearful eye watched the highwayman mount 
 his horse, and ride out of the inn-yard. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " Now,'* thought Orlando, as he rode down the road, " now it would be no good 
 thing if Iwere never to come to this part of the country again. Indeed,Ithink I might 
 
52ft 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 almost cheat the witch out of the fulfilment of her prediction ; but I BUppose that 
 Kate will bring roe back again some time or other ; but of that I shall not trouble 
 myself now. I wonder what part I shall go to. Let me see, Oxford is a good 
 place to go to ; but the collegians are not so timid — there would be no frightening 
 them, and less to be had. I think I will cross the Thames. Hownslow is too much 
 occupied ; I must take some road that is not occupied, and have it for myself." 
 
 With this view he rode down the road towards Edgware, passing through 
 Heudon, or rather to the left of it, and thence into the Edgware-road ; but wheu 
 he got there, he determined once more upon visiting London, and thus frustrate all 
 attempts to follow him. " I will lodge in privacy, and no one will have the least 
 guess of where I am laid up in ordinary." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXI. 
 
 THE FIRST FLIGHT. — AN UNEXPECTED RENCONTRE AND ESCAPE. 
 
 The flight of Orlando was by no means begun too soon, but it was just in time 
 to save himself from capture, for he was not gone away an hour when the officers 
 came up to the BelMnn, and inquired if any one was in the house, when Bob and 
 the landlord severally swore they had neither man nor horse under their several 
 cares, or in their respective d* partments ; and the landlord invited them in to 
 inspect his house, but they declined doing so, and rode away. 
 
 This was probably a feint, for they had a serious notion that the owl frequently 
 visited that place, or that he remained there altogether ; but they thought that 
 by appearing to have no suspicion that there was any one there, they would be 
 able to entrap the man looked for. 
 
 In the meantime Orlando, having got near London, thought he would not go to 
 any part of the city where he had been before, but took up his abode at an inn on 
 the south-western road, there to remain in secret for some time. However, he 
 he was resolved to spend one evening in London at all events, and there to enjoy 
 the delights of London society. 
 
 He entered one of the public-houses in Westminster, and sat down in one 
 coiner serened from observation. Here he could listen to all that was going on. 
 There was a good deal of conversation upon many matters, interesting enough lo 
 them, but to no one else. Orlando called for some refreshment, for which he paid, 
 and sat in silence. He had been in that place before, and he knew something of 
 the kind of people who sat there. They were chiefly grooms and servants, whose 
 conversation generally ran upon the movements of their masters, and thus afforded 
 to such as himself an opportunity of falling upon them at the proper moment, and 
 to lighten their purses when th*>y were at the heaviest. 
 
 This was easily done, because masters usually gave their servants orders to be 
 ready against their departure at a certain hour, and for a certain journey, and they 
 naturally eaougti commented upon their own and their employers' doings and 
 journies, which is put to account by some of the knights of the road. 
 
 Here it was, then, that Orlando sat and listened to the conversation, determined 
 that he would take advantage of any information that might be given him in the 
 manner we have related. 
 
 He did not sit long without hearing something to his advantage in this respect, 
 and at the same time he heard a little that concerned himself. After he had been 
 there some little while, he saw a young man enter the room and sit down in a 
 chair near the fire, and that with an air of some one of importance. 
 
 " Well, Robert/ said one of the guests, " and how are you, lad? We didn't 
 see you last night. What have you been up to? We thought you'd got drowned, 
 perhaps." 
 
NEWGATE. 529 
 
 « No, not yet, I aint afraid of that yet, but I was busy ; my governor's going- off 
 early to-morrow morning." ° - 8 s 
 
 "Then we shall lose you t n 
 
 " Yes, I shall go with the baggage before mid-day; he's going to make a bit 
 of a stay. * 
 " What, is he gctng alone Y* 
 
 » ne ^ on,t carc whether he goes alone or in company; he aint afraid of a 
 trifle, I can tell vou ; and he'd no store mind riding alone over Hounslow-heath 
 than I would."" 
 
 Oh, you've nothing to lose ; so you could go there safe. Nothing from nothing, 
 you know, is the usual run of an argument— eh, is if. not ? I expect, Robert, that's 
 about a fit for you and me; we don't carry so much of the gilt about us as he 
 doe3, eh ?" 
 
 No. 67. 
 
530 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " No, but be does ; and yet he isn't afraid." 
 
 " Have you seen anything of Harry Jones lately?" 
 
 " Yes, 1 saw him last night." 
 
 " He's not been here, lately," said one of the visitors in the room. 
 
 "No/* said another; "his governor got spliced, and went out of town some- 
 where to spend the honeymoon ; but he wasn't long gone, because I saw him the 
 other day." 
 
 " Don't you know what happened to them as they were leaving town?" inquired 
 the last comer. 
 
 "No, I have only just come to town, and haven't heird anything." 
 
 "Well, Harry's master, you know, got married to one of the most beautiful 
 young women ever I heard of or saw. She was a complete angel. She was kind 
 and good to everybody, and everybody loved her. That's what the people say 
 who lived with her, and they ought to know." 
 
 " So they ought," said one present. 
 
 " Well, she was married," said the man, " to Harry Jones's master, and they 
 were going out of town, first to Highgate. But they went through Hampstead, 
 and that way to Highgate." 
 
 " What made 'em go that way?" said one in a laced collar. 
 
 u Why, they had some friend upon whom they wished to call, and having 
 stopped rather longer than they had intended, it was dusk before they reached the 
 heath. Well, they dashed on, and, about the middle of the heath, a big man — a 
 highwayman, called upon them to stop." 
 
 "* Drive on,' said his governor. ' Drive like a whirlwind ; never mind him, if 
 he comes close enough, I'll shoot him.' 
 
 " Well," -Harry said, " the postillion did drive on as hard as his cattle could ge, 
 but it was no use, as a $>hot from the highwayman brought down one of the hwses, 
 and the carriage was of course stopped ; but no sooner had the highwayman 
 opened the carriage door than he let fly, but missed him ; and he, the highway- 
 man, let fly at him, without a moment's thoughts, and so true was the shot, that 
 it only grazed his forehead, but it entered the temples of the young lady, his wife — 
 only a wife that morniBg, about sevenuor eight hours." 
 
 « Well, that was a bad job." 
 
 " Yes, it was. He was as insensible as the dead ; and then they were both 
 rifled ; and before he recovered the highwayman, was far away." 
 
 " Well, but *vhat did Harry Jones do? Didn't he help his master ?" 
 
 u No, he said he was about to get down when he saw the fellow open the 
 carriage-door, and just at that moment the shots were fired, and the girl in the 
 boot with him thiew her arms rouna his neck, and nearly choked him, so that 
 before he could get free all the business was over." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha I Well, that's a devilish good idea. Well, that might do for 
 some people, but I tell you what, I think there is a great deal of gammon in it, 
 after all, and he was playing much the safest game. He was no bad judge." 
 
 " That's just what I said at the time," said the other. 
 
 " What did his governor say V 
 
 " Oh, he went ramping mad for some days, till the burial, and then he swore a 
 solemn oath that he would know no rest until he had secured, dead or alive, the 
 man who did him so great an injury. He has sworn that he will travel about in all 
 sorts of disguises, and year after year, but he will take him, dead or alive." 
 
 " \nd I don't blame him a bit," said one of the guests. 
 
 '* No, nor I, for it was a greater injury than a man could in any way suffer. It 
 must have been a terrible thing, and, after all, he was only stunned, and unable to 
 do anything to save or revenge her ; but he'll 9 so now, 1 have no doubt." 
 
 " Do you think he'll come up with him ?" 
 
 " Yes, for he is mad upon that one object, and will stick to him like a shadow. 
 Danger he doesn't think of, and had it been twenty men, he would never hesitate 
 about it. Besides that, he says he knows the man — he saw his features plainly 
 a nd distinctly, and he can never forget them." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 531 
 
 * Well, then, I wish him luck/' said the landlord, who had stood by, listening. 
 " Yes, it was a very cruel thing to shoot a young girl like her, at such a time. 
 But that man will come to be hung, there can be no doubt about it." 
 " None at all." 
 
 ******* 
 
 " Well," thought Orlando, as he stepped out into the open air, « well, I have 
 one man who knows me — an enemy, if they speak the truth, but I yet think I shall 
 be able to defy them. I don't see there is more danger now to expect than there 
 was formerly, and as for that man who goes about like an insane Don Quixote, 
 why it will be a rare encounter when it does happen. It will not be the first I 
 have .encountered in a moment of danger. 
 
 " However, I will have a ride with this gentleman to-morrow, and if I get 
 anything worth having from him, I will go and see some of the towns towards 
 Brighton, and perhaps I may go there altogether for a short time, and then they 
 will lose sight of me ; but I must return, to my pretty Kate, I can't entirely 
 forget her — not yet at least. I'll not be a craven ; I'll not be downhearted. Oh 
 no ! Then hurrah for the knights of the road." 
 
 Then he left that place, and returned to the place where he had left his horse, 
 and where he intended to put up for the night. He sat in the publio room until 
 the evening grew into night, and then he retired to his bed, to rise early in the 
 morning. 
 
 When the sun rose, then rose Orlando, and taking his horse out of the stable, he 
 rode out into the country, and examined the road, to ascertain where there were 
 any facilities for escape, when suddenly the man he expected appeared at a short 
 distance from him. 
 
 He rode up, and, as it was daylight, he made no appearance of stopping him 
 until he came up to him, and then reining his horse's head, he made a demonstra- 
 tion, by presenting a pistol at his head, saying, as he did bo, — 
 
 " Your money or your life ! Quick ! hand out your purse, or I'll shoot you and 
 take it afterwards. You have no choice/' 
 
 *' You scoundrel \" 
 
 Orlando said nothing, but, cocking his pistol/presented it full at the other's head, 
 quite ciose, when the stranger said, — % 
 
 " Hold, hold ! here it is. I'll not risk my life for a few pounds. Here it is, 
 and may the next money you receive be from a better source.'' 
 
 Orlando took the money, and motioned the stranger, of which he was net unwill- 
 ing to take advantage of, and rode away with the grtatest speed, fle sat awhile 
 watching the stranger, till he saw him pass over a hill in the distance, when he j 
 turued his horse's head, and, pursuing a cross-road, passed onward until he came ! 
 : to a town, where he resolved to spend the day until he had refreshed his horse. 
 
 He had no object in travelling rapidly about, and he resolved to make a stay of a 
 day or two at each place, and then, when a month or two had elapsed, he would 
 make a visit again to his old haunts at Hampstead. 
 
 ****** 
 
 About two months or more, nearly three, since the night upon which he quitted 
 Hampstead had elapsed, and he resolved that he would now make a visit to his 
 old quarters, and there see Kate, whom he wished to see above all things. 
 
 As he rode along, however, he met a horseman on the road, who no sooner saw 
 him, than he rushed up to him, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Villain, surrender ! I know you — you shall die a dog's death, for the sake of 
 her whom you killed." 
 
 As he spoke, he endeavoured to seize the person of Orlando, whose horse, how- 
 ever, was so well trained, that he reared up and placed his fore feet in the saddle 
 of the stranger, who fired upon Orlando, who, instead of returning the bullet, struck 
 him with the iron barrel on the head, and he fell stunned from his horse upon the 
 ground. 
 
 Then Orlando turned his horse's head, but had scarce gone fift\ yards ahead 
 before the stranger jumped up, and remounting his horse, rode after him, A chase 
 
532 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 was now commenced. Orlando fled towards Hampstead, and the stranger followed 
 about fifty yards behind. Thus they went on, right through Hampstead, maintain- 
 ing this position without any advantage beyond what is stated. 
 
 They passed through Hampstead thus, but, it being late, no one took any notice 
 of them, and away they fled like spectre horsemen all along the road to Highgate, 
 and afterwards right through the town of Highgate, then down the North-road with 
 great speed. . , 
 
 Suddenly, Orlando heard a report, and a bullet whistled past his head. This, 
 in some measure, recalled him to himself, and he had scarce pulled out his own 
 pistols, when a second shot was fired, which passed close to his side, for he felt the 
 ball strike against his riding coat. This warned him, and he slackened his speed, and, 
 leaning back in his saddle, he fired. 
 
 He waited for a moment to ascertain 4 the effect of his shot, but he did not hear 
 any more of the purl ut, and he concluded that he had shot the rider or his horse ; 
 he considered that it was most probable the horse had fallen, or he would have 
 come after him. 
 
 However, he slackened not his speed, but, at a favourable opportunity, he turned 
 his horse's head, and riding across some open country, he made the best of his way 
 to Hendon, and thence to North-end, where the Bell-inn stood. 
 
 He soon entered the yard, and was welcomed by Bob. 
 
 " Oh, your honour," he said, "I'm glad to see fou once again. Lord ! Lord! 
 they have been playing old Harry here, and making all sorts of work. Why, we 
 have had the inn full of Bow-street runners. I do believe some on 'em's got their death 
 of cold by sleeping in damp sheets, for somehow or other Miss Kate could not make 
 'em dry. Lord ! Lord ! how some on 'em did swear and groan — but it didn't 
 matter." 
 
 " How long is it since they have been here, Bob ?" 
 
 " Oh, we hasn't had anybody here for a fortnight, ay, I may say for a month 
 past, or more than that even, since any slept in the house." 
 
 " Well, look to the mare, and give us notice if anybody's here, and be ready 
 to slip saddle and bridle on, if you think I'm wanted." 
 
 " All right, your honour." 
 
 " Here's something to drink my health, Bob, in case I should go too soon to 
 think ol it ; " and as he spoke, he gave him a guinea. 
 
 " Thank your honour. You never did forget Bob yet, and Bob won't forget to 
 do a good turn when he can ; there's no mistake about that." 
 
 Orlando entered the house, and was welcomed by the landlord and Kate, the 
 latter of whom looked pale and sad, and had undergone some change that he could 
 not bat notice, but she avoided speaking about it before her father. 
 
 There was a good supper prepared, of which they all partook together ; and 
 Orlando appeared in better spirits than usual. He drank freely of the wine, and 
 laughed and joked until the place rang with their laughter; even Kate seemed in 
 better spirits than before; and they all retired for the night with more than usual 
 satisfaction and peace, and pleasure reigned there for once since Orlando had 
 left them. 
 
 Then, indeed, when all were again wrapped in slumber, did Kate visit her 
 lover as before, and then came a confession of her condition to Orlando, who, 
 however, was not well prepared for the revelation. 
 
 "Now," said Kate, "I have told you all ; will you not keep your promise ? 
 Will you not relieve me of the fear and sorrow that oppresses me? You will, will 
 you not, make an honest woman of me ? Surely 'tis not too much to ask you." 
 
 " But, Kate, my dear Kate, why should you sorrow and fret ? Do you not know 
 that you are better off — far better off than you could be if you were my wife ?" 
 
 " I should not be scorned." 
 
 ** You scarce know to what a position you would raise yourself. Why, Kate, 
 believe me, you are far better as you are. I have no home to give, and no means 
 of obtaining one for you." 
 
 " But, my father — what would he say when he comes to know all, which in 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 533 
 
 a short time he must ? All T can expect is to be turned out of doors. What will 
 become of me then? I tremble to look upon the fate that awaits me." 
 
 " Kate, I love you, but I cannot do what you ask; but, while I have a guinea 
 you shall -not want one — you shall never want while I live; but you may depend 
 upon it your father will not have the heart to do what you fear, he'll take more 
 care of you than that; he would have nobody then to take care of him. No, no, 
 he loves you too much for that." 
 
 "And "suppose he did, can I feel otherwise than that I am a disgrace to him 
 for what I have done, and what I shall suffer?" 
 
 ft No, certainly not. But, Kate, you know not who nor what I am, nor how I 
 obtain a living; it is both precarious and uncertain." 
 
 " Well, but I care not what it is ; if you were my husband, I should then have 
 the same interest as if jt were my own occupation." 
 
 " But, Kate, some call me by bad names— some call me a highwayman." 
 
 "Well, and if they do, were I your wife, should I not look up to you as my 
 protector and my husband ? What would the world be to me ? Nothing* Your 
 love and your comfort is all I should care about. You will be all the world." 
 
 u Oh, Kate, Kate ! I cannot listen to you any more. What can a highwayman 
 want with a wife ? No, no, dearest, it is out of the question. I cannot wed — I 
 cannot have a wife, so say no more about it. I am and will be to you what I 
 have been ; but, at the same time, I cannot be more. I will never desert you, but 
 ask me no more to do this." 
 
 " And what else can I care for ? I da not ask you to support me. If I were 
 but an honest woman, my father would never grudge me a home." 
 
 " I tell you, Kate, it is only a whimsical notion of yours.' 9 
 
 " Such an one as I trust you will not refuse granting, for by it I must test your 
 love, and set a value upon it; for if you will not do it, i must look upon the past 
 as a dream — a dream that was too sweet ever to become a reality. 1 will not beg, 
 Orlando, even of you, but I ask you simply and honestly if you sincerely love me, 
 as you have told me you do." 
 
 " Indeed I have told you the honest truth." 
 
 " You, then, will not hesitate to grant me my request ?" 
 
 " No, I should run into danger of being taken in church — I am sure I should." 
 " Nay, that is simply an excuse." 
 " By Heaven " 
 
 " Nay, swear not ; 'tis not worth while to do so. Simply say you will not do 
 me justice, and you shall hear no reproach from me." 
 
 " Dear Kate, how very pressing you are. You know I haye told you the truth 
 —I cannot deceive you. 1 ' 
 
 " But you have deceived me — cruelly deceived me." 
 
 * f Nay, then, dearest Kate, you must not be so hard upon me. I may one of 
 these days be drawn to the scaffold, and there die a death I can hardly con- 
 template." 
 
 " Even then I would not desert you. I would follow and comfort you lo the 
 last, though I yielded my spirit up the next moment, and I am sure 1 could not 
 live afterwards — I should die; but that would be pleasure to living in this state." 
 
 " Well, Kate, you think me unkind now, but one day you will see I have acted 
 kindly, and have studied more of your happiness than my own. Come, come, be 
 not angry. Ha ! ha ! ha ! sweet Kate, I want not a wife. The road is my home. 
 The Owl is a solitary bird, save at times, and 1 fly by night." 
 
 ** Then I have been grievously mistaken in you, and since you have no love for 
 me and mine, I will cease to love you, and will not speak to you again." As she 
 spoke, she suddenly sprang from him, and, turning a look of scorn and anger upon 
 him, left the room. 
 
 " Heyday," said Orlando, as he closed the door. «' Marry, forsooth ! Marry. 
 Well, marry such a tittering thing ! I am well out of this ; but still I am sorrv 
 for her." ' 
 
534 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXII. 
 
 THE NEW ENEMY. CHASE. — CAPTURE AND EXECUTION OF ORLANDO THE OWL. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 The next morning Orlando rose, but he saw not Kate as usual. She was not 
 down, and the old innkeeper himself waited upon him. 
 
 - " Kate," he said, " is ill abed, and is not up yet, but I suppose she will be, by- 
 and-by." 
 
 " I hope she is not very bad," said Orlando. 
 
 <f Oh dear no, she's got a headache, or something of the sort," said the 
 old landlord, "nothing more I hope, for I should lose my right hand were I 
 to lose Kate." 
 
 *' Yes, she's a jewel here, certainly." 
 
 The landlord was compelled to leave the room, to attend to other matters ; 
 while Orlando, left to his own thoughts, sat eating his breakfast and thinking 
 upon Kate, who, he believed, would come round, being only in a fit of the sulks, which 
 she would recover from in the course of a few hours, when she would be the 
 same gentle creature she ever had been. 
 
 But at that moment, Bob, the ostler, pressed into the room with a knowing air. 
 
 " Well, Bob, do you want me?" 
 
 " Why," said Bob, mysteriously, " I thought I might as well tell you, a country 
 fellow — not one as lives about here, came into the stable, and looked hard at your 
 oss, and after a little gammon walked away. I saw him go like winking, after he 
 thought he v/as out of sight, towards Hampstead ; and I have seen some suspicious 
 looking people about, lately. I thought they meant no good, so 1 thought that 
 I'd make bold to come and tell your honour all about it." 
 
 " You did quite right, Bob ; just get my mare ready for the road, will you x I 
 shall leave here at once for a short time." 
 
 " Please yer honour, I ha^e got her saddled and bridled, and waiting for you 
 at the back of the yard yonder ; so that you can cross the country without going 
 into the main road at all, and you will see nobody." 
 
 " You are a jewel, Bob, I will come with you at once — danger is close." 
 
 " Well, it aint nothin' to me, your honour, but I think they won't be many 
 minu'es more before they are here ; there won't be more time than you'll manage 
 to get into the saddle ; and if they catch a glimpse of you, they'll have a lono- 
 chase, as they have a long day before them, and one on 'em's roaring mad." ° 
 
 Putting some silver in Bob's hand, he sprang to the saddle, but before he did so, 
 he could hear the sound of horsemen coming down the hill, towards the house. 
 
 " Hurrah S Bob, I've got the start — they won't see me." 
 Hurrah, your honour, off you are." 
 
 And so he was, but he had scarcely got under cover of the wood, before three 
 horsemen rode up to the door, and inquired of the landlord if any one were in 
 the house. 
 
 " Yes," said Boniface, "there is one up stairs— a traveller, who is at breakfast." 
 
 * Ah ! that's the man we want," replied one of them, " and two instantly 
 
 dismounted, and rushed up to the room ; but there was nobody there the bird 
 
 was flown; and no sooner was this known, than the officer ran down again 
 exclaiming, — 
 
 V Why, you said there was a traveller up stairs — there \& no one V 
 N Well, now, who would have thought it ? I can swear he was here at break- 
 fast not a quarter of an hour since, for I took his breakfast to him." 
 "Where's the ostler?" 
 " Here am I, your honour." 
 
 *< Was there not a traveller here a few minutes ago, and his horse in the 
 s table r " 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 535 
 
 " Ay, yer honour, there was." 
 
 " There was ! and where is he now ?" inquired the officer. 
 " Lord above knows," said the ostler. " He ordered his mare to be saddled at 
 a certain time, which I did, and he rode away." 
 " Which way did he go V* 
 
 " He went towards Hendon, for Edgeware, I believe, yer honour. He was 
 saying something about Edgeware to himself, and axed me the state of the 
 roads.'' 
 
 " That will do, push on," said the officer, and the whole party were on the 
 road in about another minute, and were very soon in motion on the Hendon- 
 road, with the intention of going as far as Edgeware pursuit. 
 
 * * * * • * 
 
 About a month after the above, Kate was sitting in the parlour by the fire, alone 
 and in tears, but which she ever and anon dried, and then a look of fixed determi- 
 nation seemed to come across her features ; and then a flash of fire or resentment 
 would cross her features, and she clenched her tiny hand, exclaiming, as she shook 
 one, — 
 
 " I will be revenged, he has made an enemy of me, and I will be one to him. 
 He has ruined me, but he shall not triumph ; he has refused to grant me that 
 one request which I made, and which is necessary to my happiness. Now is all lost, 
 and he shall suffer as well as I; besides, I now know of that horrid deed on the 
 heath, and if he comes here, I will give him up to the fate that awaits him : he has 
 done worse to me." 
 
 At that moment there came a solitary horseman to the inn ; he gave his horse in 
 charge to the ostler, and then he proceeded to the parlour. 
 
 Kate rose as soon as she heard the footstep : she saw a tall, gentlemanly man, 
 the expression of whose eye denoted deep sorrow, with some kind of expression 
 which she could not understand, but which was wild, almost approaching to insanity. 
 
 He sat down, without speaking, before the fire, for some moments, and then, 
 after glaring round for a moment, he said, — 
 
 " What, all alone here — have you no company?'* 
 
 "None, sir.' 
 
 " Well, let me have some wine — some of your best, I am wearied and cold ; let 
 me have some substantial viands as soon as you can." 
 
 '* You can have them very shortly, sir, if you choose to have any of what my 
 father was going to have for his supper." 
 
 "That will serve me well enough," said the stranger; and Kate left the parlour 
 to get him what he required, and to inform her father. 
 
 The wine was taken to him by the old innkeeper, and the supper, which gave 
 great satisfaction to the stranger, who was a singularly-behaved man, always 
 listening, and seemed intent upon some object or other, and in deep mourning. 
 
 Kate had just cleared away the supper, and was about to inquire if he required 
 anything more, when a locket which had been given her by Orlando suddenly 
 attracted his attention. He jumped up and seized it in his hands, and trembled 
 violently. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " exclaimed Kate. " Are you mad?" 
 "Nay — this locket — whose is it?" 
 " It is my own." 
 
 "Your own? you wear it and call it your own, but that will never do — it is 
 not true, i Oh, Heavens ! I know too well who wore this the last time I saw it. 
 Merciful God ! In pity sake, young woman, tell me how you came by it ?* 
 
 " ft was a gift." 
 
 "But who gave it you? It belonged to my bride, she whom I had but to lose 
 before she was really mine. Tell me truly, as you hope for happiness hereafter, 
 by whom was this locket given to you ? " 
 
 " By a traveller who came here." 
 
 " Who and what was he ?" 
 
536 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 u A gentleman, I believe ; he so represented himself somewhere; about five or 
 six months since." 
 
 " Ay, ay, he so represented himself, no doubt ; but I am sure you did not know 
 that man had committed a most foul and hoirible murder upon a young and beau- 
 tiful lady, for the purpose of robbing her and me of a few pounds ?" 
 
 " I indeed knew it not." 
 
 il I am sure you could not. You must remember, too, she was young, gay, in- 
 nocent, and hurried, without a moment's warning, into eternity. You will aid me 
 in doing justice to her memory, and you shall reap more good by so doing than 
 ever you can by screening a guilty and eminently wicked man from the justice he 
 merits." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I know nothing more than I have told you." 
 
 " But cannot you tell me where I may meet with this man ? Think before you 
 answer me," said the stranger, earnestly gazing upon her. 
 
 " I can only tell you that I know nothing of him while he is gone from our inn. 
 Where he goes to I cannot tell. He has not been here for a month, and then he 
 left suddenly. He may be here again soon, but I cannot say." 
 
 " Will you aid me as far as lays in your power?' 
 
 "I will." 
 
 "Then I will remain here until he comes, if you think he will be here." 
 
 " J do think so, but I cannot say how soon that may be ; but I would have you 
 beware what you do single-handed with him. If what you say be true, he will be 
 a daring and fearful foe to contend with." 
 
 ** So he will, but I know he is not invulnerable. I have met him before, but he 
 has hitherto escaped ; and I have confidence in myself— I am sure I shall take 
 him." 
 
 " I will do what you require, sir," replied Kate ; "but be silent upon the sub- 
 ject ; and if you will take my advice, have no one about in the neighbourhood, who 
 can be seen, but have another person here waiting with you." 
 
 " I will act upon your advice," said the stranger. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Some days passed by, when Orlando thought that all future pursuit in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Hampstead would be over, and that he would be perfectly safe in going 
 there to spend a few days. Besides, he was somewhat anxious to ascertain in 
 what mood Kate was, and how she fared wtth her father, if, indeed, he yet 
 knew of her condition. 
 
 " Poor Kate," he muttered to himself, " she is in a sad way. It is too bad, 
 much too bad. Her fate is now sealed. I cannot marry her, that is quite 
 certain, and she wants me to do so. Well, I have half a mind not to go there 
 any more, for I dare say it will end in a scold; however, I will promise every- 
 thing, if I see f*. necessary to escape a scene ; I can then quit these parts for good, 
 and never return to them again. 
 
 So thinking, and conning within himself, he rode towards North-end. His 
 horse was weary, it had gone over many miles of country that day. It was a fine 
 afternoon, being towards sunset, when he entered the shady part of the road that 
 led to the inn, and as he rode down leisurely towards the yard, the quick eye of 
 Kate detected him at a distance. 
 
 A slight shudder crossed her as she thought of what she was about to do, but 
 then she thought of her own condition, and she was firm. 
 
 " Yonder he comes," she said to the stranger. " Do not be seen, but let him 
 dismount, and, if possible, get your horse ready." 
 
 u Be easy on that score," said the stranger ; " I will go down, and my horse will 
 be ready in less than two minutes." 
 
 As Orlando node up to the inn, and looked up at the house, he saw Kate there ; 
 but she did not give him a smile ; she stood immoveable and fixed to the spot, gazing 
 downwards." 
 
 " Ah, she's angry yet,'' he muttered, " but I am glad to see she is here yet ; 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 537 
 
 there has been no fall out between her and her father, at all events there's no 
 serious one ; but where's Bill ? I suppose he's asleep." 
 
 As he spoke, he dismounted, and as he was doiug so, he caught sight of the 
 stranger ; he gave a second look, and he instantly remounted and dashed away at 
 a furious speed, but not before the stranger had discharged a shot at him, which, 
 however, only hit the horse, but that he did not know. 
 
 Then, to his consternation, he 
 heard him blow a loud whistle, 
 which was answered from some 
 place ahead of him. 
 
 " My horse," cried the strau- 
 ger, rushing into the stable. 
 
 It was nearly ready ; he had a 
 CQ nfederate there, who had began 
 
 saddle them both, the ostler 
 being too slow for his impa- 
 tience. However, in another mo- 
 ment, the two were mounted, and 
 rode out of the yard in pursuit. 
 
 Orlando was nowhere to be 
 seen ; he hud pushed his horse 
 on, indeed the animal itself, feel- 
 ing the shot, galloped furiously for- 
 ward, at a speed that completely 
 astonished even Orlando himself, 
 who saw not that the road was 
 marked with blood, as he went 
 
 along, but he pressed onward, hoping to get clear of those he knew must be in 
 pursuit. 
 
 He had not gone far, before he saw two men come out from beneath some trees, 
 and gallop forwards to him. 
 
 Suspecting their intention, he made up his mind for a desperate struggle, but 
 calculated that the speed at which'he was going, it would be impossible to stop 
 him. 
 
 " Stop, stop 1" cried the two men, who presented pistols. 
 
 " Catch the horse," said Orlando, as he galloped between them, and seizing 
 
538 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 one pistol, he tore it out of the man's hand, who was nearly unhorsed by the sud- 
 den jerk occasioned by the act. 
 
 The two men were astonished at this act, but tbey immediately turned their 
 horses' heads, and followed on. The bloody track was still visible, and one of 
 the men fired, and slightly wounded Orlando himself; whose horse, however, 
 still pressed onwards with unabated speed, though it had lost much blood, and 
 must soon fall. 
 
 Of this he was not aware, but his pursueis were ; and they fo 1 lowed on, keeping 
 Ulirt closely in sight, and the stranger who was well-mounted, now came up with 
 the other two. They pointed to the road where the blood was still visible, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Here is the track, and he is not a hundred yards ahead." 
 Press on with all your speed, so as to come up with me in a moment. I will 
 take him alive if possible." 
 
 They did press on, and when about to cross the brook, the stranger came up 
 with him, and discharging another pistol, again shot the mare, and this time with 
 some effect. She reeled and fell with her rider. 
 
 "Curses on you," muttered Orlando, "you have shot a better horse than you 
 are a man. My poor mare ! but you shall not die unavenged." 
 
 As he scrambled to his feet, he found himself ridden over by the stranger, who 
 could not rein in his own steed sharply enough. 
 
 " Surrender dog — your time is come," he said as he presented a pistol. 
 
 ''And so is yours," replied Orlando, determined to die at bay; "and so is 
 yonr's.take my shot, and return it if you can. '' 
 
 He fired w ; th the full confidence that he should kill his man, but the horse 
 reared, and received the shot, which brought the stranger's beast to the earth, and 
 they were both dismounted, aud an instant conflict, hand to hand, was inevitable. 
 
 Seeing he could not escape, and his opponent making a furious rush at him, he 
 prepared for the conflict, and aimed a blow at his head with the empty pistol ; but 
 the stranger evaded it, and succeeded in seizing him, and striking him a blow, which, 
 however, was not enough to disable him ; and the struggle was furious, but the 
 stranger was the stronger man ; Orlando being wounded, and having lost blood to 
 gome extent, which weakened him. 
 
 By this time, the others came up and took a part in the capture, and suc- 
 ceeded in stunning Orlando, and then they secured him by binding him hand and 
 foot; and then lilting him behind one of their party, returned towards the inn. 
 
 When they got there, they stopped a few moments to get some refreshment 
 for the men, and to obtain another horse ; indeed, two — one for the stranger, 
 and one for Orlando. 
 
 The landlord came out, and seemed much concerned for his old friend and cus- 
 tomer, and bro'jght him some wine, for which Orlando thanked him. 
 
 '* "fell Kate not to be angry with me now — she must forget and forgive the 
 past; my doom is •settled, and the prophecy of the old gip3y has come too 
 true." 
 
 "Ah, master," said Bob, "they've caught you at last. I wish you luck, 
 master. You've a generous heart, and deserve better treatment than this ; T 
 wish I could help you, I would." 
 
 "Never mind, Bob; there's an up and a down to everything and everybody, 
 and mine has come at last ; but I fought bravely for it, at all events— had they 
 not burt my poor mare, all would have been well enough. Look to her, Bob, and 
 see if she is dead, and if so, bury her — take saddle, bridle, and whip for your 
 own%8e." 
 
 " I will, master, and keep the last for your sake." 
 
 The voice of the stranger now was heard, directing the whole party to move 
 on towards Hanapstead, and then towards London. 
 
 .There was much curiosity in Hampstead, and every one pressed forward to see 
 ; t^fe famous highwayman, Orlando the Owl, long the terror of those parte, the 
 j ^.hole village being ont to see4iim as he passed through the main street ; but he. 
 
 ,, _. __ i,in, . i in ■ 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 539 
 
 was conducted through without anything particular occurring — and then through 
 London, until Newgate shut its ponderous gates upon the unfortunate, criminal ; 
 and when he heard the sound of them, he knew full well that his doom was fixed, 
 fixed beyond any possibility of change. 
 
 "lhave too deeply offended against society/' he said, "ever to be forgiven. 
 No, I have played a bold game, and have played it successfully, too,, for some 
 time. I must not grudge the stake — though that stake be life : I have had my 
 time, I will not cower at the end. 
 
 * * * * * * * i * ~ *• 
 
 The trial was over, the sentence passed, and there behold the unfortunate cri- 
 minal who had passed through so many dangers, now sitting calmly in the con- 
 demned cell, awaiting the day on which he was to die, and which was to come 
 in a very few hours. His conduct was not a whit less bold and free than it had 
 been during his hours of liberty, and yet there was nothing insensible about his 
 conduct he was cheerful, even gay 
 
 The day came, and Orlando the Owl ascended the scaffold without hesitation, 
 as if he had no fear of death ; and as if he had no particular desire to live, he 
 uttered a farewell to those around him, and threw himself off the ladder, and was 
 
 dead in an instant. 
 
 * * * * * * * ^ # 
 
 The stranger who captured Orlando visited the Bell Inn at North End, but the 
 house was shut up, and the landlord gone, no one knew whither; but it was said 
 that Kate was ill, and in such a state of grief, that the old man considered it neces- 
 sary to remove suddenly, and neither of them were seen or heard of afterwards. 
 
 'CHAPTER LXXIII. 
 
 CAPTAIN FOXGLOVE AND THE WIVES OP BATH, 
 
 My curiosity regarding the interior of Newgate was rather increased than abated 
 by the positive danger I ran by going into the building — a danger contingent 
 upon my recognition by some of the turnkeys, with whom I had come into collision ; 
 and indeed the various adventures I had had with the officials of that gloomy 
 abode had fully convinced some of them that it was haunted. 
 
 Notwithstanding all this, however, I contracted an acquaintance with one of the 
 turnkeys named Glossop, who was one of the most amusing fellows I ever came 
 near in his vocation. He was verging on eighty years of age, but although time 
 had certainly thinned his flowing locks, it had not succeeded in thwarting any of 
 that juveniscent spirit that was born with him, and made him capable of 
 setting the table in a roar. 
 
 My intimacy with Glossop grew strong enough to induce me to invite him to see me 
 and as I thought, in the event of any untoward circumstance occurring, it would be 
 as well to have such a friend at court. I told him frankly how I became acquainted 
 with the little old beggar, and the official cellar, and how I became possessed of 
 the wallet from which I had succeeded in drawing such interesting records of 
 Newgate. 
 
 He listened to me with the most marked attention, and then he laughed [in his 
 quiet way, as he said, — 
 
 " I'm glad you have told me, governor; it's an odd affair truly, and you have 
 given, I can tell you, a terrible fright to some of the young ones at the gate (he 
 always called Newgate, the gate) and I don't mind if you do so again." 
 
 "No," I said, "I think I shall not venture into the building clandestinely any more." 
 
 "Well, governor, that's as you please, but if you should take it into your head 
 to want to see anything in Newgate that you cannot get at by yourself, just ask me, 
 and I shall be able I dare say to manage it. J^jy-the-by, t is there anything in 
 the papers you have about Captain Foxglove 1 " 
 
540 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " No, not that I am aware of — and yet 1 seem to have heard the name some- 
 where." 
 
 " Listen to me then," he added, sententiously, " I will tell you that he was 
 hanged for murder at Newgate just twenty-six years ago, and that lie was called 
 the wife's bane." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 (t Because he played the very devil among the women, you see. It was in Bath, 
 he played off most of his pranks, but between you and I, after he was hung, I found 
 in his pocket quite a lot of writing, where he gave a complete account of himself, 
 and some of it would make your hair stand on end to read it. I pitied the fellow 
 before I read that, but afterwards, it was quite another thing, and yet he was such 
 a gentlemanly fellow. But, as I say, when I came to know more of him, even I 
 shuddered a little, till I thought he was well out of the world." 
 
 u A bad one, was he V 
 
 " Very, very bad indeed. If you were to read the papers he .left behind him, 
 nd which I suppose may be considered as a sort of — a-~a — what do you call it—-" 
 " Biography." 
 
 S( Oh, that's it ; yes, you would say that such a man, always providing, it's true, de- 
 s rved to be sent out of the world as he was." 
 
 " But, Mr. GIobsop, why do you say, if I read the papers that he left behind 
 him. I hope there is no if, in the business, but that you will hand them to me at 
 once, and allow me that gratification. An autobiography is always interesting if 
 at all truthful. There is no man' ? s life in which there has not been enough romance 
 to make it of service to those who read it, as well as of interest." 
 
 " Romance " do you say, " romance, I can tell you there is plenty of reality as well 
 as romance in the life of Captain Foxglove; but since you wish it, you shall judge for 
 yourself : I will bring the papers to you." 
 
 My friend Glossop was as good as his word, and the next day he brought me a 
 packet of papers, and said, in a confidential sort of whisper, — ■ 
 
 w I have been reading some of 'em again, and my hair very nearly stands on 
 end. Now, I shall come and see you to-morrow, to know how you look ; and if you 
 a>nt scared with the part ot it, you won't be scared at anything, I know." 
 
 Mr. Glossop, certainly, greatly excited my curiosity by what was said by him, 
 and, at night, I spread out the MS. before me, with a full expectation of being 
 mueh amused and gratified. That I was so, my readers will easily judge, when I 
 thus transcribe for them the story of 
 
 Captain dFojrglobe, 
 
 THE MURDERER OF NINE, 
 
 The MS. commenced thus, and I soon got completely absorbed in the interes 1 
 awakened by its perusal. 
 
 * * r * * * * * 
 
 They have sentenced me to death — yes, to death — but I don't think they will 
 hang me for all that ; not that I look for mercy from them, but that I have taken 
 measures to thwart them at the last ; and so, having nothing particular to think 
 about, having duly arranged to go out of the world my own way, and not the 
 law's way, I amuse my leisure in writing my memoirs, as a hint to the rising 
 generation. [It would appear that the captain had, as he thought, matured some 
 project for taking his own life, but it must have failed, for my friend Glossop told 
 me that he was executed.] 
 
 It's ten o'elock at night now, and Newgate is hushed, and, I suppose, as they 
 s upply me so liberally with writing materials, they expect from me some canting 
 re ligious homily, and that I repent duly of my misdeeds. What a miserable 
 mistake! But here goes for a tpuch of my quality. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 541 
 
 My name is Foxglove, and Bath has the honour of being my birthplace. Of 
 my parents it is quite needless to say anything but that they were honest, well- 
 disposed ynujfs. They consequently did no good in life. The only one who 
 was well to do in the family was my uncle, a parson. He was about as great a 
 rogue as ever I heard of, myself even not excepted, and he made money. But to 
 return to myself. 
 
 At the age of about fourteen, there were some absurd notions in the head of my 
 father, about making me some respectable trade. I was apprenticed to a locksmith, 
 and I certainly derived great advantage in after life from the knowledge I got of 
 that trade, although, except to pick a lock, I learned nothing connected with the 
 craft. 
 
 I remained with the locksmith four years, strange to say ; but the reason of that 
 was, that he had a pretty daughter, named Emily, to whom I paid the most 
 assiduous attention, without being able to extort a smile from her in return. But 
 I will tell you how I settled that matter more in detail. 
 
 Emily Adams — for that was the name— was a sweet flaxen-haired young creature, 
 with a world of intelligence in her face, and she looked so gentle and so loving, 
 that I was far, very far, from anticipating the haughty manner in which she 
 repulsed me. I had been nearly two years with the locksmith before she came 
 home from boarding-school, and, from the first moment that my eyes fell upon her, I 
 loved her — in my way. 
 
 But I ought to have stated first that there was a little spitfire of a wench, called 
 Sally, in the locksmith's house, as maid of all work, to whom, in the absence of 
 better game, I had been paying attention ; but, when the mistress came home, I was 
 not such a fool as to prefer the maid. But I was fool enough, being then young, 
 to let Sally see that I thought more of Miss Emily than I did of her. That was 
 very indiscreet. 
 
 I tried every possible means of getting up a flirtation with Emily. It appeared 
 to me as if she, with a glance at my face, when first she came home, had met there 
 something that she did not like — the little gipsy. 
 
 I could never get a word from her that Was not couched in the most distant 
 civility merely, and, after three weeks, there was as great a distance between us as 
 ever. This would never do. I was getting tired of the locksmith, and all the 
 affairs connected with the business ; and, in a fit of recklessness, I made up my 
 mind to tell Emily I loved her, and to plead my cause with all the passionate 
 energy I was capable of, and if she still gave me no hope whatever, I likewise 
 made up my mind to run away from the place, and try my fortune elsewhere. 
 
 It seemed as if the fates were determined to give me all the chances I wanted, 
 for the old locksmith and his wife went out to pay a visit somewhere, leaving Emily, 
 Sally, and myself at home ; and then Emily sent Sally upon a message te a neigh- 
 bouring mercer's. To be sure, she was in the first floor and I was in the shop, 
 where I ought to have remained, but I did not often do exactly what I ought. 
 
 I threw down the tools with which I had been pretending to work, and 
 locked the shop door, so that it would be rather a difficult matter for Miss Sally 
 to get in quickly, although for all I knew, but I did not think it likely, as it was 
 not usual, she might have a key of the private door. Then hastily throwing off 
 my apron, and washing the iron filings from my hands and face, I walked 
 up stairs. 
 
 I shall not easily forget the look of suspicion upon the face of Emily when I 
 walked into the room. 
 
 " Emily," I said, and I felt that my voice shook a little, " Emily, I have come 
 to tell you that I love you." 
 
 The little creature rose and really looked dignified, as she said, " John Foxglove, 
 I reject your addresses." 
 
 This was rather coming to the point, but I took hold of her hand, and told her 
 I was going to 'list for a soldier if she would not give me a word of kindness, or 
 that probably I should drown myself, or blow my brains out, or that as I felt 
 I was going rather mad, I told her I thought, I might very likely murder her 
 father. 
 
 j8& 
 
542 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 She was alarmed, as well she might be, and then she spoke gently to me. 
 
 <% John," said she, " our affections are not our own to give or to withhold at our 
 pleasure. I do not and cannot love you as you would wish me to love you ; but it is 
 in the power of every one to enforce respect. Be that your ambition, and let me 
 have to tell myself that if you have not gained my affections, John, you have gained 
 my esteem and my confidence." 
 
 Bang ! bang ! bang ! came a knocking at the private door. 
 
 e * It is Sally/* said Emily ; " go and let her in at once, John." 
 
 I would not do so, but when she rose herself to go and admit Sally, I caught 
 her in my arms, and half smothering her with kisses, she screamed. There was a 
 noise below, and Sally, who by dint of breaking a pane of glass in the shop door 
 had opened it, made her appearance, and caught me acting in the manner I have 
 described. 
 
 I am afraid that I looked rather sheepishly, but I made a retreat as quickly as I 
 could, and went down to the shop where I sat as gloomy as a fool thinking over 
 what had occurred. Of course 1 fully expected that Emily would tell her father 
 and mother as soon as they came home of my freak in the drawing-room, but I 
 was agreeably surprised by the following note being brought to me by Sally, who 
 stood by me while I read it looking the picture of indignation and spite : — 
 
 " J ohn, I will not sacrifice all your prospects in life by telling my father of 
 the outrage you have committed ; provided you by your future conduct show that 
 you are truly sorry ; you shall have yet a chance of redeeming your character and 
 of becoming a happy man. Thejsecret shall be kept while you deserve that it should 
 be kept." 
 
 When I had done reading this, I looked at Sally and saw that she was ripe and 
 ready to give me such a lecture as I should not easily forget ; and a lucky idea at 
 once occurred to me, which was to feign being a little overcome by liquor. I 
 accordingly reeled towards her, saying, — 
 
 " Charming Sally — I — I — love vou ; oh, you charmer ! — what a capital drop of 
 brandy I have had, to be sure." 
 
 " Wretch!" she said, " that's it, is it?" and away she bounced to tell her young 
 mistress. I perceived that my conduct was to be attributed to drink, and so I 
 thought I escaped pretty well, but the more I read the note of Emily, the more 
 I founded some hopes upon it, and said to myself — if she was not afraid to do so, 
 she would tell about my kissing her to her father, but she has kept one secret, 
 and that force her to keep another ; she dare not say anything now. 
 
 That night I went a ramble with an acquaintance of rather questionable cha- 
 racter that I had formed, and he was quite of my opinion, namely, that Emily 
 had, by promising to keep my conduct secret, placed herself to some extent in my 
 power ; and that I should want spirit if I did not take advantsge of such a state of 
 things. 
 
 " The worst uiing, John," he eaid, u a girl can do, is to keep a secret of such a 
 sort. She ought to tell all at once, and, by scuh conduct, you see she would have 
 crushed you at once. Be bold, John. Try something that will place her in a 
 more awkward predicament still; and, besides, however she might shrink and 
 squall as she did when you kissed her, you may depend she did not altogether 
 dislike it. She is human, John, my boy." 
 
 Armed with this advice, and inflamed by drink, although I did not take enough 
 to produce intoxication, I got home to my master's house an hour after the time 
 that I ought to have been in. Such absences I managed very well to conceal as 
 long as Sally and I were on good terms, for she used to admit me through the 
 kitchen of a night, after having assured the blacksmith that I had gone to bed ; 
 and so she did now, but I never shall forget the bitterness of that girl's tongue. 
 Her wild and vehement reproaches ring in my ears now, at the bare remembrance, 
 and I escaped up to my room, cursing her as T went, and brooding over and over 
 plans of getting rid of her. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 43 
 
 CHAPTER LXX1V. 
 
 A NIGHT ADVENTURE.— THE FATE OF SALLY, — THE WELL, AND THE HUNDRED 
 
 POUND WEIGHT. 
 
 It was nearly twelve o'clock, and T sat in my room full of desperate thoughts 
 and wishes. The night was moonlight, but rather cloudy at times, so that it was 
 only now and then that the bright white beams came into my room, making it as 
 light as day, aud shining i&. my own face in the little dressing-glass that was 
 before me so spectral-like, and white, that more than once I looked to see it. 
 
 I was half maddened. The rejection of my suit by Emily, drink, and the abuse 
 of Sally, conspired to deprive me almost of my reason, and, certainly, of 
 the greater part of my discretion. The locksmith's was an old-fashioned .large 
 house, of only two stories high, but with three rooms on each story. The whole 
 of the ground floor was devoted to the business. The first floor was divided into 
 a kind of kitchen ; a little drawing-room, neatly furnished, and the bedroom of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Adams ; on the next floor, which was the last, slept Sally, Emily; 
 and I, in the three rooms. 
 
 The clock struck one, and still I sat brooding over what I said to myself; were 
 my wrongs, for I thought it was a desperately unfair thing for Emily to reject me 
 as she had done. I had thrown off other of my clothes, and then the thought that 
 had been haunting me for hours assumed form and consistency, and I said to 
 myself, — 
 
 " Emily will be afraid to tell, if T go even into her room, and kiss her again." 
 
 I knew that the family did not lock the bedroom doors for fear of fire, and not 
 being able to open them in any sudden fright or emergency. It was but eight or 
 ten steps, and I might be by the bedside of the beautiful girl whom 1 loved to 
 distraction since she had rejected me. I loved her before, but her scorn of my 
 addresses fanned the spark to a maddening flame. 
 
 £< What's to hinder me?" I asked myself. (< Nothing— -nothing. She will be afraid 
 to say anything. Yes, I will go — go — go." 
 
 I started, for it seemed as if some strange diabolical voice had said, " Go!" close 
 to my ears ; but I was in no mood to be startled by trifles from my intention, add 
 having divested myself of my shoes, 1 opened my own bedroom door, and listened. 
 The whole house was buried in the most profound repose. There was that 
 unbroken stillness about the place, that for one moment I wavered, but then I 
 thought of the young girl's wondrous beauty, and I slipped lightly on. In another 
 moment I had gained her chamber door, and had my hand upon the handle of the 
 lock. All continued still as before, and I felt the more inclined to go on, as the 
 moon was just emerging from a mass of clouds, and the staircase was lightening 
 up in its beams, as they poured in at a large winuJW on the landing, 
 
 I stopped again to listen, for just as I laid my hand upon the loviK of the door, 
 1 thought I heard a slight noise, but from which direction it came I could not 
 determine. I thought my fancy must have deceived me, for although I stood 
 still for about five minutes, listening with the most painful interest, I could hear 
 nothing but the loud solemn ticking of an old clock that was in the passage. 
 
 " All still,'* I said to myself, " I will not pause now, I shall have to tell myself all 
 my life afterwards that I was a coward, and afraid to go into a girl's bed- 
 chamber, when I had my hand upon the door." 
 
 Now, T knew that that door always made a creaking n@ise when it was opened, 
 and that amid the soft stillness of the house, it would be almost sufficient to 
 awaken any one within the walls ; but I knew from practice and tact in all such 
 matters, t hat if I swung the door open with suddenness, it would not make near ! 
 so much noise, if indeed it made any at all ; so I did, and I was rewarded with 
 perfect silence, with only a kind of long drawn sigh, as it were in consequence of 
 the sudden opening of the door against the night air. 
 
544 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Then I shook a little, yes, I must confess that I shook a little, as I stood upon 
 the threshold of that young girl's chamber. 
 
 But that feeling soon passed away. The bright and beautiful moonbeams 
 were shining in at the window, and as 1 then stood, I could not see the bed, but 
 I had a good view of all the rest of the room, and observed all the pretty litter 
 of books, music, dresses, and flowers which might be supposed to be* within the 
 sacred precincts of a well-educated young girl's bed-chamber; but I could not see 
 the bed for the open door hid it from my view. 
 
 " I won't pause now," I said to myself. 
 
 Again I thought I heard a slight noise, and I shook, but surely, I told myself, 
 it could not be anything but accident, and I heard the chimes of a neighbouring 
 church clock go half-past one, and blamed myself for delaying so long in merely 
 getting from my own room to Emily's. 
 
 "Am I afraid V I asked myself. " Am I afraid of a girl ? no, no, I will carry 
 out the adventure to the full, now that I have once commenced it, and will not 
 earn my own attempt, whatever other people may say of me. 
 
 Slowly and as cautiously as foot could fall, I advanced into the room, and 
 | partially swung the door shut behind me. It made a slight squeak, and the 
 young girl murmured something in her sleep. The moonbeams fell full upon the 
 bed, and there she lay a perfect picture of beauty. 
 
 I was maddened at the moment. The blood bounded through my veins, I 
 / knew nothing, I thought of nothing, but that she was in all her beauty lying 
 before my wildly enamoured gaze, and rushing forward with a swift yet 
 stealthy movement, I folded my arms about her, and strained her warm heaving 
 form to my heart. 
 
 " Emily, Emily," I whispered, " I am yours in life and in death. I will love 
 you while earth, air, and ©cean " 
 
 God knows what 1 was going to say, but she uttered a shriek that half 
 deafened me ; at the same moment, some one laid hold of me by the hair of 
 my head, and began banging me with a clenched fist about the face at a rate 
 that was tolerably confusing. Emily uttered shriek sfter shriek, and I was getting 
 completely bewildered, only that the necessity now for making my instant 
 escape presented itself to me in such strong colours, that I turned and began 
 to buffet the person who had laid hold of me, and then 1 found it was Sally. 
 
 Yes, I have no doubt now but that I was watched, and that the two slight 
 noisss I had heard, and referred to fancy, were occasioned by her stealing from 
 her own room after me, as I went on my Tarquin-like expedition. Before I saw 
 well whether it was man, woman, or child that held me, I had given her one 
 I well-directed blow that sent her sprawling, and then I darted from the room, 
 j But Sally was not to be so easily defeated, for in a moment, before I could' get 
 the back door of the house open as it was by that way I intended to make my 
 escape she came clattering after me, bawling out ten thousand murders. 
 
 t{ Help, help ! — Stop him, catch him! — It's John, it's John! — He's been in 
 Emily's bed room ! — Catch him ! — Help, help ! — Murder, watch ! — Master, mis- 
 tress !— Help Y— Stop him !— Fire !" 
 
 This was the wild manner in which Miss Sally tried to put a stop to my flight, 
 and I felt her nails at my back just as I got the back door of the house open, and 
 rushed into the garden, from whence I knew I could escape easily into the fields, 
 and so get in a short time out of the town altogether to the Bristol road. Once 
 there, I knew a public-house which would afford me shelter at any hour of the day 
 or night, and at that time such a place was worth knowing. 
 
 The garden belonging to the locksmith's house was of tolerable extent, and the 
 wall was about eight feet high, affording no obstacle to a light, active lad like I 
 was at that time, so that I had my hope and expectation of easily escaping from 
 Miss Sally, if she did not pursue too closely upon me. 
 
 There was no one else in pursuit, so that, if I got rid of her, I got rid of my only 
 present enemy. The garden was well laid out in serpentine walks, and I had to 
 baffle her by running about among them, which I succeeded in doing for a few 
 
. NEWGATE * 545 
 
 moments only ; she did not make much of treading over a flower-bed, or bursting 
 through a bush. However, I came at last to^a little summer-house that had been 
 built in the - garden, and immediately in the front of which was a well, with two 
 flap doors opening inwards, and which were always bolted above. 
 
 A sudden thought seized me that this well came quite providentially in the way, 
 to enable me to get well rid of the pursuit of Sally, i knew that, when the 
 
 bolt was withdrawn, the flap doors 
 ought, to all intents and purposes, ]jf| 
 to descend open by their own 
 weight ; but I knew likewise that 
 they were in the habit of sticking 
 for a moment or two before they 
 did so, owing to a rusty hinge, or 
 some other trifling cause; so I 
 chanced it, and, drawing the bolt 
 at once, I darted into the summer- 
 house. 
 
 " Oh, you villain l" cried Sally ; 
 " I see you. I'll have you hung, 
 you rascal. The idea, of going to 
 get into " 
 
 Sally at this juncture disappeared 
 down the well like magic ; I never 
 saw anything done so cleverly on 
 any stage in all my life, and I walked 
 out of the summer-house in triumph. 
 I did not know if the water was 
 deep or shallow, but I heard 
 a loud splash, and in another moment Sally gave voice. She began screaming 
 with all her might, and it was astonishing what a terrific effect her voice had from 
 the bottom of the well. 
 
 "It's John Foxglove," she said; "stop him. It's John! Murder, murder ! 
 Don't mind me, but stop him. I can wait. It's John Foxglove; he's in the gar- 
 den ! Stop him — stop him ! 
 
 She drove me quite frantic by such perseverance ; I darted into the house again, 
 and the first thing I caught hold of in the back shop was a hundred pound weight! 
 I ran with it into the garden, just as I heard a rattle springing from somewhere. 
 I knew that, unless I covered my retreat by silence, I should surely be pursued and 
 
 No, 69, 
 
546 
 
 taken. It was to be done, and I made up my mind to do it. I reached the brink 
 of the well. 
 " Sally," I said, " will you be quiet?" 
 
 " Help, help !— It's John Foxglove ! Stop him ; stop John Foxglove ! Don't 
 mind me." 
 
 " Very good," I added, " if you will have it, you shall; so here goes, Miss Sally. 
 If this don't stop your tongue, I don't know what will. It ought to do so." 
 
 I flung the weight down upon her with all my force. There was a hideous, 
 strange, crashing sound — a shriek, that seemed as if it had been suddenly stopped 
 by the hand of death — a splash — and then all was still. I reeled backwards from 
 the brink of the well, or I should have fallen in, I shook so. 
 
 That was my first murder ! 
 
 In another minute I was over the garden wall, and flying across the fields like 
 one pursued by a thousand devils , r and yet no human footstep was upon my track. 
 On, on I sped, until I struck upon a by-path, which I knew, if I pursued, would 
 take me out upon the high road I wished to follow. 
 
 I paused several times now to listen ; but hearing nothing I made up up my 
 mind that I was not followed, and that by silencing Sally I had stopped pursuit. 
 
 "All's right," I said, "there's nothing in the world can come near the spite 
 of a disappointed woman ; and the well and the hundred pound weight really 
 came quite wonderfully to hand as regarded Sally." 
 
 My readers will soon perceive of what materials I am made of, and not be 
 surprised that I did not trouble myself much about Sally. I own it gave me a 
 sort of turn at the first — a kind of strange, choking sensation when I heard the 
 crash of the heavy weight upon her skull ; but that only showed the weaknesses 
 that were instilled into ray early life. It is astonishing how much education 
 will do. 
 
 But- then it was my first murder. The time came when, by the aid of a little 
 religion, I thought not much of taking a life, and after all I only sent them to 
 heaven a little before their time, ror which Iden'seewhy the good folks whom 
 I helped on the journey ought to be grateful. 
 
 But that is all by the way. 
 
 I ran on till I got into the Bristol road, anu &<■ the jiocks struck, three 1 arrived 
 at the public-house I have spoken of, and whieti wa^ called, 11 The Travellers." 
 It was a picturesque-looking place, standing alone, half a farm An* appearance, 
 and half a tavern, and suspected much by the police, although H?hey were not 
 likely, with their amount of stupidity to get the better ol Jeiy. Green, the 
 landlord, who had before that irght often said to me, — 
 
 "I like you, my lad, and whenever it happens that you want a hoine, or a 
 hiding-place, come here, and you will find both rolled into one, and some g-oo i 
 company too." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXV. 
 
 THE THIEVES' HOUSE. — THE JOURNEY TO LONDON. 
 
 You might knock at the door of "The Traveller " until you were tired, probably 
 before Jem would get up at three o'clock in the morning to direct you, because by 
 your knocking, he would know that you were not one of the initiated. But there 
 was a little bell handle, if you knew where to pitch upon it, a slight pull ; t which 
 would always get him up, arid down he would come. 
 
 When he made his appearance in his night-gown, in answer to my summons, 
 and found it was I, he was rather surprised; but he welcomed me in for all that, 
 and when we were fairly housed, he said, — 
 
 " Will you snoozle, ray bantam, or gabble — [sleep or talk] I* 
 
 "As you like," said I, " I don't want any sleep/ 4 so 1 t« M !. m at mce over a 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 547 
 
 glass of something mixed strong, all about going into Emily's room ; but the little 
 affair of the well I did not think worth while to say anything just then about. 
 
 ft And is that all, my lad ?" said Jem. "Well, you have given your governor 
 the shy for a trifle ; but, howeve", you are a lad of spirit, and may do much better 
 than you have been doing, for you don't think of going back again, I suppose?' 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 « That's right ; you would never hear the last of the affair if you were. And 
 now that you have come to me, I will take some pains with you, and put you in 
 the way of being something better than a mender of old padlocks. What do say V 
 
 " Why, that I am ready for anything, from crushing a crib to trotting for 
 flabbacks [slopping travellers.]'' 
 
 "That's right ; you have, John, the proper sort of mettle in you, my boy, and 
 now go and catch a snooze upon yon sofa till I come to you again, and I'll 
 introduce you to two gentlemen, who will upon my recommendation be of some 
 use to you." 
 
 « If it's all the same to you," I said, " I would rather be out of this 
 neighbourhood as soon as possible." 
 
 " So you shall, boy. Those to whom I am going to introduce you in the 
 morning will leave soon, and I can get them to take you with them. They are 
 regular family men, I can assure you, and it will be worth anything for you to be 
 with them for a month or two. You will know all the ins and outs of the business, 
 and if they find you have tact and courage, and I think you have both, 
 I can and will make a good report of you to them, and they know me Well 
 enough to take anybody on my warranting." 
 
 Of course 1 was obliged to Jem Green for this, and went to sleep upon the sofa 
 he had pointed out. To be sure, I did wake twice in the night, through dreaming 
 and fancying I was at the bottom of a well, with Sally's arms twisted round my 
 neck, while the hundred pound weight was half sticking out of her brain, and the 
 hot blood was gushing down her face. Bah ! dreams are ugly things. I wonder 
 why they were ever invented ; I'm sure I could do without them wonder- 
 fully well. 
 
 But that is something like a digression, which, as I go on with my narrative, I 
 find I have rather a propensity to. To resume then. 
 
 In the morning, at about seven, Jem Green shook me by the shoulder, and I 
 called out loudly, — 
 
 " Oh, no, no — Sally don't drown me in blood ! Oh, no !" 
 
 " Why, what the devil do you mean ?" he cried. "I say, Master John, you 
 haven't exactly told me all that happened last night, I am inclined to think. 
 Who is Sally?" 
 
 " Nobody." 
 
 " Oh, very well, it don't matter to me much ; anything but murder, mind me, I 
 think little of, but that's dangerous. Though I have no mind to speak to a boy 
 like you about murder, I suppose y< u have had an intrigue with some Sally, eh !" 
 
 " Well, I should not wonder," said I. 
 
 I tried my mouth at- a laugh as I spoke, but it was not a good laugh by any 
 means, and se Jem seemed to think, for he shook his head, and regarded me for a 
 few moments with a very doubtful sort of expression, as if he were considering 
 whether it would be desirable or not to have anything more to do with me. It 
 was quite clear he thought I had not been candid with him. 
 
 "1 tell you what it is, Master Foxglove," he said at length, "you're a 
 humbug." 
 
 "A what?' said I. 
 
 "A humbug," he repliei, "so be off with yon ; J won't have you here any 
 longer, or have anything to do with you. Go your ways. I won't say one word 
 about you, of course. What you have told me shall be kept as secret as the grave, 
 and nobody shall be put upon your track from here. But you have thought 
 proper to keep something back, I can see, and as that is likely to be the most 
 
548 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 important thing you had to tell, I think the less X have to do with you the better' 
 There's the door.". 
 
 There was a fixed determination of manner about Jem Green, that made me feel that 
 when he said, "There was the door," my best plan was to go out of it. If he had 
 made the remark he had previously given utterance to about having nothing to do 
 with murder, I think I should have up and told him fairly all about Sally and the 
 well ; but the recollection of what he had said stopped my mouth completely, and I 
 got up and walked away without saying another word to him. 
 
 He followed me to the door, and when we got there, he put a guinea into my 
 hands, saying,— 
 
 "Don't say you went away empty-handed, John ; I don't like you so well as I 
 did, because you haven't the confidence in me you had ; but take that, and it will, 
 at all events, help you on your road." 
 
 " Thank you/' said I, and away I went. 
 
 To tell the truth, I was not sorry to miss the introduction Jem Green had told 
 me he would give me to the two family men. I thought I could manage well 
 enough by myself, and I disliked the idea of being in leading sti ings with anybody, 
 be they whom they might. 
 
 The high road to Bristol was before me, but before I had walked a mile I was 
 overtaken by the Bath mail to London, and at once availing myself of a box seat 
 which was vacant, and saying nothing to the driver about my only having a guinea, 
 which I knew was less than the fare, I began to enjoy my ride amazingly as we 
 entered on towou London, which I had heard so much of, but which I had 
 never seen, alth gh I was fairly impressed with an idea that I should do 
 wonders. 
 
 The coachman was agreeable and chatty, so that I had a comfortable journey of 
 it until we came to London, and then I began to have serious thoughts of how I 
 was to get out of paying the fare. 
 
 I was not going to allow my only guinea to go from me easily, but made up my 
 mind that it would be quite as easy to avoid paying the whole of my f as a part of 
 it ; so I relapsed into silence and gave myself up to thought, as the couch drove up to 
 the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, at which place several of the passengers got 
 down. 
 
 " Do you wait here long V I said.* 
 
 " Only three minutes," said the coachman, " if you are going in the city you 
 had better not get down, but if not, I'll take your fare now at once." 
 "Oh, but I am going to the city." 
 " Very well." 
 
 I got down despite his advice not to do so, and walked into the tavern. I saw 
 a flight of stairs before me, and when nobody was looking, and there was plenty of 
 bustle I hopped up them, and then up another flight which led me into a lot of bed- 
 rooms, in one of which I concealed myself under the bed. I heard much bustle be- 
 low, but in a few minutes the rattle of wheels convinced me that the coach at all 
 events was gone, and probably I might descend in safety. 
 
 I crept from under the bed cautiously, and then looked about me a little, and found 
 that I had taken possession of a handsome bedroom which was undoutedly in the 
 occupation of somebody, for on the table was a very elegant gold watch and chain, 
 which after looking at for a few moments I put in my pocket, as I thought I 
 might often want to know the time in London. 
 
 This was pretty well I thought for a beginning, but as it turned out, it was rather 
 a foolish thing to do, but I will not anticipate. 
 
 Finding that there was nothing else in the bedroom worth the carrying away, 
 and sufficiently portable at the same time to do so well, I turned my whole atten- 
 tion to slipping down stairs unperceived, and getting clear off with what I had got 
 already. I accordingly went to the door, and listened attentively to hear if the way 
 was clear, and fancying that it was so, as I heard nobody, I was on the point of de- 
 scending the stairs, when some one came running up. 
 
 This was provoking, but as it was as likely they were coming to some other bed- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 549 
 
 room as the one which I occupied or had occupied,, I retired to it again to wait 
 until the unwelcome intruder was out of the way. But as such destiny would 
 have it, I was actually followed into the very bedroom from which I had taken the 
 watch, by the party to whom it belonged. I had only just time to get under the 
 bed again before being seen. 
 
 I could see him though, a gentlemanly-looking young man, who going up to (he 
 dressing-glass, began to take out of his travelling dressing-case a pair of scissors, 
 and commenced cutting the ends of his whiskers ; at last he cried suddenly, — 
 
 " Hilloa ! where is my watch ? I am quite sure 1 left it here ! Where can it be? 
 Oh, yes, I know I left it on the table, 1 wonder what can have become of it 1 — 
 Stole ! — no, I hope not.'' 
 
 He went to the door and run down stairs, I fancy, to alarm the landlord of the 
 house, and as my hiding-place was anything but a secure one, I scrambled out and 
 got into what I thought a better. I was a very slim youth and could lie uncommon- 
 ly flat, so I crept between the k mattress and the feather bed, and there I lay satisfied 
 quite, that I made no outward show and that probably I should escape. 
 
 Flattened down as I was I could see nothing, I could scarcely breath too, for it 
 was a large heavy bed, which although, all the better for concealment, was not so 
 for air, and as for hearing I could easily do that but not with great distinctness. 
 
 In the course of a few moments several persons came in the room, and I heard 
 the owner of the watch say, — 
 
 " I am quite confident I left it on the dressing-table; that I can swear to ; and as 
 it is a watch I value much, and is really intrinsically of importance to me, I cer- 
 tainly feel inclined to make a fuss about it, and insist upon an officer being sent 
 for." 
 
 "Well, sir," said a female voice, "I cannot say anything against that of 
 course ; but I can assure you, that I am satisfied of the honesty of all my servants. 
 They have been with me for years, and it's right of me, as landlady of this house, 
 to take their parts ; you must see that, sir — I — I feel quite faint." 
 
 "But your fainting, or your confidence in your servants, madam, won't restore 
 me my watch I " 
 
 " Don't say any more to her," said another voice; (i don't you see she is ready 
 to faint. Sit down on the bed a few moments, Mrs. Brown. " 
 
 I recollected, when first I went into the tavern, seeing an enormously fat woman 
 in the bar, and I was in another moment now fully raade aware of what a weight 
 she was, for they laid her on the bed with a bounce that took all the breath out of 
 my body, and forced me, despite all my exertions to endure the pressure, to 
 scream out, — 
 
 "Murder! murder! help — murder! murder!" 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVI. 
 
 THE ESCAPE FROM THE ST. JAMES'S WATCHHOUSE, 
 
 The game was against me just then, and amid roars of laughter, I was pulle<* 
 out from between the bed and mattress more dead than alive ; the landlady in he* 
 indignation, bestowing some sound cuffs upon me, whenever she could conveniently 
 get at me. 
 
 u You scamp ! • she cried. " Oh, you scamp ! how dare you come into a respect- 
 able house, and make everybody suspected ? Oh, you are born to be hanged, I can 
 see that in your precious face — only let me get me at him, the vagabond ! " 
 
 I verily believe the infuriated landlady would have demolished me if they would ( 
 have let her, but they kept her off me as well as they could for laughing, and then, 
 
 - --. . -- --- — <- 
 
550 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 a very brief search of me brought the watch to light, which I had been so very 
 imprudent as to keep possession of ; when, if while the traveller went downstairs 
 lo alarm the household with news of his loss, 1 had had the presence of mind to 
 place it upon the table again, the laugh would have been against him for not seeing 
 0, and no doubt I should have escaped. 
 I was certainly green then. 
 
 " What do you mean to do with him V* said a complaisant-looking waiter. " He's 
 quite a boy." 
 
 " Give him to a constable, of course," said the landlady. " If it's his first offence, 
 perhaps something may be done to reclaim him ; but to a constable he shall go — 
 and here is Mr. Goddard, the constable, sure enough." 
 
 It was duly explained to this official personage what I had been guilty of, and he 
 took me off, after telling the owner of the watch that he must come and prefer the 
 charge against me, which he seemed unwilling enough to do, till the officer took up 
 the watch, and said off-handly, — 
 
 6t Well, sir, this watch is either yours or this young youth's. If you won't say 
 it's yours — it's his, and the only way you can get out of prosecuting now is to let 
 him walk off with it in his pocket." 
 
 This settled the matter at once, and I was walked off to the watchhouse of St. 
 James's, there to wait until the afternoon, when, I was told, I would be taken before 
 the sitting magistrate and comfortably committed at once, and as the grard jury 
 was sitting, and } the sessions on, the officer told me I might be transported quite 
 readily out of hand in a week ; and he quite called upon me, as if I had been an 
 indifferent person, to admire how quickly these things were done on such auspicious 
 occasions. 
 
 When we arrived at the watchhouse, I was placed in a kind of den by myself, 
 in which there was little light and a great quantity of dampness, so that 1 had 
 plenty of leisure to think of the rather unpleasant state of my mundane affairs 
 ust then. 
 
 I must own that the prospect did not exactly come up to my beau ideal of earthly 
 felicity, but it's a long lane that has not a turning ; and when things come to the 
 worst, they must mend. But these are but sorry consolations. 
 
 When I was taken before the magistrates, and the ease was heard, he said — 
 
 " Officers, do any of you know this boy ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, your worship," said one, looking as knowingly as possible, " I've had 
 my eye on him, your worship, for some time." 
 
 " That's not true," said 1, "for I have only just come from " Bath, I was 
 
 going to say, but upon second thoughts, I considered it to be prudent to suppress 
 that piece of intelligence. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the magistrate, " I am afraid you are a bad one; I think I have 
 seen you somewhere myself." 
 
 "Yes," said I, "no doubt you have, old fellow, I often go there." 
 
 Several of the spectators irreverently laughed at this, and the magistrate got into 
 such a rage at a laugh being got up in his own court, actually at his expense, 
 that he ordered me to be taken back to the watchhouse, and brought up again the 
 next day , and in the meantime inquiries were to be made concerning me, when, as 
 he said, he would commit me for trial, and send my character with me to the grand 
 
 jury. 
 
 I was accordingly taken back to St. James's watchhouse, where one of the 
 constables gave me a pint of porter for my spirit, as he said, in taking up the beak 
 as I had done ; and, I dare say, I was much more comfortable then, than I should 
 have been in a prison, where I should have been at once consigned if he had com- 
 mitted me there and then. 
 
 Indeed, I fancied myself rather a favourite with the denizens of the watchhouse, 
 and was indulged with a seat by the fire, in the ante-room, where the charges were 
 taken, instead of being kept in the den to which I had, at first, been consigned for 
 safe custody. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 551 
 
 On the mantelshelf, and quite within my reach, hung a blunderbuss, and som e 
 vague thoughts of attempting an escape crossed my mind. 
 
 There were people coming in and going out all the day, so that I had no chance ; 
 but when the evening set in, this rapid concourse of folks ceased, and hence I was 
 alone with the night- constable, for more than ten minutes at a time ; but the 
 dread of some one coming had prevented me from taking advantage, as I ought to 
 have done, of such capital opportunities for escape. I made up my mind not to let 
 a third opportunity slip. 
 
 At length it came ; we were alone again, and the night-constable was rather 
 sleepy and negligent. He stooped to poke the fire, and I rose at the same moment 
 and took down the blunderbuss before he knew what I was about. In a moment 
 I gained the door, and pointing it full at him, I said, — 
 
 " Sit still, and no harm will come to you, but give any alarm, and I will blow 
 you to atoms." 
 
 11 Confound you," he said, (< give up the gun. Give it up, will you, or it will be 
 the worse for you, my lad." 
 
 " No, thank you. Good night." 
 
 I opened the door with my right hand, keeping my left on the trigger of the 
 blunderbuss, while the muzzle of it was directed towards him. In a moment I was 
 on the threshold, and then, when I was just on the step, he made a dash towards 
 me, but I was too quick for him, and presented the blunderbuss, upon which he 
 tried to escape into the inner room, but I was too quick for him, and fired. 
 
 I saw him go tumbling into the next room, the door of which he>had got partially* 
 open, but whether I had killed him or not I could not tell, for the concussion and 
 recoil of the blunderbuss was so great, that it knocked me over into the road. 
 
 w What is it?— what is it ? " said several people, rushing forward. 
 
 *' Oh, good people, attend to me," I said, " a man has just run out of the watch- 
 fcouse, and knocked me over as I wa.s passing. I do think he has grazed my ankle ; 
 attend to me first, whatever you do. I think somebody has murdered somebody 
 in the watchhouse." v 
 
 " Oh, bother you and your ankle," said a man, as he dashed into the watcnhouse. 
 
 I was alone, and profitted by the opportunity to get up and be off as quickly 
 as I possibly could; and I was not satisfied until I had placed a good mile of streets 
 between me and St. James's watchhouse. Then I stopped to breathe a little, and 
 to recover from panting, for I was most thoroughly exhausted, 
 
 " I wonder if I have killed him," I said to myself, cC for if I have, that makes two. 
 Sally first, and then the night-constable. Well, people should not get in my way, 
 that's all." 
 
 I was quite destitute now in the streets of London, for the good folks at the 
 watchhouse had taken care to empty my pockets, and what to do, or where to go, 
 I knew not, but stood, like an isolated wretch, as I was, in the midst of strangers. 
 I felt a slight tremor as I asked myself the question of what was to become of me, 
 now. It was getting late, and I went on wandering from street to street until I 
 was as thoroughly weary as I could well be, and then I sat on a door-step to rest 
 myself. 
 
 I fancy I had fallen asleep, for suddenly I heard a clock strike three, and 
 then a man gave me a kick, and a rough voice, said, — 
 
 " Who is this ? There's always some fool in the way, or other." 
 I started up, exclaiming, — 
 *' Eh, what?— what is it ?" 
 
 " Who the devil are you V 9 was the not very polite inquiry made of me. 
 
 tl Anybody and nobody," I said ; " I have made my escape from " 
 
 Here I stopped short again, as I did when I was about to say at the tavern 
 where I came from, and at the police-office •, for I did not know how far it would 
 be prudent to let the strangers know that it was from St. James watchhouse I 
 had come. They might, for all I knew, have a fancy to take me back there again, 
 and that would have been anything but a pleasure to me. 
 
 " It's the very lad," whispered one of the men to the other, for there were two of 
 
552 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 them. " I know I am right, I saw him at the office. Come, my hoy, if you are he 
 who fired the hkmderbus at old Sharpe the night-constable, you 'may trust us, 
 for we are friends, and not likely to find fault with a lad of spirit, for such an affair. 
 We belong to the family." 
 
 I had often heard Jem Green talk of " the family," as the pet name by wh ; ch 
 the fraternity of thieves was known ; so I said at once thai I was the lad they men- 
 tioned, and that I hoped they would not betray me ; as I was hungry, destitute, and 
 had nowhere to go to in the world. 
 
 " Hark ye," said one .of the men, "you are in luck's way, for we were just 
 talking about you, and wishing that you would come in our way, when we could make 
 a man of you. We want just such a likely lad as you are to crack a few cribs 
 with us. Will you do so, and take your share of the swag ? You will soon be rich, 
 and able to sport your tin like a man." 
 " Willingly,'' I said, " most willingly." 
 
 u Then this house contains a little lot of plate that we think will be serviceable 
 to us; so if you can do what we cannot, that is get in at the fan-light over the door 
 we can do the job nicely, for jou can lot us in.'' 
 
 " Of course, I will," I said, "I desire nothing better than to make one anions 
 such honourable company. I am quite of your mind, gentlemen, but it would be 
 rather an awkward thing to be caught inside while you were out." 
 
 " There is no danger of that," they replied. " Come, there will be no watchman 
 round for another half-hour at least, so that we can all get into the house by then." 
 
 They lifted me up without more ado, and, in as workmanlike manner as I could, 
 and, with the additional tools that they supplied me with, I got out some panes of 
 glass, and continued, not without some difficulty though, to squeeze myself into the 
 house, and drop into the passage, when my great anxiety was, as quickly as posible, 
 to undo the door fastenings, in order that I might not be alone in the adventure! 
 The whole affair did not last five minutes, when we were all three in the passage 
 of the house and the door shut again, just on the latch, so that there would be but 
 little difficulty in making a sudden and rapid escape. 
 
 My companions evidently had private information, and this was what is called 
 a put-up robbery ; that is, they knew what exactly they came for, and where to 
 pitch upon it without trouble. There was a small third room on the ground floor, 
 in which was a cupboard, and in that cupboard a box which contained the plate 
 they sought. There was likewise a drawer in the box, from which they extracted 
 some valuable foreign coins. All remained perfectly quiet while they were thus 
 securing their booty ; and, indeed, not the slightest semblance of danger appeared 
 until we reached the passage, and then, by the flash of a lantern one of the men 
 carried, a gentleman was observed on the staircase with a dressing-gown on and 
 presenting a pistol with a steady aim. 
 
 I must confess I was a little staggered at first, and so were my companions ■ 
 but it was only for a moment that they lost their self-possession. 
 
 " Douse the glim," said one, and the light was instantly extinguished. 
 
 A rush was made to the street-door, which was opened in no time but we 
 impeded each other in getting out; and as I was the last, for they both* tore past 
 me with selfish impetuosity, I was in fear of being caught or shot ; but suddenly 
 stooping, I caught hold of one of the family men by the ankles, and fairly flun& 
 him over into the passage, and bolted out into the street myself over Ids 
 prostrate body. 
 
 At the same instant the stunning report of a pistol came upon my ears, but as 1 
 was not hit, I did not, you may be sure, wait to see who was, but made off with 
 great speed, nor once looked behind me until I was a long way off, and felt confident 
 there was nothing in the shape of pursuit. 
 
 I slept that night in Hyde-park. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 55S 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVII. 
 
 CAPTAIN FOXGLOVE HAS A SOUL ABOVE HOUSEBREAKING. 
 
 It had always been my intention from ihe first to divide this little history of 
 my life and achievements into two parts, and I don't think 1 can make a better 
 jump than from this, the first, robbery in which I was concerned, to what I may 
 call the second epoch of my life. 
 
 In the house where I and my 
 companions had so very nearly been 
 caught, I mentioned that there was 
 a drawer full of coins, but I did not 
 mention that I had managed to put 
 a good handful of them into my 
 pocket. 
 
 They were gold, and from recol- 
 lection of their size and weight, 
 and better knowledge now of value, 
 I am decidedly of opinion that their 
 intrinsic worth could not be less than 
 a hundred pounds, so I ought to be 
 thankful that one of the "chosen 
 people" gave me five sovereigns for 
 my swag. 
 
 After this I was engaged in va- 
 rious robberies, until I got too tall 
 and stout to be of any use in getting 
 through fanlights over doors and 
 such like places ; and, besides, I 
 
 thought that such a mode of life was far, very far below my genius. I always 
 looked upon simple robbery with contempt ; anyboby can take what don't 
 belong to him ; but I considered that I had talent at intrigue, and might cajole 
 people out of ten times the amount that I could appropriate to myself by 
 simple larceny. 
 
 I was good looking, as I flattered myself, and my dressing-glass was a good one 
 for putting one on good terms with oneself, and I grew up to be a very pretty fellow, 
 and twenty-two years of age. 
 
 No. 70. 
 
554 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Farewell, burglary," I said to myself. " If I take without stratagem other 
 people's money, it shall be boldly upon the highway, but I will crack no more cribs : 
 it's low — damned low !" 
 
 When I made these reflections, my pockets were pretty well lined, or perhaps 1 
 should not have indulged in them to such an extent; but as it was I felt, or 
 fancied I felt, that I was every inch a gentleman. I avoided those parts of the 
 town which were likely to biing me into contact with old associates ; not that I 
 feared them, for Jha»l always behaved generously, as well as justly, in any dealings 
 regarding swag with them, and there was not one that I had ever done business 
 with who would not rather do me a good turn than an ill one ; but I disliked that 
 part of the profession, and so no longer sought its alliances. 
 
 I, on the contrary, pervaded the fashionable thoroughfares and ogled the ladies, 
 and got a card, on which figured my name with the addition of captain before it, 
 and I cultivated an imperial moustache. 
 
 As long as my money lasted, this was a most agreeable life for me, but all 
 pleasures are transient, and mine was likely to come to an end. My resources 
 were but limited, and I was never a very good hand at saving, or taking care of 
 what I had. Somehow or another, my money " Took to itself wings and flew." 
 
 But just as I was beginning now and then to have a sort of twinge of thought 
 which translated itself into — " 1 say, Foxglove, what will you do when your money 
 is gone ?" an adventure happened to me which not only replenished my purse, but 
 gave me new thoughts and notions. It was this : — 
 
 I was sauntering one day down Oxford-street, near Soho-square, when a coach 
 passed me ; at the window of which I saw a face that I thought I remembered, 
 and yet I could not tell where. It was the face of a lady; I being in the 
 humour — when was I otherwise? — of following up any adventure, I followed the 
 coach into Soho-square ; I saw it stop at the bazaar, which is in one corner of 
 the square. 
 
 Two ladies got out of the vehicle, and then I knew them both ; they were the 
 wives of two of the wealthiest tradesmen in Bath ; and I had often seen them seven 
 years before I was apprentice to the locksmith. 
 
 I followed them into the bazzar, and saw them make some purchases. They 
 were laughing and talking too, and I thought from their manners that they were 
 so well pleased to be in Loudon, that something might be done by making their 
 acquaintance; so I watched without having any definite plan in my mind to find out 
 where luty lived, at all events, and then think the matter over. 
 
 They did not stay in the bazaar above twenty minutes, during which period the 
 coach waited for them ; and then they got into it, and were driven away to 
 Charlotte-street, Fitzroy-square, where they alighted at a house which, to my great 
 satisfaction, had a card in the window signifying that their apartments were 
 to let. 
 
 I waited about half an hour in a neighbouring public-house, so that my visit 
 might not seem to be premeditated, in case I might have been observed in the 
 bazaar, and then I boldly knocked at the door of the house. 
 
 The only apartment to let was a sleeping-room on the second floor, and I was glad 
 to be able to establish myself in the house upon reasonable terms ; so I took the place 
 at once, excusing myself from references and all that sort of thing ; by representing 
 myself as a stranger in London, and paying some rent in advance, so that the 
 landlady was quite satisfied, and I found myself fairly installed in the front room 
 second floor, 
 
 " Madam," I said, " you have other lodgers, I suppose, but I hope they 
 are quiet." 
 
 " Oh dear yes, sir, there's only two ladies and one gentleman in the house 
 besides youself. They occupy the drawing-rooms, two very respectable married 
 ladies, from Bath, sir — Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Delaney, and Mr. Delaney, are with 
 them, hut Mr. Morton is not expected for a week or so ; but they have taken 
 apartments for the accommodation of him likewise." 
 
 This was just what I wanted to know, and the instant she named the parties I 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 555 
 
 knew I had made no mistake as to identity, but that these were the two Bath 
 ladies I had so often seen before. 
 
 " And now," said 1 to myself, as I sat in my room, " how is all this to be 
 turned to account V 
 
 I thought on the matter for some time, until I began to be fearful that it would 
 be no easy thing to effect an introduction to them ; and thinking of this puzzled 
 me rather, but I knew they were wealthy and some of that wealth I thought might 
 as well find its -"ray into my pockets, which otherwise would be sadly out of 
 occupation in a short time. At length I hit upon a scheme which would at all 
 events let me know whether anything was to be expected from the credulity of the 
 ladies or not, and if I found the game too expensive or difficult, I could leave it 
 withont putting myself to any further expense or trouble about it. 
 
 As the plan will best show itself in its execution, I need not trouble those who 
 may honour these pages by a perusal with ariy detail of it beforehand. 
 
 I found that if I came out on to the landing of the second floor, and looked over 
 the balustrades of the staircase, I could command a view of the landing of the 
 first floor, and see who went in and out of that portion of the house; so the next 
 morning I there stationed myself, and kept watch and ward. It required some 
 degree of perseverance, and I think I waited for nearly an hour before Mrs. Morton 
 and Mrs. Delaney came up from the parlour where they took their breakfasts, and 
 went into the drawing-room. 
 
 Then after about ten minutes Mr. Delaney came up with his hat in his hand, 
 and said,— • 
 
 ** Are you ready, my dear ?" 
 
 " Oh yes," said his wife, « I am ready ; but it's quite a shame to leave you by 
 yourself, Mrs. Morton, quite a shame, I declare." 
 
 " Not at all," replied Mrs. Morton ; '•' I must write to Morton this morning, or he 
 will think it so odd ; and, besides, I know you have friends to call upon where I 
 ought not to force you to introduce me ; so be off with you, but tell me when you 
 will be back." 
 
 " About Twelve," replied Mrs. Delaney, and then away they went. 
 
 On the instant I retired to my room, and dressed myself with the most extraor- 
 dinary care I could, so that I thought I cut by no means a contemptible figure, 
 and then down stairs I went, and treading as softly as I could, I reached the 
 landing of the drawing-room, where there was a chair, a statue, and one or 
 two ornamental matters, for it was a very large house, which admitted of such 
 embellishments. 
 
 I sat down on the chair, and gave a loud groan, — 
 
 In a moment there was a movement in the drawing-room, and Mrs. Morton said 
 - in rather a timid tone of voice. 
 
 " Who is there ? Who is there?' 
 
 I gave another groan at this, and then she very carefully opened the door, and 
 upon seeing me, gave such a start that I was afraid it would be followed by a 
 scream, and that, consequently, the landlady would be alarmed, which would 
 have quite spoiled my scheme. But she controlled herself, and then, before she 
 could say anything, I said in a faint voice, into which I flatter myself I threw a 
 world of pathos and expression, — 
 
 " Pardon me, madam, I shall ever consider it to be one of the most unfortunate 
 events of my life if I have given you any alarm. The fact is, I lodge up stairs, 
 but having been in the army, I was slightly wounded in the chest, and now and 
 then, if 1 come up stairs quickly, I am forced to sit down to rest myself 
 before I can get on any further. Pray, pardon me^madam, for giving you any 
 disturbance.'' 
 
 " Oh, don't think anything of it, sir," she said ; " I hope you are better." 
 "A little, madam, a little." 
 
 " But I cannot allow a — a gentleman to sit there. Pray walk into the 
 drawing-room until you are sufficiently recovered to go up stairs. I beg that you 
 will, sir." 
 
5S6 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 This was just what I wanted, and into the drawing-room accoidiDgly I walked, 
 considering that I certainly had effected the introduction rather cleverly than 
 otherwise. I closed the door, and was tete-a-tete with Mrs. Morton, who evi- 
 dently was smitten a littie with my appearance, into which I threw, I think, much 
 interest and expression. 
 
 " Madam," I said, " this is a great condescension on your part, and one for 
 which I owe you more heartfelt thanks than my poor stock of eloquence will 
 enable me to utter. I am quite sure that this is an intrusion, madam, because the 
 censorious world would blame you — I am certain it would — for even the common 
 feelings of humanity ; and yet how wrong would a harsh judgment be ; but when 
 a woman of surpassing charms does the simplest act of a gentle and kindly nature, 
 she makes for herself immediately a world of detractors." 
 
 "I am afraid, sir, that is but too true,'* she replied. "But I don't think, 
 however, that so simple a courtesy as inviting a gentleman to sit down for a 
 few minutes on account of indisposition, can be construed into anything at 
 all improper." 
 
 4 e It is monstrous, madam, that it should be so, and yet it is so." 
 " And do you really think, sir, that " 
 
 " Hush, I hear some one coming up the stairs. It's perhaps the landlady's foot, 
 and if she found me here, she might insist upon my leaving her house, besides 
 making no end of mischief by the manner in which she would relate the cir- 
 cumstance." 
 
 " And my husband is so jealous V* exclaimed Mrs. Morton. " Good, God, sir, 
 what shall I do?" 
 
 " Hush — hush ! trust to me. The honour of a soldier, you know. I will just 
 pop into the bedroom until she is gone, and no one need ever know that you for a 
 moment listened to the dictates of a heart which " 
 
 There was a movement of the lock of the door, and without finishing my speech 
 I popped into the bedroom adjoining the drawing-room, from where I could hear 
 what passed, and the landlady I heard say, — 
 
 " Lor, Mrs. Morton, you are alone ; I thought that Mrs. Delaney had surely 
 come home again, for I could have sworn that I heard the sound of voices." 
 
 "No — no," said Mrs. Morton, falteringly; "I am alone." 
 
 '* So I see. I'll just go and put the bedroom a little tidy, and " 
 
 "No, no, not yet — not just now if you please," cried Mrs. Morton. " I — I— 
 that is, not now. I have a letter to write, and I cannot write except in absolute 
 silence. Not now, if you please, Mrs. Shaw. In — in about half an hour you 
 can come, but I have no leisure just now. Thank you, thank you, any time but 
 now, if you please ; I must write to Bath directly — yes, directly." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVIII. 
 
 THE ARRIVAL OF MR. MORTON. — A PREDICAMENT. 
 
 This was all as I wished. If I had planned the thing myself, it could not have 
 been better. Mrs. Morton was so far committed now, that I made sure of making 
 something by the affair, and I listened with pleasure to the brief conversation I 
 have related to the reader, and which ended in the landlady with a very dissatisfied 
 look leaving the drawing-room. 
 
 In about a minute Mrs. Morton came into the bedroom, and in the most agitated 
 manner, she said, — 
 
 " Sir, I implore you to leave the room directly. You can imagine, but perhaps 
 scarcely know, the amount of evil to which you expose me by staying. Go at once, 
 I implore." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 557 
 
 *' Oh, Heavens !"I said, " is it my wretched fate to be for ever the bane of those 
 whom I love." 
 "Love, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, madam, love — love, ecstatic love. The compassion you have shown 
 towards me — the tender interest — the gentleness of your manner — all, all have 
 conspired to awaken in my bosom feelings " 
 
 " Oh, cease, cease ! I dare not, and will not, hear this, sir. Let the con- 
 sequences be what they may, I will alarm the house if you do not leave the room 
 directly." 
 
 She laid her hand upon a bell-rope as she spoke, and looked so much in earnest, 
 that I was mortified to think I had not made the amount of impression upon her 
 that I had hoped and supposed. However, there was no help for it just then, so I 
 at once made a movement to the door, saying as I went, — 
 
 " Heaven forbid that I should be a source of trouble or vexation to one who 
 will always hold a place in my heart. Farewell, madam, for ever ! I will leave 
 the house, rather than my presence in it should be of evil omen to you ; but 
 when you hear, as soon you will, that the grave has closed over me, give a sigh 
 to the memory of one whose last moments will be made the happier by your 
 remembrance.'!? 
 
 She looked affected, and I fancied I 3aw a tear in her eye. 
 
 " Sir," she said, " I am not offended with you, but it is absolutely necessary 
 that I should never see you again. Go, sir, and if my respect and sympathy be of 
 any value to you, take them freely." 
 
 I really was about to leave the room, for I did not think it expedient just then 
 to go any further, when there came a loud knock at the street door, and before she 
 recovered from the alarm that seized upon her, the sound of voices were heard 
 upon the stairs, and the tramp of feet. 
 
 u I am lost," she said. " There are Mr§. and Mr. Delaney." 
 
 " Hush !" said I. <c Don't be alarmed. Depend upon me. You engage their 
 attention in the front room, keep the door of communication closed, and I will 
 escape out of the door there, opening on to the staircase. You may depend upon 
 that." 
 
 " Do n«t — oh, for God's sake, do not deceive me," she said. 
 " Depend upon me. I swear I will not." 
 
 She seemed satisfied, and, leaving me in the bedroom, went into the drawing- 
 room, at the door of which Mr. and Mrs. Delaney had arrived. But there was 
 another person with them, and, rather to my dismay, I heard Mr. Delaney say,— 
 
 " Now wasn't it odd, Mrs. Morton, that we should actually meet Morton about 
 two streets off, looking for this house ; so here he is ; we gave up our visits, and 
 I brought him home at once with us." 
 
 I did not wait to hear the reply of Mrs. Morton, but left the bedroom as I had 
 promised to do, by the door opening on to the landing, and I ran up stairs into 
 my own room as fast as I could, congratulating myself upon rather a narrow escape 
 that I had had from Mr. Morton, who, I had before heard, was not the most mild 
 and agreeable man in the world, besides being a little infected with the green-eyed 
 monster. 
 
 " Now," I said to myself, " what shall I make by all this — money or intrigue? 
 Money ! yes, it's money I want, and money I will and must have. Mrs. Morton, 
 you have been a little imprudent, and I must make you pay for it, as a lesson 
 to you, through life, to let gentlemen go on groaning as long as tbey like on 
 a stair landing, before you allow them to walk into your apartments. Perhaps 
 I'm really doing you a deal of service, Mrs. Morton." 
 
 I sat down and wrote the following note : — 
 
 " He who adores you, and who so narrowly escaped the jealous rage of your 
 husband, feels that the greatest miseries will fall upon you, unless you get, 
 for ever, rid of him, and that should he and you remain now in the same 
 house, nothing can prevent the affair coming to your husband's ears. Your 
 
558 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 adorer wishes to leave but certain debts, amounting to one hundred pounds, 
 prevent him. He will watch your husband out, and come for an answer to 
 this. If he gets from you the money, he will be off the next hour, and you may 
 feel perfectly at your ease about the whole transaction." 
 
 The drawing-room door was frequently allowed to stand open, and as I passed 
 it to go early out, after having written this epistle, I placed it folded up on the 
 chair outside, and, as I did so, I saw that Mis. Morton, Tho was standing by 
 one of the windows, saw it. 
 
 I left it entirely to her own choice how to get possession of it unobserved. 
 
 When I came home, I found my landlady's parlour door wide open, and as 
 I was passing, she said, — 
 
 " Oh, sir, can I have the pleasure of speaking to you for a few moments." 
 
 " Certainly,, madam," I said. 
 
 "Well, then, sir," she added, in a confidential tone, after she had closed the 
 door, "I don't know who and what you may be, of course, sir, but I aint blind, 
 nor quite a fool either. Do you understand me now t 1 
 
 I affected a deal of chagrin, and said in an off-handed manner, as if the 
 words slipped out quite unawares, and I uttered them from sheer simple- 
 nes6, — 
 
 "Good God! then somebody has told you that I am the Earl of . 
 
 Gracious, what am I saying ? perhaps betraying myself when there is no occasion. 
 Madam, I am such a nobleman. I — I assure you it was a mere slip of the tongue. 
 I — I am not an earl at all, madam." 
 
 " Oh, my lord," said the landlady, getting up and curtseying most profoundly, 
 "pray, pardon me, I always thought your lordship was a lord, from the first 
 moment I saw you, my lord ; and, as I was saying, my lord, what I can do 
 for your lordship will be the greatest pleasure in life. Pray, my lord, sit down. 
 Oh, this is an honour, my lordL" 
 
 "Madam," I said, with an air of vexation, "keep my secret, since you have 
 learned it, I beg of you. I thought I should have been able to keep up my incognito 
 most easily, but you have discovered me." 
 
 " Yes, my lord, and — a-hem ! — hem, the lady's up stairs." 
 
 "Hush ! hush!" 
 
 " Ob, my lord, a nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse. But why didn't 
 your lordship tell me at once what was in the wind? I'm sure, my lord, you 
 might have trusted me to have been your friend. Oh, my lord, when I know now 
 that your lordship is a lord, it's a very different thing, indeed, and I'm sure I 
 should not have said one word to Mr. Morton." 
 
 " Why, you don't mean to say you have been saying anything to him ?" 
 
 " Only a word or two ; nothing particular, my lord. I only told him that his 
 wife had had a gentleman that lodged up stairs in her bedroom. That's all, 
 my lord." 
 
 " The devil, and enough too." 
 
 " You see, my lord, not knowing your lordship was a lord, I thought it my duty 
 to watch what was going on in my house, so I saw you watching from the stair- 
 head, and that's how I came to know, my lord. But that was all I said, I 
 assure you." 
 
 "Why, madam, you could not very well say more, for that was all there 
 was to say. And what sort of reception did Mr. Morton give to the infor- 
 mation?" 
 
 " Why, he certainly did not seem to like it." 
 " No, I should think not." 
 
 "But what he means to do I don't know exactly. I'm very sorry, my lord, 
 that I didn't know your lordship was a lord, you see. I was bound to look after 
 the respectability of my house, till I knew your lordship was a lord." 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
NEWGATE, 
 
 559 
 
 " But, now, anything that is in my power to do, I'm sure I shall have great 
 pleasure in doing." 
 
 " I don't know, madam, that there is anything exactly just at present. By-the- 
 by, my private secretary will come here to bring me some cash, for current 
 expenses, as I have none with me. Be pleased to take or him fifty pounds. He 
 will ask for me by the name of Foxglove, and I may not be at home, you 
 know." 
 
 " Well, but, my lord, I can let your lordship have any money till the gentleman 
 comes. Would twenty pounds he a convenience ?" 
 
 " Perhaps so. Thank you. You can pay yourself, you know." 
 " Oh, don't mention that, my lord." 
 
 She gave me twenty pounds, which I put into my pocket with all the indifference 
 in the world, and then I proceeded up stairs ; after which I went out, for I did not 
 Wait until evening to execute my grand project, which I hoped would he com - 
 pletely successful, and result in tilling my pockets. 
 
 It was just dusk when I came back to the house, and my landlady met me in 
 the passage, saying, — 
 
 " The private secretary hasn't been, sir, — my lord, I mean." 
 
 " Indeed ! then he must be watched by the countess," said I. " I suspected he 
 would. But I must have money, or to-morrow morning I shall be much obliged 
 if you will go yourself with a cheque to Coutts' bank." 
 
 " Oh, no trouble, my lord, at all, none in the least. I will go with pleasure 
 Thank you, my loid. A-hem — a — a-hem ! I think a certain person is up stairs. 
 Dear me, what a fine night it is — a-hem !" 
 
 I quite understood these hints, and walked up stairs, fully intending to bring 
 affairs to a climax as regarded the one hundred pounds which I had asked of the 
 lady, and which I quite expected to have possession of soon — a most desirable cir- 
 cumstance as far as I was concerned, in the state of my finances. 
 
 All was still up stairs, and I thought the game was as completely in my hands 
 as anything couldjwell be, I ran up to my own room, however, first, and made 
 every preparation for leaving the house at once, not to return to it when I should 
 get hold of the one hundred pounds from Mrs. Morton. 
 
 As for the twenty pounds from the landlady, I considered the taking that of her 
 as a just punishment for the manner in which she showed she was inclined to 
 pander to the vices of the aristocracy. 
 
 Having then pecked up the few things I had brought with me, and placed them 
 in my pockets all ready for flight, I went on to the landing, and listened and looked. 
 A lamp was always burning at night outside the drawing-room door on a bracket, 
 so that I had no difficulty in seeing that, after a few minutes, the door was opened 
 a little way, and so left, which I construed into an invitation to me to go down. 
 
 Hastily then snatching up my hat, and putting my gloves in my pocket, down I 
 tripped to the landing, directly outside the drawing-room door, and gave a sharp 
 cough, which was speedily answered by one from within the room. Now, I knew, 
 I was all right, and, cautiously opening the door, I walked in. 
 
 There, sure enough, was Mrs. Morton alone, and looking rather agitated; but 
 that did not matter to me. It was money I wanted, and money I would have. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIX. 
 
 THE CATASTROPHE. A PERILOUS ADVENTURE. 
 
 She started at the sight of me, and well she might. I dare say she looked upon 
 me at that time as her evil genius, and, I must confess, I did personate something 
 of that character at that time. I saw her hands tremble, as she placed them on the 
 elbows of the chair on which she sat, to raise herself.. 
 
560 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Oh, sir," she said, u is this manly — is it generous — is it just ?" 
 u Madam," I said, " you drive me to despair. Such reproaches I did not expect 
 from one to whom I had opened my whole heart, as I have to you. Spare me, I 
 
 beseech you." 
 
 " Spare you, sir ! Have you spared me ? Oh, sir, you certainly have the triumph, 
 poor as it is, of overcoming a weak, defenceless woman. If my husband were other 
 than what he is, I should have claimed protection at his hands ; but, by his un- 
 founded jealousy of me, he has prevented me having confidence in him, and left me 
 to be the prey of such as you are." 
 
 il I regret, madam, that you think it at all necessary to reproaeh me, and the 
 only thing I can do is to leave you, and, in doing so, I leave my heart behind me. 
 I never loved until I looked upon you, and shall never love again." 
 
 "Peace, sir; do not add insult to injury. Here is the price of my redemption 
 from your presence. Take it. You will find there a note for one hundred pounds, 
 and now begone." 
 
 I was quite as anxious as the lady could possibly be to take my departure. I had 
 got the money, and that was all I wanted, although some people, I dare say, will 
 tell me thatl did not get it in the most immaculate way in the world ; but that is 
 beside the question — I am confessing how 1 really lived. Abuse my morals as much 
 as you please, but praise for my candour. 
 
 " Mrs. Morton," I said, ''I am going, and should Ave ever meet again " 
 
 " Oh, no, no! I hope to Heaven we never may," she exclaimed. " Go at once. 
 You know not the danger of staying, for I am sure, from my husband's manner, he 
 already suspects." 
 
 '< Suspects what V 
 
 The lady turned very pale, and stood in a listening attitude that gave me some 
 alarm, for I certainly did not want to come into collision with Mr. Morton. There 
 was decidedly everything to lose and nothing to gain by such a rencontre. 
 
 " Hush, hush !" she said again, " do you hear nothing?" 
 
 I listened attentively, and then being tolerably near the door, I felt certain that I 
 heard the cautious, creeping tread of some one coming up the staircase. That it 
 was the jealous husband I did not entertain a doubt for a moment, and I felt a 
 strong presentiment that something had to be done that might be very far from 
 pleasant. 
 
 Mrs. Morion clasped her hands, and sunk back into a chair looking the colour 
 of death itself. 
 
 "Madam," I said, rapidly mustering up all the resolution I could, " be not 
 alarmed, I will, as I did upon a former occasion, make my escape from the bed- 
 room, and if you can but, by force or by fraud, keep him two minutes in this 
 apartment, you may be sure that I am gone," 
 
 There was no time to lose, so I at once went into the bedroom, and crept over 
 the door opening upon the landing, in order that I might be ready to pop out the 
 instant Mr. Morton came into the front drawing-room. I felt tolerably easy, for 
 I looked upon my escape as a certainty, 
 
 "What, however, were my feelings, when instead of going directly into the 
 drawing-room his first act was to lock the bedroom door upon the outside, where 
 the key happened to be, so that I was a prisoner. 
 
 I must own that the blood rushed tingling to my face, and then retreated to my 
 heart, and I felt a cold dew of perspiration upon my brow. But I soon rallied. 
 Desperate circumstances require desperate remedies, and I was not the man to 
 shrink above a moment or two from the inevitable. 
 
 He then walked intothe drawing-room, and slammed the door close behind him. 
 I could not hear whether he locked that or not. I heard a faint shriek come from 
 Mrs. Morton, and I suspected he had laid violent hands upon her ; but I kep.t 
 myself concealed. 
 
 " So, madam," he said, " the journey to London is explained." 
 
 " Good God ! what do you mean V she said. " Are you out of your mind ?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 561 
 
 I don't think she was aware of the locking of the bedroom door, and was 
 flattering herself that all was right, and that I had by that time made my escape. 
 
 " What do I mean V he cried. " Shameless woman, dare you look me in the 
 face, and ask me such a question? But you shall know too soon, probably, for 
 your peace, what I mean. Now, madam, we shall see if your paramour can bear 
 the sight of cold steel." 
 
 " Oh, good Heavens ! why did 
 you bring that sword stick with 
 you, Mr. Morton ?" she ex- 
 claimed. " Do not, oh, do not in 
 your rage, think of using such a 
 weapon. Do not murder me." 
 
 "No," he said, " it is not you 
 that I intend to murder; but the 
 person who is in your bed- 
 room." 
 
 " In my bedroom ? How can 
 you have such a suspicion ? Go, 
 and look for yourself, sir, and 
 you will then own how much you 
 have wronged me." 
 
 " We shall see, madam, we 
 shall see." 
 
 He flung open the door of the 
 bedroom as he spoke. A shriek 
 came from Mrs. Morton ; for 
 there, sure enough, was I as 
 large as life — I whom she ex- 
 pected had made my escape, not knowing how cleverly the diabolical suggestions 
 of the jealousy of Mr. Morton had prevented me from so doing, 
 
 " Villain," he cried, and he made a lunge at me with a sword that he had taken 
 out of a stick. It was a long, bright, glistening, three-cornered weapon, and 
 would have gone as easily through anybody as aline needle through a ball of cotton. 
 
 I did certainly avoid the lunge, and made a rush into the front room, throwing 
 down a chair in my way which embarrassed my enemy for a moment, while Mrs. 
 Morton's screams seemed to be in a fair way for alarming the whole house. 
 
 In, however, trying to make my way to the door, I nearly fell orer a confounded 
 foot-ottoman that was placed provokingly in my way, and so Mr. Morton 
 
 No, 71. 
 
562 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 recovered from the entanglement of the chajr and was upon me again ; and this 
 time, bad T not flung a small tableful of china orn aments suddenly between us, 
 he would have entirely run me though, but as it was, he half fell over it, with the 
 sword extended out before him ; it was the action of a moment to snatch it from 
 his hand. 
 
 Now, I was by no means intent on resisting, but'he was getting dangerous for 
 all that, and I would have gone away quietly if he would have let me. There was 
 some little difficulty in opening the door of the drawing-room ; it stuck a little, 
 and he ran at me. I had only time to turn and shorten my arm mechanically, and 
 the sword went clean through bis chest until the bit of wooden handle with its silver 
 mounts that I held in my hand, struck against him, and we were face to face 
 within twelve inches of each other. 
 
 I never shall forget that horrible countenance as it glared upon me, it was truly 
 teirific; the eyes were protruding from their sockets, and frightfully congested 
 with blood ; the face was awfully distorted and ghastlypale ; while a stream of gore 
 came out of each side of his mouth. He held up his arms, and tried to shriek. 
 
 I think I remained while any one might have counted six, slowly in the same 
 attitude, so transfixed was I at what had happened, and he dropping the sword just 
 as he was about to fall forward upon me, 1 giving him at the same moment an im- 
 pulse backwards, and rushed from the place. 
 
 The landlady was on the staircase about half a dozen steps from the bottom, 
 but with one blow right in the middle of the face, for beraying me to Morton, 
 I sent her insensible to the floor, then springing over, I gained the street door, a 
 in another moment was in the street. 
 
 * * * * *'■'•*" * 
 
 I went to an hotel about a mile off', and ordered myself a cold chichen and a 
 bottle, of choice Madeira announcing my intention to sleep there that night. 
 
 After I had fortified myself with about three parts of the Madeira, I turned my 
 thoughts to what was to be done next, and I thought that upon the whole it would 
 be more prudent than otherwise to leave London for a time, and as that to my mind, 
 involved the necessity likewise of leaving England, for 1 know that if I could not 
 conceal myself in London, I could not do so in the country. I went to the French 
 embessy and got a passport in the name of Smith— a capital travelling name, and 
 one which £has| this advan tage, namely, that you are sure not to forget to 
 yourself, which you are almost certain to do. if you adopt some fine romantic 
 narse. 
 
 Before I left, though I wanted to get what news I could, and accordingly I went 
 into a coffee-shop were I knew the morning papers were taken in, and bespeaking 
 the Times, " after the last geutleman," I at last got it, and found in leaded pica a 
 paragraph headed in large caps with, — 
 
 " Horrible Occurrence. — We have to record a circumstance which has perfectly 
 convulsed the public mind. A murder of the most horrible atrocity was commit ed 
 last night in Charlotte-street, Fitzroy-square ; we have only time and space now to 
 state that the victim is the injured husband of a lady of great personal attractions, 
 and that the murderer is a noble earl high in the confidence of his majesty, and 
 who was carrying on a liaison with the lady, which, upon being discovered by 
 the husband, led to the frightful result. The lady is insane, and the noble lord for 
 the present is not to be found. We shall print a second edition should any parti- 
 culars of importance reach us." 
 
 In the Herald, Post, and other papers, were similar paragraphs, and I had no 
 doubt but. that the landlady had told about my being an earl, and that a title had 
 been found for me. But still, notwithstanding that this somewhat threw the scent 
 off me individually, I thought it highly desirable to get away as soon as I could. 
 I hastened my departure for France by getting upon a Dover coach as soon as 
 oae started. 
 
 Without any accident I reached Dover, which I thought was, had it not been for 
 the castle, one of the most miserable-looking dirty places I had ever seen. How- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 563 
 
 ever, I made inquiries for the Calais packet and found that I had the whole of the 
 night before me, for she would not start till the following morning. 
 
 I therefore walked about and amused myself the best way 1 could, and when I 
 got tired I put up at a respectable inn. I sat in the cofTee-room until the time at 
 which I usually retired to rest had arrived, and was smoking a cigar and tippling 
 some brandy-and- water; I had got into a contemplative mood, so that I did not, 
 for some time, notice that there was only myself and one other person in the room, 
 and he was sitting opposite to me. I was aroused from my half-sleepy state of 
 abstraction by his making a remark, — 
 
 "A squally night, sir," he said. 
 
 Upon this, I looked up and saw that he was a thin wiry-looking man, of about 
 five feet eight inches in height, with a pair of remarkably keen-looking eyes, which 
 were fixed upon me. — 
 
 "Is it a squally night?" I said, 
 
 " Why, yes, it is : don't you hear the wind rolling about among the chimney pots, 
 sir ft 
 
 " Oh, yes, I hear it now ; but really T did not before, for I was thinking of home, 
 from which I have been too long absent, and I was so rejoiced to feel that I was in 
 old England again, that I did not pay much heed to the weather." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXX. 
 
 THE FATE OF THE OFFICER. PEOPLE SHOULD MIND THEIR OWN BUSINESS. 
 
 From the first moment that I looked upon this man, I knew that he was an 
 officer. I have an instinctive knowledge of them that is never at fault. I knew him 
 by his manner, and in a moment felt all my danger, and so it was that I made th© 
 speech I did, merely to throw him off his guard a little, and make him think it 
 possible I was an arival from the continent instead of an intended departure. 
 
 " You have come over, then, sir V* he said. 
 
 " 1 have, in to-day's packet/' 
 
 " Oh, indeed, I never was in France, and never shall be, I dare say. How do 
 you like France, sir !* 
 
 "Oh, very wel), I cannot say I like it so well as England, besides, my family is 
 here. I travel for a warehouse.'' 
 
 " Indeed, I am in the hardware line." 
 
 The fool could not h^lp giving a sort of chuckle at what he considered his own 
 wit, which was enough to have at once betrayed him to anybody with half a grain 
 of sense ; but, then, I always found that the policemen are unquestionably the 
 stupidest part of the community. Their successes all depend upon the nervousness 
 and fear of those whom they grapple ; a man with tolerable self-possession may 
 outwit them easily enough. 
 
 "And do you stay here, sir, housed for the night ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly, and to-morrow morning I go to London as soon as I can get a 
 conveyance." 
 
 " Well, sir, it's nothing strange, perhaps, but I am going to-morrow to London 
 myself, and shall order a postchaise, and I can only say that 1 shall be much dis- 
 appointed if you do not accompany me." 
 
 Then the fool gave another chuekle ; and he no doubt thought he was getting on 
 amazingly well and most thoroughly hoodwinking me. 
 
 Sir," I said, " such an offer is so unexpected and so gentlemanly, that I canno 
 tell what to say to it." 
 
564 . 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Oh, do not refuse it on that score." 
 
 f Well, then, sir, I accept your politeness, with many thanks, an ° e ready 
 
 whenever you please. I hope that you will do me the favour, bef re weseparate 
 for the night, to crack a bottle with me." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, I don't feel quite inclined for bed yet." 
 
 We had a bottle of the best wine the house afforded, and with the aid of cigars 
 we managed to pass a very agreeable hour together, until by the waiter coming in 
 to yawn and 10 snuff the candles, I saw that it was bey«nd the usual time of rest, 
 and I desired to be shown to my own room. 
 
 The officer rose likewise, declared he did not think it had been so late, aud 
 demanded his chamber candlestick, and when we got up stairs, he said,— 
 
 " Hilloa, I see, sir, we are next door neighbours, for vou sleep in No. 7, and I 
 in No. 8." 
 
 "All the tetter," said I, "for when you rise in the morning if you will knock at 
 the partition I shall know you are ready, as you say you want to start at an 
 early hour." 
 
 il Thank you— thank you. I will knock at your partition, you may depend, and 
 will pay every attention to you in the morning, sir ;" and then the fool laughed 
 again. Why, he must have thought me as great an idiot as himself. 
 
 We bade each other good night, and when I got into my room, I made an 
 accurate survey of it, and found that the division between it and that of the officer 
 was but of wainscot, and that the least sound from one room was sure to be heard 
 in the other. This was awkward, for I fancied it highly probable that my gentleman 
 would keep a good watch upon me, and 1 made up my mind to try an experiment 
 to that effect. 
 
 I opened my door and stepped out into the corridor, when in an instant he did 
 the same, exclaiming, — 
 
 "Hilloa, what's the matter — what's the matter?" 
 " Nothing, I suppose. But I thought I heard a noise." 
 " Ah, indeed so did I. But I suppose it was nothing." 
 " Perhaps the cat," said I. 
 "Very likely. Goodnight." 
 
 " Good night." And I went into my room again, but I took care this time not 
 to shut my door fast, although I held it with the latch turned so as to seem to do 
 so, until he had gone into his room again. 
 
 It rather puzzled me to think how and by whom he had been set upon my 
 track, for I had trusted nobody ; but so it was, and had no sort of doubt in the 
 world but that on the following morning he would politely suggest that it would be 
 more convenient to him if I travelled to London with a pair of handcuffs on me ; 
 so that something ought to be done that mght I felt quite clear about. 
 
 By dint of looking carefully ever the wall of wainscot, I found a knot in the 
 wood which stuck out a little in the direction of my room, and with my penknife 
 I managed, without the least noise, to thoroughly loosen it, and finally pull it 
 through, when I had a very tolerable peep-pole, and could see perfectly well into 
 the officer's room. I was soon satisfied. 
 
 He was not making the slightest preparation for going to bed, but sat at a table, 
 on which he had placed a pair of pistols, a pair of handcuffs, and a printed paper, 
 at the head of which I eould see in large letters the words, — " £200 Reward." 
 
 I had no doubt, although I could not . see sufficient of the paper to read it, that 
 it contained a tolerably accurate description of myself, and every now and then he 
 held his head on one side, and listened with all the attention he possibly could, in 
 order to hear what I was about ; but I kept profoundly still, and he must have 
 been very much puzzled to know whether I had gone to bed or not. 
 
 My measures were now soon taken. The officer must be got rid of, by fair 
 means or by foul. The former he was not at all likely to listen to, but the latter 
 might be made a matter of compulsion ; and so I determined that it should be, and 
 forsaking my peep-hole in the wall, I prepared myself for action. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 565 
 
 I had among my luggage one of those terrifically powerful weapons, when they 
 are of a large size and well made, called life preservers. Their more fitting name 
 should be life destroyers, and this I got out of my carpet bag, which, by-the-bye, 
 contained all that I brought with me. 
 
 I had pistols, but the noise of fire-arms is against their use. 
 
 Armed, then, with my life preserver, I let my door swing open noiselessly, and 
 walked into the corridor upon my soles, for I had taken off my boots some time 
 before, in order to impress the officer with a notion that I did not at all meditate 
 an escape from the inn. 
 
 Now, it is certainly true that possibly with some trouble and perseverance I 
 might have escaped from the inn ; but it would have been attended with the greatest 
 amount of risk, and when I could do something else of a much safer character, 1 
 did not feel at all inclined to take the greatest amount of trouble, to run the 
 most risk. 
 
 That's sound philosophy, I believe. 
 
 Well, then, to proceed— -I walked in and out from my room into the corridor, 
 and tripped lightly to the door of the officer's apartment, at which I listened for 
 some few moments, and I heard him, as I thought, muttering something to himself; 
 but it had no interest to me, as I could not understand it, and so I cut the matter 
 short by knocking on the door panel with my knuckles. 
 
 I heard him start to his feet in a moment. 
 
 « Eh !" he cried, 16 who's that, eh?" 
 
 He opened the door, and then before he could take the least alarm, or make the 
 smallest movement to avoid me, I gave him such a smashing blow on the face with 
 the life preserver that he fell down without a sigh as if he had been struck by 
 lightning. 
 
 I walked over him into the ro®m, and closed the door in a moment. 
 
 I was right ; the printed paper did contain my r description, and stated that it had 
 been ascertained I had got a passport from the French consulate under the name 
 of Smith, so that I rejoiced at the escape I had made. A purse was on the table, 
 and that soon found its way to my pocket. The pistols 1 placed in the water 
 jug. The printed paper I set light to, and let blaze away in the fireplace, and then 
 I turned to look at the officer. 
 
 The blow with the life preserver had taken terrific effect. It had hit him on 
 the frontal bone, just above one of his eyes, and had dashed the bone in, and the 
 eye out. He was quite dead. He looked ugly enough with a lot of smeared, 
 thickening blood upon his face, and the odd round-looking, glaring eye d that ha 
 been knocked out from its socket resting on his cheek. 
 
 Really he had better have been in London taking small fry in the shape of 
 pickpockets than interfering with me. I was too much for him, and he reaped the 
 consequences of his folly. 
 
 I took the key carefully out of the inside of his door and locked it on the out, 
 and then I went into my own room and wrote in pencil upon a piece of paper, — 
 
 "Don't call me till 10." 
 
 This I wafered up upon the outside of the dead man's door, for I wanted. *o be 
 off before they found out the little accident that had happened at the inn. 
 
 After all that, I went and had a comfortable few hours' sleep, and when i awoke, 
 it was early morning, and some cock was crowing most vociferously in the neigh- 
 bouring yard. The packet started at nine, so that I considered I had plenty of 
 time and to spare, before any discovery took place regarding the officer. I waited 
 in my room'till a boy came up with the boots belonging to me, and which at early 
 dawn I had put outside my door. 
 
 "Hilloa," I said, "do you see what the gentleman in No. 8 has put upon his 
 door ?" 
 
 " Oh, ah— well I never. Yes ; don't call me till ten. Oh, I don't want to cal 
 you ; you needn't have been so afeard." 
 
 " You had better mention it," I said, «« down stairs, for he told me that in 
 onsequence of a pain he had in his eye he could not ' c :et any sleep in the former 
 
568 
 
 NEWGATE 
 
 part of the night, so he didn't want to be disturbed at all early. I'd make it after 
 ten if I were you, my lad, rather than before it." 
 Yes, sir, I wool," said the boy. 
 ' That's right. Here is a shilling for yourself, and say that I shall be down 
 directly, and as I'm going off by the Calais packet, I want my breakfast at 
 once." 
 
 The shilling made the boy quite enthusiastic in my service, and I took as good a 
 breakfast as 1 had ever had in my life ; only now and then I listened if I heard any 
 unusual noise in the inn. I felt for the keys of the officer's room which 1 had in my 
 pocket, so that if they did knock at his door for any purpose, it would be some time 
 before they would make up their minds to break it open. 
 
 About twenty minutes before nine, I went down to the packet and got on board, 
 but then when nine o'clock came, it did not start, but waited for some confounded J 
 Lord Somebody, who had not finished his breakfast at the Royal Hotel. Oh, how 
 I cursed him in my very heart — how I wished him choked. Half-past nine eame 
 — a quarter to ten came and I got desperate, when his lordship made his 
 appearance. 
 
 The packet was got under weigh, and we were about a quarter of a mile out, 
 when somebody came running down to the quay, and there was an appearance of 
 bustle — a flag was hoisted. 
 
 " They want us to put back for something," said the captain, "but I have 
 waited long enough for one humbug and another, and I'll be damned if I do." 
 
 " Bravo ! bravo !" said I, " that's right, that's right." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXI. 
 
 I ARRIVE AT CALAIS, BUT DO NOT THINK PROPER TO TROUBLE MY READERS WITH 
 FRENCH ADVENTUBES. 
 
 Perhaps at some future time when I have leisure and inclination so to do, 
 I shall put pen to paper for the express purpose of writing some curious matters 
 which befel me in the French metropolis, but at present 1 do not think proper to 
 mix them up with my English adventures. 
 
 Let it suffice that after a very good and unusually short passage, the packet 
 landed me at Calais, and 1 only stayed in that town long enough to take my place 
 in the diligence for Paris, where I fully intended to remain some time. 
 
 I will not trouble you with descriptions of the route from Calais to Paris, nor with 
 any remarks concerning the vast difference between travelling in England and 
 travelling in France, for all that has been done ad nausem before, by such a 
 number of tourists, that the last hundred ought to have been ashamed of 
 themselves. 
 
 I did reach Paris, and I must confess, as I had " money in my purse/' I 
 plunged rather freely into the vices, and what may be called the dissipations, of that 
 metropolis ; of which all I choose just now to say is, that we think ourselves a very 
 ingenious notion in all sorts of iniquity,, but the French certainly take us out of 
 the field in vice. The only field by the way that they ever did or ever will keep 
 us out of. 
 
 I rem? 'ned in Paris two years, and by that time I thought I should be wholly 
 forgottet .n England ; and moreover had been longing to return for many a 
 weary month. 
 
 " England, with all thy faults I lovo thee still," 
 
 he 
 
 I was continually saying to myself, and besides—- but this is a secret, — t 6Q 
 " chevaliers d'industrie of Paris rather got the better of me, and I found it not so 
 easy there to live upoa nothing a year like a gentleman as I did in London ; 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 567 
 
 defying fate, one fine morning I went to Dieppe and so en route for London by 
 Brighton. 
 
 During mv residence in the French capital, I had cultivated a very tolerable 
 pair of moustaches, and somehow or another I had got anti- Anglicised in appear- 
 ance very much, so that I had not much chance of being known, and besides my 
 native assurance 1 relied upon to carry me through any disagreeables that might 
 turn up. 
 
 "I won't work," I said to myself, "and I will live ; moreover, I will live like a 
 gentleman, too ; I can't do without my bottle of wine a day ; I can't do without 
 good and fashionable clothing j in fact, I would rather be dead than live such a 
 vegetable existence as the common herd do ; and now they think they will hang 
 me, do they? No— no. That won't do at any price." 
 
 I did not at all intend to stay at Brighton, but I am a creature of impulse. I did 
 linger there, for an adventure came in my way which I will now relate to my 
 readers. 
 
 It was four o'clock in the afternoon when I reached Brighton, and although 
 there was a coach starting at half-past six for London, 1 resolved upon waiting 
 until the morning, and accordinnly went, as I always do, into the best hotel in the 
 place. In nine cases out of ten they don't charge more than a commoner place, 
 and if they do, I go away without paying at all, so the best hotels for me. 
 
 I flatter myself that my appearance'does something when I go into an hotel, and in 
 this instance it acted as usual upon the waiters, who followed me with adulation 
 in way, word, and lock. 
 
 " Where's the landlord?" 
 
 '* He will come to you, sir, directly, sir — sir — yes, sir." 
 The landlord did come, as I was taking off my gloves. 
 
 <' Oh, that will do," said I. " When I come into an hotel, I always make a point 
 of sending for the landlord, and then if I order anything which is not done exactly 
 proper, or is not the first-rate article, there is no excuse to say he did not know I 
 was in the house." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said the landlord, " thank you, sir, my much obliged ; what 
 name shall I have the honour of placing in the book, sir ?" 
 
 " I will write it myself." * 
 
 He brought in the hotel-book, in which I wrote the Marquis — and then followed 
 such a flourish, that it would puzzle the devil himself to read it. It began with 
 an E, and it seemed to end with a Y, but all between was chaos. 
 
 The landlord did not like to ask me to spell or to pronounce my name, so I felt 
 sure I should be called just the marquis; and that if anybody asked him the 
 marquis who? or of what? he would not confess his ignorance, but look as wise 
 as if he really knew, which would answer my purpose very well. I dined luxu- 
 riously, and while I was sipping my claret, the landlord came bowing in, and said,—- 
 
 " My lord, I — I hope I am not intruding ?" 
 
 " Oh no; it's impossible for anybody to intrude upon me." 
 
 " Certainly, my lord ; oh yes, yes. 1 merely come to say that there will be a ball 
 to-night at the Royal Rooms— a very select ball — and if your lordship would like 
 to go, there are tickets at your lordship's service." 
 
 " Well, landlord, as 1 of course don't dance, I perhaps may go.* 
 " Y es, yes, my lord," said the landlord, who thought not. dancing a strange reason 
 for going to a ball no doubt ; but at the same time he undoubtedly thought it 
 something wonderfully grand, and great, and aristocratic, and all that sort of thing. 
 I had in my portmanteau a plain gentlemanly French ball-dress, and at about 
 eleven o'clock in the evening I sallied out from the hotel in a fly to go to the ball. 
 
 The Royal Rooms at Brighton consisted of three large handsome apartments, 
 each capable of holding 500 people without much crushing ; and upon presenting 
 my ticket, which was simply for the admission of" a gentleman," x was ushered into 
 the rooms. 
 
 I found that all the elite of Brighton visitors was there ; andjmakirig my way to' 
 one of the uumerous masters of the ceremonies, I said,— 
 
568 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 *' Can you give me an introduction?" 
 
 " No doubt I can, sir. What name shall I have the pleasure of saying V 
 " The Marquis of — no — no — 1 mean Mr. Smith,— just Mr. Smith if you please. 
 The master of the ceremonies made a low bow as he said, — 
 " My lord, you may be plain Mr. Smith, if your lordship pleases — he ! he ! but 
 nobody will believe it, my lord." 
 
 " Oh, never mind that, I am here alone and don't want to be anything but Mr. 
 Smith, if you please ; so I shall be much obliged if you will not mention any- 
 thing else." 
 
 I saw that I had made the requisite impression, and that it would tolerably 
 soon be buzzed all over the ball-room, that there was a marquis in disguise, who 
 wished only that he should be known as Mr. Smith, and I actually saw him go up 
 to a party, the noses of the different members of which had been turned up to the 
 chandeliers all the evening, and whispered something that made a visible 
 impression. 
 
 Then he came to me and said, — 
 
 «* Sir Pumpkin Maxwell will be happy to introduce you to his set, my lord — I 
 mean Mr. Smith, — pray excuse the inadvertence." 
 " Oh, don't mention it." 
 
 I found that the party of Sir Pumpkin was quite disposed to unbend all its exclu- 
 siveness in my favour, and that certainly was looked upon as a perfect wonder. I 
 danced with the Lady Juliana — she looked so languishing^ in my eyes that I 
 scarcely could keep my countenance. 
 
 After the dance, I sat down with her by a side window, I then overheard a 
 whispered conversation that gave me a vast deal of amusement. 
 
 11 1 say, Watkins," said one, " what do you think, my boy ?" 
 
 "Positively can't say," said the other, his speeeh being in an affected drawl, 
 which no doubt he thought was the very quintescence of fashion. 
 
 " Then I'll tell you. Do you see that person talking with the Lady Juliana 
 Maxwell?" 
 
 "Yes. 'Pon soul — yes — a nobody." 
 
 " You are wrong then. It's reported all over the room that it's one of the 
 ministry waiting for a foreign courier, by the way of Dieppe with important 
 despatches. 
 
 " Nonsense." 
 
 JJ It's a fact, and Clements, the master of the ceremonies, himself admitted to 
 me that he knew the party was a marquis." 
 
 They moved off just at this point, and I did not hear what more was said, but 
 turned my attention to my fair companion, and fair she was to all intents and 
 purposes, for she resembled a waxen doll more than anything else in appearance, 
 and had about the mind of one. 
 
 " Shall we see you to-morrow?" she said. 
 
 " I don't know," said I. i{ Have you cards for the private supper at the 
 pavilion ?— yet— no ; why do I ask— I am Mr. Smith only. Ahem." 
 " We know you," she whispered. " You are * 
 
 " I am. But don't say a word to any one. I wonder if the courier has arrived ; 
 but ah, Lady Juliana, do you know that now amid the stormy turmoil of political 
 existence, and even when tete a tete with a monarch, I shall think of one — but 
 you will be offended with me." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no." 
 
 <( Then, lady, when shall I find you in London ? Tell me where I can call upon 
 yoa, for now I dare not call myself other than a slave to charms — but pardon me." 
 " Papa's town house is in Spring gardens." 
 
 " A thousand thanks. But what shall I give you as a token of remembrance in 
 case you should forget that the world contains such a person as— Mr. Smith — mind 
 Mr. Smith. You must give me a something to — something that I can look upon, 
 and treasure up, telling myself, — " This belonged to Juliana." 
 
 " Anytning, my love — I mean, Mr. Smith, will you accept of this bracelet ?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 569 
 
 I did seriously accept of it. It was solid gold, set with brilliants, and there 
 was hanging to it a little ornamental tag which I twisted off, and returned to her, 
 •miling as I said, — 
 
 u Keep this, then, for my sake, and one day we will compare our gifts." 
 
 This was a tolerable piece of assurance, but what may not a marquis and a 
 cabinet minister do ? I danced twice more with the Lady Juliana, and then thinking 
 I had made what might be considered a tolerable London connexion, I abandoned all 
 
 idea of getting anything out of Sir 
 Pumpkin, which had at first been my in- 
 tention, and retired from the ball-room. 
 
 I fancied that I was attended to the 
 street with great obsequiousness by the 
 officials connected with the royal rooms, 
 and 1 went to my hotel pretty well pleased 
 with my success so far. The bracelet was 
 worth a good round sum — that I knew ; 
 for gentlemen of my profession are 
 pretty good judges of such sort of things. 
 
 But the produce of that, although I 
 did part with it for twenty pounds to a 
 child of Judah, was nothing to what I 
 expected to make of the Maxwell's. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXII. 
 
 I ARRIVE IN LONDON."— THE DEATH ON THE ROAD. 
 
 I was not, however, doomed to reach London without something in the shape of 
 adventure, although it was one that I must confess I did not much relish 
 But as I am, as it were, upon my confession, why, here goes, and my readers shall 
 have it just as it happened. 
 
 No. 72. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 The coach broke down at a little village, about twenty miles on the Brighton 
 side of London. Something went wrong with an axle, and a wheel came off and 
 went spinning along by itself for a long while, and then the coach overturned, 
 throwing the passengers about in rather an unpleasant manner. As for myself, 1 
 was cast into a hedge, whieh probably saved my valuable life, although I was 
 terribly scratched by some confounded blackthorn shoots that happened to be 
 in it. 
 
 Some of the passengers were seriously injured, and those who could walk, went 
 off to the village, which was close at hand, to get assistance for those who could 
 not. 
 
 1 need not take up your valuable time by describing who was hurt and how, 
 but shall proceed at once to state that I and some others found accommodation at a 
 little inn called the King's Head, where we were disposed to make ourselves as 
 comfortable as possible, until another coach should pass, which would be at an 
 early hour in the morning. 
 
 Even then there was a doubt as to whether we should get to town or 
 not, for the coach might have, for all we knew, its compliment of passengers ; and 
 in that case, it was rot likely that anybody would get down to let us get up. As 
 for a postchaise, there was not such a, thing to be had, so we waited in not the best 
 of humours for the coach, having to go to the expense of sleeping that night at 
 the inn. 
 
 Now, among the passengers, there was two-who excited my attention. One of 
 these was an elderly gentleman, who was exceedingly anxious about a little box ^ 
 that looked like a dressing case, thafr he carried with him into the inn, and which 
 he did not at all feel disposed to allow anybody there to place a hand on. 
 The other was a young man — at least, very considerably younger than the gen- 
 tleman with the box. He was rather above the middle height, slightly marked with 
 small-pox, and there was something amazingly sulky and forbidding about his 
 brows — he was a blackguard ; there could be no doubt of that, from the first 
 moment that anybody capable of judging of such gentry clapped their eyes uronhim. 
 
 This fellow kept a wonderfully sharp look out upon the old gentleman "and his 
 box, so much so, indeed, that I was attracted to watch them bo h ; and after a 
 time, I suspected that the beetle-browed gentleman had some design in hand, 
 which it would perhaps be profitable to interrupt. He was one of the few likewise 
 who found accommodation at the King's Head, although his attire partook of the 
 dirty rather than the shabbv genteel, and his whole appearance certainly was not 
 such as would recommend him to notice, except the unflattering one of, " take care 
 of your pockets." 
 
 The old gentleman with the box sat by the fire in the inn parlour, and this 
 fellow walked up to him, rubbing his hands, and said, — 
 " A cool evening rather, sir." 
 " I don't know," said the old gentleman, tartly. 
 
 f I hope you were not at all hurt, sir, by the upset ? It must have shaken 
 you." 
 
 " Mind your own hurts and shakes, sir. 1 don't intend to make your ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 There was no mistaking this, and as the fellow walked off, I saw him cast upon 
 the old gentleman such a look that I felt convinced that no good was intended. 
 
 " I shall take the liberty of watching you, my fine fellow," I said to myself. " I 
 don't half like your looks, and you shall not do any mischief if I can help it. I hate 
 to allow such an ill-looking clumsy rascal to interfere in a gentlemanly profession. If 
 there is anything in the old gentleman's box worth having, why should it not fall 
 to the share of a man of talent and good looks — ahem ! like myself V 
 
 The fellow retired to a distant corner of the room, and from there he eyed the old 
 gentleman whose seeming moroseness prevented anybody else from addressing 
 him. He kept the box under his elbow while he read the paper ; and even to the 
 waiter, he spoke with so much acidity, that it was difficult to get him to say what 
 he would like to have for supper. 
 
NEWGATE. 71 
 
 About ten o'clock, however, he called for His candle, and casting a look of sus- / 
 picion upon the sinister-looking young man, he marched off to bed, carrying his 
 box with him. 
 
 After this, the man whose looks I did not like came up to the fire, and indicating 
 with his thumb over his shoulder whom he meant, he said, — 
 " The old gentleman, sir, is out of temper rather." 
 
 "Possibly, said I ; " and taking up the newspaper, I spread it all over my face, 
 so that he saw I did not feel disposed to enter into any conversation with him. I 
 heard him utter an oath, and then he walked away, giving up the idea of getting 
 into an amiable connection with anybody as a bad job. 
 
 Still there was a look about him that seemed to say, " Never mind, I will be even 
 with some of you soon," and I felt, in my own mind, quite certain that he meant 
 mischief. Under these circumstances, I thought it brst to go to my own room at 
 once, as then 1 might take some measures that would have a tendency to thwart 
 my ill- looking gentleman. 
 
 I found, when I got up stairs, that the old inn was much larger than I had 
 imagined, for there were a number of bedrooms that stretched over the stabling, 
 and so made the upper part of the house bear no sort of similitude to the limited 
 proportions of the lower. The number of my bedroom was No. 9, so that, if 
 there were no more, that was a tolerable nnmber for such a place. 
 
 "Oh, No. 9," said I to the chambermaid; "and who sleeps in No. 8?" 
 
 " Nobody, sir ; the old gentleman with the box has No. 7, and the — the — rather 
 bad-looking gentleman with the biack eyebrows sleeps in No. 2, opposite, across 
 the landing." ^ 
 
 This was just what I wanted tllcnow ; so, having told the chambermaid that she 
 was a beautiful creature, which induced her to vanish from the room, I began to 
 think of what was to be done ; for that the ill-looking fellow meditated an attack 
 upon the old gentleman I had no doubt in the world ; nor had 1 any doubt but 
 that I should be able, if I chose, to so set about it as to defeat him ; but for this pur- 
 pose I had to do what I very much disliked — i. e., deprive myself of a night's rest. 
 
 I put out my light, and sat down at my door, which I popped open about an 
 inch, so that I could see any one that might pass, and yet make it very unlikely; 
 that anybody would notice that my door was not close shut. The ©Id gentleman, 
 I knew, had gone to bed ; but what 1 wanted to know was, when the vagabond, as 
 I may as well call him, for want of a knowledge of his real patronymic, came up 
 stairs. 
 
 I waited about half an hour, and then I heard somebody come shuffling along, 
 and presently saw that it was he, and that he was shading the candle with his 
 hand. He stopped now and then, as if to listen if any one was following him, 
 and I heW him mutter, — 
 
 " No. 7, do they say ? Ay, No. 7." 
 
 Then he went into his own room, No. 2, and closed the door of it. 
 So, so," thought I, " you have been pumping the ostler, have you, my fine 
 fellow, and found out what number the old gentleman sleeps in? Well, well, we 
 shall see ; at all events, you shall not come out of your room without creating an 
 alarm." 
 
 I accordingly stole gently into the corridor, and thence into the empty bedroom, 
 No. 8, from which I took the water-jug and another piece of crockery, and piled 
 one upon the other just outside the vagabond's door. 
 
 " Now," I thought, " if he don't stir, I shall get a little sleep; but if he does, 
 as I am a light sleeper at the best of times, and keep my door now a little way 
 open, I shall hear him, and be ready for him." 
 
 I then threw myself, half-dressed, upon the bed, and soon got into a half-and-half 
 sort of sleep, which anything would break, but which was far better than the 
 trouble of keeping my eyes open. It seemed to me that I had only just dozed off, 
 but of course at the moment I was no judge of time, when I was awakened by a 
 loud crashing noise. I sprung upon my feet in a moment, and looked through the 
 crevice of my slightly-opened door, and saw the vagabond gathering himself up 
 
572 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 from among the fragments of wie water-jug and the other piece of crockery, while 
 a small pocket lantern that he had, was lying upon the floor, giving a faint light 
 to the window. 
 
 He got up, and popped into his own room in a moment, for, no doubt, he 
 thought that a general alarm would he the consequence of his falling over the 
 crockery. I wondered myself that at that dead hour of the night, — for, by a glance 
 at my watch, I saw that it was half-past two, — nobody was alarmed, but then it 
 was one crash and over; so that if anybody did awaken, they would, after listening, 
 and hearing nothing else, fancy it a dream. But to me, of course, who expected 
 it, it had a totally different signification. 
 
 I knew well that I should have some sport, and as I had really had a tolerable 
 sleep of some hours' duration, I did not mind being disturbed for the remainder 
 of the night, 
 
 The fellow waited until it was quite clear both to him and to me that there 
 would be no disturbance in the house, as a consequence 6f his falling over the 
 crockery, although I have no doubt he marvelled very much in his own mind, how 
 it came there, and then, with the lantern in his hand, I saw him slowly and 
 carefully emerge from his room. 
 
 And here I must say — not that I care what people think — but as a matter of 
 fact, just that 1 1iai no sort of idea that he meant anything more than robbery, 
 or I should have certainly interfered at an earlier moment than I did, and pre- 
 vented a catastrophe that occurred, which, although it brought with it a retributive 
 justice, might as well not have happened at all. 
 
 But I could not foresee it, so there's an end of it ; and I shall proceed, in the 
 next chapter, to tell my readers whatanght of : bloodshed, to my great surprise, 
 for I had no idea of such things occurring, that became. 
 
 The vagabond crept with a slow and steady step, in the direction of No. 7, 
 where the old gentleman slept, and who I very much wondered had not been 
 awakened by the sound of the falling crockery, nervous as he was about 
 his box. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIII. 
 
 THE MURDER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.— I AM THE AVENGER. 
 
 The doors in the passage were so far assunder, that when he go past, he 
 had at least twelve paces to go before he got to No. 7 ; consequently, I had a good 
 opportunity of waiting for him. I could not help laughing to myself at the con- 
 sternation it would produce in him when I carried out the plan I intended. 
 
 That was briefly this : — I fully meant to let him commit the robbery, but to 
 waylay him when he should return, as I considered myself entitled to the lion's 
 share of the proceeds. 
 
 He walked so stealthily that it was some time before he reached the old gentle- 
 man's door ; and during that time, I had emerged from my room, and stood 
 watching him ; nay, I advanced some distance after him, but it was fortunate that I 
 happened to be so close to the door of No. 8, which was between mine and that 
 of the old gentleman with the box, — that I was able to pass into that room suddenly, 
 for the fellow, before he actually reached No. 7, turned clean round to listen to 
 some accidental noise he thought he heard in the inn. 
 
 I should infallibly have been seen then, if I had not taken refuge in No. 8. 
 
 After a few moments listening, feeling satisfied that he was unobserved, and 
 that no one was stirring, he went on with the enterprise, and tried the lock of the 
 old gentleman's door, and now I became, by the way in *hich he set about the work, 
 onvinced that he was a London professional. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 573 
 
 He took from his pocket several picklocks, ana by the dim light of the lantern 
 he carried, he pulled out one that he considered would suit his purpose, and he 
 showed his judgment in the selection, for in another moment I heard the sharp 
 click of the bolt of the lock, as it was shot back into its proper place, — the door 
 was open. 
 
 * Now for it, ** [thought I he has began in a workmanlike manner enough. 
 How is he to go on, I wonder ? " 
 
 Situated as I was, and not really wishing to have any hand in the actual robbery, 
 I thought the best thing I could do was to remain in No. 8 and listen, but to keep 
 the door open, so that I could hear what was going on in No. 7, and when the 
 vagabond emerged, lay hold of hira, and rob the robber. 
 
 Accordingly, I got as close to the partition as possible, and listened with all my 
 powers of listening. There was a confused sort of sound which came upon my 
 ears, as if a slight scuffle was taking place between the parties engaged, in which 
 they were trying to make as little noise as possible. 
 
 This was rather mysterious. However, I thought that, like most mysteries, it 
 would clear itself up in a little time, probably, so 1 waited with a little patience, and 
 listened. Then 1 heard a deep groan. 
 
 Something of a disagreeable feeling came across me, although my readers proba- 
 bly are aware by this time that I am not the most particular person in all the 
 world, and I listened more intently than ever, and thought I heard the fellow 
 approaching the door, and I went out into the passage, standing directly in his way. 
 
 The door of No. 7 was swinging open, and I could only see dimly into the room 
 by the light of the lantern he had, but in another moment he came out; and as from 
 perversity or another he kept looking over his shoulder into the room all the way 
 as he came, he fell right into my arms, box and all, for he had that in one hand by 
 its brass handle, while in the other he held his dark lantern, the beams of which 
 fell upon his face, showing that it was as pale as ashes. 
 
 I think I shall never forget, and certa 5 nly I never heard anything like, the yell 
 of terror the fellow gave, when he found that some one had him as he thought in 
 custody ; and had I not laid hold of him by the collar, and by main strength, held 
 him up, he would have fallen to the floor. 
 
 He was completely unnerved — a child could have mastered him easily. 
 
 " Mercy ! oh, mercy ! " he gasped. 
 
 " Why, you idiot, " said I, " do you want to alarm the house, and how dare you 
 think of committing a robbery without telling me about it ? Peace, I say, keep your 
 own counsel, but, mind you, I keep the box." 
 
 " Oh, let me go," he said, « oh, do— oh, do." 
 
 " Fool, go to your own room, and go to bed. Breathe but a syllable of this trans- 
 action, and you shall most certainly repent of it," 
 
 * And — and, — are you not the- " 
 
 " What?" 
 
 " An officer ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, my ill-looking friend. I am a gentleman, and never allow a robbery 
 to be committed where I am, without having the lion's share. Do you understand 
 me, and do you like it ? But whether you do or not, you shall in this instance 
 play the jackall's part. How do you feel now, fool ? " 
 
 He drew a long breath, of exquisite relief, to find at all events that he was not 
 in the hands of the police, and then as he crept further and further from the door 
 of No. 7, he said, — 
 
 M I — I would not stop to take the watch, it's on the table ; I — I wanted it, but 
 could not stop to touch it. Oh, let me have the box, and you can have the watch, 
 you know, sir, as you have not had much trouble in the business you, know." 
 
 " Not much trouble !" 
 
 " No ; you know after all it is my job, and one gentleman ought not to interfere 
 with another." 
 
 " If you are at all dissatisfied," said I, " I will pretty soon settle the business, 
 by calling up everybody in the hotel." 
 
574 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Call the people up? Why, you would lose the box then as well'as I." 
 
 "Well, what of that? 1 act upon principle. What's the loss of the box to 
 me, I should like to know? Depend upon it, that unless you act upon principle, 
 you will never do any good. But as you say there is a watch upon the old man's 
 table, I may as well have it. Wait for me." 
 
 By this time we were very near his own room door, No. 2, where he stood 
 trembling 1 , while I, still with the box in my grasp, which I had easily wrested from 
 him, made my way into No. 7, from whence I certainly wondered the 
 old gentleman did not emerge to make a disturbance ; but then it must be borne 
 in mind, that which I here relate took up much less time in its actual occurrence 
 than I have necessarily consumed in laying it properly before those patrons of the 
 fine arts who may honour those pages with a perusal. 
 
 I took the lantern likewise with me into the room, and, at the first glance to- 
 wards the bed, I saw the reason why the old gentleman had let his box be taken 
 away so gently. His throat was cut from ear to ear, and he was quite dead, lying 
 in a pool of blood. 
 
 Now, as I said before, it was robbery, and robbery only, that I considered the 
 fellow was intent upon, and I certainly had no idea, until I actually saw that the 
 deed* was done, that he intended so effectually to get over the old gentleman's 
 scruples as to cut his throat. For a moment, I gazed in utter consternetion, 
 and then the danger of being at all mixed up with the transaction came across 
 me in vivid colours, and I was staggered to know exactly what to do. 
 
 It would appear that the murdered man had trad a very good notion of taking 
 care of himself, for upon the dressing-table lay a pair of pistols, but he had been 
 attacked in his bed and his throat cut, before he could move or make any cry 
 of alarm, and that was the slight quiet struggle that I had heard. 
 
 A cursory glance at the pistols upon the dressing-table showed me that they 
 were h^ded; and then an idea all of a sudden flashed across my mind of what 
 to do. 
 
 I took one of the pistols, and went cautiously to the door. By the dim light in 
 the passage, for the morning was just beginning to herald its approach with some 
 faint lines of twilight, I saw the murderer half way within his own room, and 
 listening intently, holding the door in his hand. The distance was not altogether 
 above twenty feet. I was a good shot, and I took a sure aim at his face, and 
 fired one of the old gentleman's pistols at him. 
 
 There was a stunning report, a loud shriek, and down he went. 
 
 My scheme was not half carried out yet though. I turned to the bed on which 
 lay the old man with his throat cut, and laying hold of him by one arm, 
 I jerked him out on to the floor, and as he lay close to the threshold of his door, 
 I crammed into the closed right hand, and bent the fingers over it, the pistol I had 
 just discharged. 
 
 Then I flung the lantern towards the room door of No. 2, and in full possession 
 of the box and the watch, I went to my own apartment and shut the door at 
 once. 
 
 To undress myself completely, and spring into bed, was the work of about a 
 minute, and then what shouts and what ringing of bells I heard ! The pistol shot 
 had effectually roused everybody in the place, and I thought it would look 
 well if I rung my bell likewise; so I tugged away at it manfully. Then there was 
 a slamming of doors and a trampling of feet, and then a confusion of voices close | 
 at hand, which made me think that, now the lobby was getting full of people, it 
 would be just as well to put in an appeal. 
 
 Accordingly I opened my room door, and made a rush out with some of my 
 clothes in my hand as if I had just awoke, exclaiming, — 
 
 " What is it— what's the matter ? Is it fire ?" 
 
 "Murder! murder!" cried half-a-dozen voices. 
 
 " Oh, good God !" 
 
 Lights were procured, and the vagabond was lifted up; he was not dead, and as 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 575 
 
 n e looked about him with glaring eyes, his dying gleam fell upon me, and he tried 
 o speak. I 
 
 " Let me hold him," said I; " oh, what a dreadful scene is this. Good Heavens, 
 can nobody explain it ?" ! 
 
 I caught hold of him as I spoke, and then he tried to utter some words, but I 
 took care that one of my hands dug into his throat, so that what he said should not 
 be intelligible. 
 
 <l Sppak ! for God's sake," said T, " what have you got to say ? Oh, tell me who 
 did this dreadful deed ? Recollect that your dying declaration will go for much, 
 Spe&k ! oh, speak V* 
 
 He made a desperate effort, but his mouth filled with blood, and he only spit j 
 out some teeth that the bullet, had removed from their places, for it seemed I had 
 hit him in the mouth exactly, and then with a shiver he died, and I dropped him 
 on to the floor. 
 
 I did not want to hold up the carrion longer than necessary. 
 The landlord of the house was wringing his hands. 
 
 " This will be my ruin " he said. "Who did Jit— oh, who did it? I shall be ruined 
 — quite ruined. Who will sleep in a bed I have after this? I'm a ruined man, I am 
 undone !" 
 
 " Master, master !" said one of the waiters, e< oh, master, I'm as sick as a dog ; 
 oh ! oh! oh !" 
 
 " What is it," said everybody, — " what, what V* 
 / They all, including myself, rushed towards No. 7, where the waiter who had 
 just spoken was; I knew well enough what had alarmed him, and then they found 
 the old gentleman with his throat cut, lying on the ground and grasping, apparently, 
 the pistol. 
 
 The landlord could not stand this, but down he fell in a swoon, and some of the 
 officials of the inn started off in search of a constable, and, oh ! such a scene of con- 
 fusion as ensued I never shall forget ; one ran one way, and one another ; 
 lights were lit in such abundance that any one would have thought a general 
 illumination was at hand. The women screamed, and the men looked appalled ; in j 
 the midst of all w T hich, I said, — 
 
 '* Don't touch the old gentleman, don't do anything till a constable comes; don't ' 
 anybody leave the inn on any account, I have some evidence to give." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said one. 
 
 <f Yes, I was awakened out of my sleep by the sound of a pistol going off, I can j 
 swear to that." ' 
 
 II appeared that a constable did not reside nearer than a mile off, and the con- 
 sequence was that nearly an hour had elapsed before he came, and when he did, he | 
 looked a sharp, intelligent man rather. He looked at both the bodies attentively, 
 and advised that neither should be removed just then, and said, — 
 
 " I can tell you what my idea is of the affair." 
 
 " But, sir," said I, u I have evidence : I know something about it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 J " I can swear that I was awakened out of my sleep by a gun or a pistol i 
 going off." j 
 
 " Oh, pooh, pooh ! that's nothing; a gun or a pistol cannot twice go off, if any- 
 body has been shot ; what comical notions people ignorant of such matters have 
 about the value of evidence*" 
 
 I looked as stupid as I could, and he continued, — 1 
 
 "My opinion is, that this man who has been shot, went to the gentleman's room 
 whose throat is cut, did that deed with a view to robbery, and was shot by his vic- 
 tim as he was getting away. That the old man whose throat is cut, fired tjie pistol 
 there can be no doubt — it's in his hand, you see." 
 
 " Bless my heart," said I, " that must be it. Oh, sir, what a knowledge of * 
 these things you have." 
 
 "Rather," said the officer. 
 
576 NEWGATE. 
 
 I "But you will remember my evidence, sir; you know I was awakened by a 
 [gun or pistol going off, bang 1" 
 " Bother your evidence." 
 
 I heard him say to one of the waiters, — afterwards, in ducting me by a nod of 
 his head as he spoke, — 
 
 "That fellow with the mustachios is next door to a fool* He thinks 
 he has got some wonderful evidence, because he was awakened in 
 the night by the pistol shot. .1 suppose he would think himself quite an impor- 
 tant character, if he was to be sworn as a witness, but he shall not be, for I won't 
 flatter the vanity of such an idiot so far." 
 
 This was just what I wanted. I crammed the old gentleman's box into my 
 carpet bag, put his watch into my pocket, and booking an inside place in the coach 
 that come up in the morning, I went off to London, leaving affairs at the inn to 
 be settled, or to settle themselves, as they pleased. 
 
 This was to my mind now rather a pleasant little adventure, and I much longed 
 to reach London, in order that I might examine the old gentleman's box, which, 1 
 had no doubt, contained something worth the trouble it had cost me to get pos- 
 session of it. 
 
 The coach reached town without an accident. But I did not think it prudent 
 to wait at the inn where the coach put up, but walking some streets off, took 
 a coach from a stand, and was driven to a quiet hotel in a street leading from 
 Oxford-street. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIV. 
 
 THE PRIZE IN THE BOX. — A LITTLE DISAPPOINTMENT.— THE PROJECTED ROBBERY. 
 
 You may be very well aware that my first great concern was to examine tht 
 contents of the box. I ordered at once a private room at the hotel to be got ready 
 for me, and when I was ushered into it, I sat down with no small amount of satis- 
 faction to look at my prize. 
 
 " Now,'' thought I, " we shall see something worth the looking at, no doubt. That 
 scoundrel who cut the old man's throat knew very well what was in the box, or 
 he would not have taken so much trouble about the affair." 
 
 It was locked, but as may be very well concluded, that was no hindrance to me; 
 and the lid soon flew off, in obedience to a good blow from the poker, that was in 
 the room. A mass cf papers met my eyes, tied up with led tape, and the top one 
 was endorsed with the following words :— 
 
 "An account of the extinct cases of Beetles supposed to have from time to time 
 existed in ths British Islands, together with an inquiry into the origin and 
 nativity of the Cockroach? 
 
 I turned the box upside down, and gave it a good shake ; oat come several bun- 
 dles of the MSS., but nothing else ! 
 
 I'm afraid I swore most awfully. Here had one man had his throat cut 
 another man been shot, and I come to town with a box, congratulating myself upon 
 my cleverness all to get possession of a treatise on black beetles and cockroaches. 
 
 It was enough to drive anybody frantic. There was a fire crackling and blaz- 
 ing in the grate ; in went the beetle and cockroach disquisition — in went the box, 
 and there I stood, till all that evidence of my having had anything myself to do 
 with the murder at the inn was completely destroyed. It was most infernally 
 provoking, and I certainly never required to make a stronger call upon my 
 patience than upon that occasion. 
 
 The only thing that at all, after a time, pacified me a little, was the sight of the old 
 
NEWGATE 
 
 677 
 
 gentleman's gold watch, which I knew to be worth a few pounds, and my exchequer 
 was in that state that a few pounds were beginning to be of importance. 
 
 "But the idea now of a man going about inducing people to believe that he 
 had something valuable in a box, when it is nothing but a disquisition upon black 
 beetles— upon my life it was enough to — but never mind," said I, " never mind. " I 
 have the watch— really the old fool deserved to have his throat cut, and that's all I 
 can say about it, and all I will say." 
 
 The murder, however, although 
 I had no more hand in it than I have 
 mentioned, was a serious matter to me, 
 and 1 knew that in a very short time 
 it would occupy a considerable share 
 of public attention, and that the watch 
 would by no means be a safe thing to 
 keep. 
 
 Of course, I had not lived in 
 London upon my wits so long but 
 that I knew where to dispose of a 
 watch if I chose. - Having shaved off 
 ray mustachios — a step I thought it 
 desirable to take — I sallied out in 
 the dusk of the evening to the Mino- 
 ries, where lived an old friend of mine, with whom I had previously done business, 
 and where I inew I could get the current thieves' value for my watch, and no ques- 
 tions asked. 
 
 " Mishter Solomans," although he w 3s generally known to "the family" as 
 "Old Sol," kept a shop for the disposal of general articles, not one of which he 
 sold from the one year's end to the other, for that was not the business he wanted 
 to be troubled with. 
 
 He bought all the articles exhibited for sale at fair markets, but he wanted 
 them merely as a blind for the other, and much more profitable, business he car- 
 jied on of receiver of stolen property, and so, as he often himself said, — 
 
 No. 73. 
 
578 
 
 "If I were to sell all that is in my shop, I should just turn ahout ten or twelve 
 per cent, to have all the trouble of going to buy new stock; so I save myself that 
 by putting such a price upon everything, that people walk off at once, and never 
 so much as prize anything in the shop again." 
 
 This is the most ordinary method of keeping a "fence " in London. 
 
 If you pause at some dirty half-broker's, half-curiosity shop, and ask the price 
 of some common-place article for which you are asked about three times its value, 
 depend upon it that is a " fence," and that they don't want to be troubled with your 
 custom, unless you are such an idiot as to give the price demanded, ai,d then you 
 are being a fool in their eyes nearly as estimable as a thief. 
 
 Such shops are dotted all over London, in all thoroughfares, and are well known 
 to the family by some sign or another in the window, which is quite cabalistic, 
 
 and which I don't mean to say anything more about just now — honour among 
 
 ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 Well, I went to the Minories, and stopped opposite Mr. Soloman's shop. 
 There was an old gilt candlestick outside on a bag with other odds and ends : its 
 real value was about 2s. 6d. 
 
 " What's the price of this candlestick ?'' said I. 
 
 " One pound, four," said Mr. Solomans, advancing carelessly. 
 
 " Come, come, that's too bad, to charge an old friend such a price for a candle- 
 stick.' 
 
 " He ! he ! he ! Ho ! ho ! ho !" laughed old Sol; " ish it you ? Valks yer- 
 shelf in — Got a mighty, fare haf you peens dish long timsh — valks yershelf in." 
 
 "Why, I have been in France," said I. " How do you find business?" 
 
 " Oh, very pad, very pad. So many interlopers — not a crusht to be got : very 
 pad indeed. 1 ' 
 
 I'm very sorry to hear that, old Sol, very sorry to hear it, but you know I 
 don't often come empty handed. What price do you set upon that?" 
 ft A vatch — A vatch. Oh, gracious !" 
 ** Why, what's the matter?" 
 
 " My goot friend, when yer handsh wash in, vy did you not take shomething 
 elsh bat a vatch ? A trug — a trug — quite a trug." 
 
 " Yes, and be hanged to you, everything is a drug that is brought to you. 
 But what's the figure V 
 
 " lsh it a vatch that vill go — or musht it be stopped ? i. e. is it vendable, or is 
 there anything in its history that makes it a dangerous commodity?" 
 
 " So," I said, '* I always deal on the square with you. It must be stopped.'' 
 
 " Oh, my tear, — ah, we musht shend it to America. Look at the expenshe — 
 look at the expenshe." 
 
 " Oh, I know all about that. I tell you candidly it must not be seen in England. 
 But it's a good one, so what's the figure ? " 
 
 The watch was a chronometer, worth about fifty pounds ; so when old Sol 
 pushed five pounds into my hands, I thought him tolerably liberal under hII the 
 circumstances, and we began to talk of general matters, having thus settled our 
 actual business together in such a friendly way. 
 
 He asked me what I was doing, and upon my replying nothing, he reflected for 
 au -y n-.oments, ai d then said, — 
 
 < C C me here in about an hour ; I vants to speak to you." 
 
 " W iiat about ? " 
 
 " Shome family affairs." 
 
 u If it's anything about a cracking-crib affair, T won't come. 1 have made up my 
 mind to stick to the genteeler branches of the profession, so it's no use attempt- 
 ing it." 
 
 " My tear, it's no such thing, sho come in an hour. I'd tell you now, but I'm 
 forced to get leave of a party, you shee, before I can." 
 
 This was all ?easonable enough, and if 1 did not know that I was in good hands, 
 I did know that I was in safe ones, so far as regatcLd old Sol ; and instead of going 
 back to the hotel, as the transit to and fro would consume more than the hour, I 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 579 
 
 went into one of the old City taverns, and had a snack, previous to keeping my 
 appointment with the Jew, who I was sure had something of impartance to 
 propose. 
 
 When I got back, he took me by the arm, and led me up stairs into a room . 
 that I had never been in before, where a man was sittmg on a table, drinking. 
 
 *' Dish is Captain Brown," said old Sol, introducing the man ; and then pointing 
 to me, he added " Mishter Smith, v — for I had told him I chose for the present to 
 be called by that remarkable name. 
 
 The man rose and offered ine a chair, and when we were seated, said, — 
 
 " From what Mr. Solomans has snid of you, sir, I arc quite sure we may speak 
 confidentially at once. It is proposed among us all to form a confederation for 
 getting hold of plate and jewels. The object will be obtained by some of our body 
 laying themselves out for situations, in first-rate families, as footmen, butlers, 
 &c, and in due course, a large robbery takes place, which, being based upon the 
 most accurate information, is sure to succeed. Our friend Scl here will dispose of 
 all the swag for us, and there will be no risk, but a great deal of amusement in the 
 affair." 
 
 "It's all very well," said I, "but how do you think of getting characters?'' 
 w We mean to have establishments set up, and carried on, on purpose ; of course 
 it requires a little capital to start with, but that will soon come back to us, and we 
 shall make no end of money. What say you to it? Shall we consider you as j 
 one of us ? " 
 
 • It a great deal depends, " said I, " upon what part I am to play." 
 
 " Why, as regards that, you know, we must take the rough with the smooth." 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 * Why, I was thinking you would make a capital footman.'' ^ 
 " Confound your impudence." 
 
 He shrugged up his shoulders, as he said, — : 
 
 " Well, sir, I can only say that I have no such delicacy, and look upon myself 
 as an actor who has got a part to play, and I should not dream of giving it up 
 because it entailed upon me the necessity of wearing a pair of plush breeches; but 
 if you are too nice to make your fortune in that way, I cannot help it.'" 
 
 " Oh ! my tear — my tear," said Sol, "you won't pe so foolish; I'd go without 
 any preeches at all for a conshideration." 
 
 " 1 must confess," said I, " that at the first flush of the affair I don't at all like 
 it. But I won't be hasty, I will give you an answer to-morrow morning, sir." 
 
 " Very good." 
 
 And thus we parted, I certainly, as I had said, not at all relishing tke proposal, 
 although I was not so blind as to omit seeing how very likely the affair was to 
 pay well. 
 
 I went back to the hotel, and the wai(er officiously brought me one of the 
 evening papers, which I looked over listlessly for a time, although at length a 
 paragraph struck my eyes, which soon absorbed all my attention, and had a pecu- 
 liar interest for me, if for nobody else. 
 
 1 would not trust myself to read it all in the coffee-room whero I then was, but 
 taking the paper in my hands, I went up to my own room, that 1 might con over it 
 at my leisure, and see what I could make of it ; and as I went, I could not help 
 saying to myself, — 
 
 " I think I shall wear the plush ineffables after all." 
 
580 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXV. 
 
 AN UNCOMFORTABLE PARAGRAPH. — I TURN JOHN JOHNS, A FOOTMAN. 
 
 The paragraph which had given me rather a disagreeable shock was as follows : 
 <( Murder. — The neighbourhood of Buzzaid, Cranbury, and Lingtom has 
 been thrown into a state of the most fearful alarm and consternation by an event 
 unprecedented in the annals of crime. A murder or, as it is suspected, a double 
 murder, has been committed, of unexampled atrocity, at the King's Head Inn^in the 
 parish of Buzzard Poppins. For obvious reasons, we forbear to say that the sus- 
 pected man wears mustachi®s, and went to London by the Tally- Ho ! coach. That 
 active officer Puddenhead, from London, has thrown quite a new light upon the 
 affair. We shall in our next lay before our readers the most accurate details that 
 <our own reporter,' who has gone express to the spot, can procure." 
 This was unpleasant. 
 
 " How the deuce," thought I, ''came they to suspect me after all? I certainly 
 did think I was clear of that affair. How confoundedly provoking. What's to be 
 done ?" 
 
 There was only one reason which presented itself to me in strong colours as an 
 inducement to change my present place of residence, and that was, that I had 
 arrived at that hotel with mustachios, and then and there cut them off. 
 
 " Yes, I must go," thought 1. 
 
 I took from my carpet-bag what articles I really wanted, and stowed them 
 away — some in my hat and some in my pockets, and then I walked down stairs 
 and out of the hotel as quietly as 1 could, without exciting suspicion from any 
 undue haste. The landlord was in the bar as I went out, reading a newspaper, 
 and when he saw me, he held his finger upon a paragraph and called, — 
 
 ** William, William ! Stop, sir — a moment, if you please — I '* 
 
 He was slow, but I found that it was the paragraph that he had his finger on, 
 and that he already suspected me. I was never very deficient in that grand quality 
 so essential to heroes and to statesmen — namely^presence of mind, and the faculty, 
 on the present occasion, did not desert me. 
 
 Taking but one stride up to the bar, I with my clenched fist hit the landlord so 
 fair a blow upon the nose, that backwards he fell as if a cannot-shot had come 
 into his face. There was quite a crash of glasses as he fell ; I then walked out of 
 the hotel, just as William made his appearance, saying, — 
 
 " Did anybody call me?" 
 
 People should never interfere with other people's affairs. 
 
 I ascertained afterwards that I should have been stopped at the hotel, so I did 
 quite right ; and, as I knew now that a hue and cry would be after me, I walked 
 as rapidly as I could to get out of the neighbourhood, and at the same time not 
 attract attention by seeming to be running away. 
 
 If you do, some amateur constable is pretty sure to have at you. 
 
 But still I made good speed, and just as I was turning round a corner that 
 would have led me into Leicester-square, I ran against a lady attired in deep 
 mourning. Surely my unlucky star was in the ascendant just then, for she 
 instantly laid hold of me, and with a quick shriek exclaimed,— 
 
 « I have him, I have him. Help, help — murder !" 
 
 " Good God, madam," I said, " let me go."' 
 
 " Help, help ! Murder, murder! This is the villain who murdered my husband. 
 Help, help 1" 
 
 I knew her then ; it was the lady whose husband met his death at my hands, 
 and in the lodging leading out of Oxford-street. Mo wonder that for a moment or 
 60 I was completely paralysed, but what roused me was a man laying hia hand on 
 my collar, and saying,— 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 581 
 
 "Now, young fellow, what is it?' 
 
 One blow laid him prostrate ; the lady in mourning made another dart at me, 
 but luckily tumbled over him, and I sprang over them both, clearing them in 
 gallant style, and off I set. 
 
 I knew the neighbourhood pretty well, but my grand object was to get into St. 
 Giles's. That classic ground I knew would shelter me well and surely, so I made 
 my way through Cranbourn-alley, and up Castle-street, with a yelling mob at my 
 heels. 
 
 All sorts of discordant cries followed me, and it is astonishing how the curs of 
 human nature— and they form an immense proportion of the class — like to run 
 down any one. How they yelped and yelled after me — tearing and running — 
 and not one out of the whole lot knowing what I had done to deserve being chased 
 by such a gang. 
 
 I was always light and active as a greyhound, so I went on at a prodigious pace 
 until I got into the Seven-dials, and then I began to look behind me a little, and I 
 saw that one of my pursuers had deserted all his fellows, and was considerably 
 ahead of them, so I turned a corner at once, and dropped in a crouching position 
 on the pavement. He flew over my head in a moment, and I rose to give him a 
 hearty kick, just as I saw an open deorway, into which in another moment I 
 dashed. 
 
 All was dark, and I stood as quiet as a statue. My pursuers were baffled ; they 
 did not see me go down that turning, with the exception of the one man who had 
 suffered for his temerity ; and he, if he did not get a couple of broken ribs from 
 the kick I gave him, must have had that portion of his anatomy case-hardened. 
 
 I waited nearly half an hour before I thought it safe to move. 
 
 " Now, what sort of a place is this," thought I, " that I have got into ? It's the 
 passage of a house, but 1 hear nothing at all. It cannot be uninhabited though, 
 for the door would have been open. 
 
 I listened attentively, but could hear nothing, and I was just thinking of taking 
 myself off, when I saw the entrance suddenly darkened by a human form, and 
 several voices met my ears. 
 
 ** Smother somebody," said a man. " They have left the door open, and we 
 shall get all sorts of abuse, if he should happen to know of it." 
 
 " Shut it theu," said another. 
 
 " Well, I am a shutting of it, aint I V 
 
 Bang went the door in another moment, and I was, to all intents and purposes, 
 his prisoner, and yet I hoped that there would be a chance of getting out com- 
 fortably enough. " They must either go up stairs or down stairs, or into some 
 room, the door of which I can pass," thought I. 
 
 This latter they did ; that is to say, they all went into a room on the ground 
 floor, the door ef which opened upon the passage, and I thought from the sounds 
 of their feet, and their voices, that there were four of them. 
 
 I think I might have got out easily enough, then, but the demon of curiosity 
 whispered to me to know if I could, by listening to their conversation, who ani 
 what they were. Accordingly, I approached the door of the room in which 
 they were, and placing my ear close to the panel, I heard their conversation. 
 
 " Well, I think so too," one was just saying as I began to listen. " I don't at 
 all like the looks of things, and I vote for a move as quick as possible. It's never 
 no good staying too long in one place." 
 
 *' 1 think with Bill," said another. 
 
 " Well, then, when he comes, let us tell him that we begin to think a move 
 would be no bad thing, and that all the tools and moulds, and so on, had better 
 be got away soon." 
 
 I knew they were coiners now. 
 
 "But do you think he will ? " said another. 
 
 " Oh, he'll listen to reason surely — why shouldn't he ? He bas all the gold off 
 of our gingerbread, and he's bound to do the best he can." 
 
 " Well, so he doei . If any on us gets into a bother, don't he always get us ou 
 
582 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 of it, and don't the Mint decline always to prosecute when he gov s into the matter. 
 I don't know how he manages it, but he does manage it somehow, and so we 
 drive a good trade, and have done for ever so long." 
 " Oh, we know all that." 
 
 " Well, then, I say, pack up some of the little traps at once." 
 
 " Eugh! Eugh !" coughed one who had not yet spoken ; " I'm a superanuated 
 smasher; you may believe it, all on you, or not, as you pleases, but I never have 
 got them 'ere two half-crowns out o' my stomas as I 3wallered last Vednesday vos 
 a veek." 
 
 " Why, you are quite a martyr," said one. 
 
 " I don't know vot yer means by calling me Martin, ven my name's Joe ; but 
 facts is facts, and them 'ere two half-crowns stick in my gizzard yet." 
 
 The other laughed, but the gentleman who had swallowed the spurious half- 
 crowns (no doubt to enable the solicitor of the Mint to have the pleasure of declin- 
 ing to prosecute,) thought it anything but a laughing matter, and uttered many 
 complaints upon the subject. 
 
 I was just about thinking that my curiosity was satisfied, and that I would go, 
 when suddenly, to my great consternation, a hand was laid upon my shoulder, and 
 a voice said, — 
 
 " Well, sir, are you satisfied ?" 
 
 I gave such a jump that the coiners heard me, and the parlour door was at once 
 opened, and several of them rushed out with lights. 
 
 I did not think my position just then the most pleasant in the world, for it 
 might be difficult, without making a very dangerous confidence, to convince them 
 that I considered their proceedings with anything but an eye of strict moral cen- 
 sure/ and that I regarded attacks upon property as venial offences. 
 
 The lights, however, enabled me to see who it was that had tapped me on the 
 shoulder, and so coolly asked me so uncomfortable a question. 
 
 A man of herculean form and figure stood close to me, peering down out of a 
 pair of small eyes, almost completely hidden beneath his shaggy eyebrows, and, 
 as he pointed carelessly to me with his thumb, he said, — 
 
 " Do you know this gentleman any of you?" 
 
 Thev all four in a breath said,— 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But he knows us," added the big, sinister-looking man. He has the advantage 
 of us, you see, my friends, and, such being the case, we ought to do all in 
 our power to improve the acquaintance. What do you think of it yourself, sir ?" 
 addressing me. 
 
 "I think," said T, "you seem inclined to make a fuss about nothing. It is 
 perfectly true that I have overheard sufficient to let me know what you all are, 
 but it is likewise perfectly true that you are in no danger through me, for I 
 think really nothing of it, and would not dream of betraying you. You need not 
 be under the least apprehension as regards me or what I know concerning your 
 mode of life." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVI. 
 
 THE ATTEMPT TO POISON ME.— DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 
 
 The fellows looked at each other, and then at their leader, as if they would fain 
 dispose of my body, or he should take the responsibility of saying something that 
 should bring affaiis to a erisis. I think I had staggered them a little by the 
 calmness with which I uttered the words that concluded the last chapter. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 583 
 
 The big fellow, who evidently held the four men in leading strings, considered 
 for some time, and then said, — 
 
 14 Well, I am inclined to believe you." 
 
 " Thank you," said I, " don't spoil a good inclination." 
 
 The four cciners looked at each other as much as to say, what are we to think 
 of this ? but as I watched their leader narrowly, I saw him rjoake a sign to them with 
 his fingers, the purport of which, although I did not understand, yet seemed in a 
 moment to put them at their ease, and let them know what he was about. 
 
 It had no such effect upon me, however. If he really felt inclined to believe me, 
 and to trust to what I said to him, where was the occasion for signs or private sig- 
 nals, so I was well upon my guard. I would, of course, gladly have left the place, 
 but that I could not do, for he fastened the sireet door, and likewise five men were 
 rather too many to encounter at once. 
 
 I was forced to bend to circumstances. 
 
 "Come," said the fellow, "I believe you, and you shan't say that you came 
 here for nothing. I am as dry as dust, and I dare say we can manage to crack a 
 bottle between us ourselves. 
 
 " I should not wonder," said I. 
 
 The four men exchanged significant glances ; I knew there was danger, but 1 
 did not as yet know the exact form in which it might present itself. 
 
 "You look a good fellow,'' added the big man, who was evidently trying by a 
 forced sort of hilarity to put me off my guard, " I like you." 
 
 " Oh, you were very good,'' said I. 
 
 "It's an odd thing," he added, ''but it's a fact, that I always come to a judg- 
 ment at once, about people, from their looks ; and without any flattery at all, I 
 like y jurs." 
 
 " You are very good." 
 
 " Oh, don't mention that ; we live pretty well here, you must know. We drown all 
 our cares in wine But now, my lads, don't you think it's time to go to business ?" 
 
 These sounded ominous words to my ears, and 1 kept myself cautiously on my i 
 guard ; but I found that all he meant was, that the men should eave the place, to 
 go passing bad money, which is generally transacted at night, in preference to the 
 daylight. 
 
 "So," thought I, "some knavery is to be tried on. Perhaps he relies upon his 
 great sfength and thinks to murder me without witnesses." 1 was not concerned. 
 Since I began the mode of life I had, I had never allowed myself to go anywhere 
 destitute of means of defence ; and now I had a brace of pistols in my pocket, 
 besides a long knife, or poniard as it might more properly be called, in a sheath, 
 so situated that T could easily lay hold of it. Therefore, I was not afraid of th . ' 
 fellow, big and bullying as he was, and" almost capable, in point of size, M I 
 swallowing n.e. 
 
 When we were alone, he led me into the hack parlour, which was tolerably well 
 furnished, and from the manner in which he went on speaking, I was quite con- 
 vinced that he had some scheme in view that he wished completely to blind me 
 to a contemplation of. 
 
 " Ah,' 1 he said, " our trade is none of the best after all; it aint all making money ; 
 and after all I don't know hut many a tradesman does better. You see we have 
 very heavy expenses.*' 
 
 <e No doubt," said I; " but still it must he very profitable." 
 
 " Why, yes, sometimes — sometimes." 
 
 I thought he was getting a little nervous,and I augured well from thatciacumstanee. 
 But perhaps I was deceived, for he was stooping at the time to the bottom of a 
 cupboard, and so his voice was altered a little ; but presently he got up with a 
 wine-glass in each hand, and he placed them on the table, saying, — 
 
 " I think, without any nonsense, I can give you as nice a drop of port wine as 
 ever vou tasted, even if you tasted the very best." 
 
 " That's a very desirable thing," said I, and 1 kept my eye upon him. 
 
584 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 He placed the glasses on the table, and a bottle of wine by them. 
 
 " Now then," he said, u I don't know any particular reason why we should 
 not enjoy ourselves a little, do you 1 ?" 
 
 u And I don't know any reason at all," replied I. "If there be a wine that I 
 am partial to, more than another, it is port, when it is of the very best 
 quality/' 
 
 " As this is— as this is,'* he added, and he drew the cork. 
 
 Suddenly, it struck me that I might as well look at the glasses, and in the one 
 that was next to me, I was certain I saw something of a dark reddish colour at 
 the bottom ; whilst the other was pure and clean. In a moment I made up 
 my mind what was about to happen, — I was to be what is familiarly termed 
 hocussed, and then in all probability put comfortably out of the world. 
 
 But this did not suit me. The wine was poured out, and the fellow pushed the 
 drugged glass towards me, and lifted his own to his lips, saying, — 
 
 " Here's to our better acquaintance, old fellow, perhaps* we shall be able to do 
 a little business together some of these days." % 
 
 I lifted my glass likewise, but before he could touch any of the wine, I started, 
 and said " Hush !" 
 
 Down went his glass on the table, and he started up. 
 
 "What is it, eh? What is it? Damn it, are there more of you? What do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," said I ; "I merely said *Hush!' because I 
 heard somebody in the passage close to the door." 
 " The devil you did ! You brought them there." 
 
 '* If I had, I don't think I should have mentioned it, do you know/' I replied, 
 with the greatest coolness. 
 
 He looked staggered a little, and then catching up the light, said, — 
 
 " You don't mind being left in the dark a minute?" and bounced from the room 
 out into the passage, evidently in no very agreeable state of mind upon the 
 subject of the interruption ; I began to think him all outside show, and a great 
 coward, as most bullies are. 
 
 The room was very dark, but I knew so exactly where the wine glasses were 
 placed, that I had no difficulty in changing them in a moment, so that if my sus- 
 picions were correct, and there were any uncomfortable compounds in oneof the 
 glasses, my friend had the benefit of them and not I. 
 
 In about a minute he came back. 
 
 " There's no one there," he said. " Are you sure you heard somebody ?" 
 
 " I could have sworn it," I said ; " but being as I am a stranger to the house, 
 I was very likely deceived by some accidental noise, and may he completely 
 mistaken." 
 
 " It must be so," he said. " Drink, drink away !" 
 
 I tossed off my glass of port without further ceremony, and so did he his. 
 
 "How do you like it?" he said, hardly attempting to conceal a laugh as he 
 looked inquisitively in my face. 
 
 " Well, I don't know," I said, pretending to look rather queer; " I dare say it 
 is, as you say, wine of a good quality, but it has an odd flavour, I think." 
 
 " Oh, that's its age." 
 
 *' Oh, is it ? well, then, that's all right. I thought myself, do you know, a pretty 
 good judge of port wine, but yet I must say I never did taste any exactly like 
 this. It may be, as you say that it is, very old, and so has acquired a sort of flavour 
 that it would not otherwise have. How do you think, eh, is that it?" 
 
 He was licking his lips, and looking anything but pleasant. I saw him getting 
 pale each moment, and was confirmed in my supposition of some rascally dele- 
 terious drug having been put into the wine. At last he spoke in a strange, thick, 
 alarmed sort of voice, very different indeed from his usual manner. 
 
 ** What— what the devil is this ?" he said. " I do not feel quite well. Stop— 
 don't, I say— you villain— you have hocussed me." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 585 
 
 "Excuse me/' said I, *< you have hocussed yourself probably, but I have 
 nothing to do with it. 1 ' 
 
 He tried to rise from his chair, but a death-like hue spread itself over his face, 
 and he clutched at the side of the table for support, as in a faint, horrible whisper' 
 he said, — 
 
 « By G— d, I'm done at last 
 
 . . , Y f* J 3 * 1 / 1 r > ' 7 0U rather are > you great vagabond. How do you feel in your 
 inside t Katner odd, I should say, don't you? for you certainly don't look the 
 thing, lake another glass. I'm quite delighted to see you looking so pleasaui 
 upon my soul. You give me quite a treat. Make a few more faces. Ha ! ha ' ha 
 He glared at me with such a look of unextinguishable hate/ that if looks ever 
 
 No. 74.'~~ ~ ~ — 
 
586 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 carried death with them, I should certainly soon have been out of the world ; but 
 I laughed aloud, aad helped myself to another glass of the port, which really was 
 excellent, and nodding lo him, proposed his health, and his tongue seemed to 
 cleave to the roof of his mouth ; for, though he bent to answer me, he only made 
 an odd gurgling sort of noise in his throat. 
 " Aint you any better?" said I. 
 
 Down he fell from his chair, with a frightful groan, like a lump of lead. 
 
 I sprang up ; and, taking the candle in my hand, I stooped down and looked 
 at him. He was breathing in a very odd way, puffing out his cheeks at each ex- 
 piration of breath, and there was a very strange glassy look about his eyes. 
 
 " This," thought I, " is something more than hocussing." 
 
 Still he went on puffing and blowing in this way ; and at this I flashed the 
 candle before his eyes. The pupils did not move at all ; and in about half a 
 minute, there came one puff of breath ; and then I in vain waited for another. 
 
 The fellow was quite dead ! 
 
 " Now here's a pretty vagabond," said I." " Who says there is not a special pro- 
 vidence to look after gentlemen like me ? After this I have a great mind to turn 
 religious. But now for an escape ; for should the companions, or rather the slaves, 
 of this fellow come down, they might take what has happened a little amiss, for all 
 I know, and there might then arise rather unpleasant consequences." 
 
 I seized my hat, and as I had had a tolerable rest now, and felt refreshed with 
 the port wine I drank, I sallied out into the street, shutting the door behind me ; 
 for I thought I might as well be some distance off before any botheration took 
 place in consequence of a discovery of the dead body. 
 
 ii But where shall I go V said I. This was rather an important question. Cir- 
 cumstances had thickened round me in an odd way. I knew that I was in danger, 
 and then I said to myself, — 
 
 " Well, after all, the best thing in the world now perhaps for me to do, and the 
 safest, is to close with the proposal of old Sol's friend. Yes, I will go thereat 
 once, and announce that I am their very obedient servant, and there at all events 
 I shall get a safe shelter. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVII. 
 
 I GO TO BE GENTEEL FOOTMAN IN A RESPECTABLE FAMILY. 
 
 I am not one who falters much after making a resolution; so I had no sooner 
 determined to go to old Sol, and enter into the affair that had been there propdsedjto 
 me, and which I had at first regarded with, I must confess, some little amount of 
 indignation, than I started at a good round pace for the Minorie3. 1 knew I should 
 find the old fellow at home, although his sham shop would be shut up, so I got 
 there without let or hindrance remarkably well, and gave a private signal which 
 consisted in ringing a bell, the handle of which was so concealed that no casual 
 caller would notice it, but which was well known to the confidential visitors of Sol. 
 
 He opened the door for me himself. 
 
 " What's that ? Sho help me Apraham !" 
 
 u Don't you know me?" said I. 
 
 " p h > yesh, I do now. But didn't expect you till to-morrow, my tear, sho I 
 didn't think it wash you," 
 
 u Wel1 ' never min <* that, Sol ; I want to stay with you now ; and as I have 
 made up my mind to accept the proposal of your friend, I thought I would come 
 at once and let you know." 
 
 " Ah, my tear !— come to my posom !" 
 
NEWGATE. 587 
 
 " Get out of the way, will you. 1 suppose I can have some supper V* 
 Lots, lots, my tear ! Come in ! What hash you been doing?" 
 
 " I don't mind telling you, Sol," I replied ; " and perhaps you will know the 
 party, for I do not." 
 
 I then told all about the poison, which I certainly considered I had no real 
 hand in administering, and when I had concluded, old Sol marie a strange clucking 
 noise with his mouth, and said — 
 
 " Moshes be good to us ! Sho he hash gone at lasht, hash he ?" 
 
 " Oh ! you knew him, did you ? " 
 
 " Knew him, my tear ? To be shore I did. He was a very clever mansh, and if 
 sho be you had told him you wash a friend of mine, it would have been all right." 
 *' I did not think of that. It's a pity." 
 
 ''Oh, not at all — not at all. It's one of the little accidentsh of business. Not 
 at all— not at all." 
 
 As old Sol took the thing so easy, I did not trouble myself about it at all, but I 
 got from him a promise that he would not mention it ; for it certainly was not one 
 of those little anecdotes that any man wants to be the hero of. There is no know- 
 ing what view the police might have taken of the matter, and as I hate coming into 
 contact with low people, 1 did not want the plague of being brought up to a 
 coroner's inquest about such an affair. 
 
 I need not say the handsome manner (so they were pleased to say) in which 
 I acceded to the proposition that had been made to me of joining the enterprise about 
 supplying families with servants, was duly appreciated, and I then found that the 
 affair was in full operation, instead of being a projected thing merely, as had been 
 told me at first, and that what was wanted was only a few eligible members to fell 
 up a vacancy or two. 
 
 To my inquiries as to whether it had succeeded or not, I was told it had, wonder- 
 fully, and that I should find my share of the proceeds come to much more than I 
 could hope to get by my unaided exertions in any branch of what was called 
 " family business." 
 
 But not to trouble my readers with too much detail, suffice it to say that, on the 
 following morning, 1 was duly attired as a footman in undress, and had all my 
 instructions what to do. I was to make my appearance at a house in Portland- 
 place, kept by a Major-General Green, and to apply for the place of footman, 
 having the most respeetable references, all of which I was provided with ; and after 
 some compliments upon my appearance (I always was a good-looking fellow), 
 Sol shewed me to the door, and said, — 
 
 " Go and prosper." 
 
 I felt a little odd and awkward in the streets, I must confess ; but several kind 
 looks that I got from the slaving portion of the creation who were beating door mats, 
 and cleaning steps, reconciled me to myself, and I began to think that I should 
 enjoy the fun of my new position in life amazingly. 
 
 1 arrived at Portland-place, and rang the hall bell (I had nearly made a fatal 
 mistake, for my hand was instantly upon the knocker) ; the door was opened by 
 the hall porter, who at once divined my errand. 
 
 " Come after the place ? " he said. 
 
 u Yes." said I. "Is it comfortable % " 
 
 " Oh, tol, lol," he replied. " But there's a good many after it. They are par- 
 ticular as to size." 
 
 »* What do you think of me?" 
 
 " Why, I should say, you are about it. Where did you live last ?" 
 
 I had my answer all ready, and replied at once, — 
 
 C( Mr. Chatterley, of Harley-street, who will give me a character." 
 
 " Well, Harley-street is rather down lately, but, howsomdever, it may do. We 
 had a fellow here yesterday, who had actually the brass to want to come here 
 after living in Brunswick-square. God knows where it is ; but of course it 
 wouldn't do." 
 
 V Wouldn't they have him ? " 
 
588 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 f< They — they ? You don't suppose I let him further than the steps, do you ? 
 But you may come in, and Mr. Globule, the butler, will see you first. We will 
 have a consultation about it. I don't myself say anything against Harley-street. 
 The only thing that has brought it down, you see, is the doctors, and such like low 
 Deople, living in it." 
 
 " Oh, I see, I see." 
 
 "But you may come in; you look a likely enough, young man. You see we 
 must keep up our caste, you understand." 
 
 P Oh, certainly, it would be horrid not to do so ; I'm really much obliged." 
 
 1 found that I had made a favourable impression upon the Cerberus, and it was 
 a good thing for me that I had, or, otherwise, I certainly should not have had the 
 honour of an introduction to the butler, who was to pass his opinion upon me 
 before he introduced me to his master. 
 
 After waiting some time in a small room adjoining the hall, Mr. Globule, a 
 portly man, made his appearance, and any one would certainly have thought that 
 it was his footman I was going to be, by the manner in which he spoke. 
 
 " Well, young man," he said, "you mayor you may not suit ; it's quite im- 
 possible I can tell, you know, all at once, pop, like the drawing of a cork." 
 
 " No, sir," said I, " certainly not, but I hope I shall suit you." 
 
 This mode of talking to him seemed to have a mollifying effect upon the great 
 man's senses, for he almost smiled, but not quite, and after hearing where I came 
 from, he said, — 
 
 " The fact is, that the general will see a footman himself before he is engaged, 
 instead of, as he ought to do, leaving it to me, so that I am forced to see and ap- 
 prove of the candidates beforehand, you see." 
 
 '•■ Yes, certainly, sir." 
 
 " Ahem ! I must say that I rather approve of you than otherwise. I cannot think 
 of hiring a footman who is not respectful to me." 
 
 " You will always find me so, sir," said I ; "it will be my interest to be in your 
 good books, sir." 
 
 " Very justly spoken, indeed, young man, what is your name ?" 
 
 "James Smith." 
 
 " Well, James, if you will follow me, I will show you to the general." 
 
 " I did follow him and was conducted into the library, where sat a respectable- 
 looking elderly gentleman, and Mr. Globule addressed him in such a tone of fawn- 
 ing deference that I quite looked at him again, to be sure that he was the same 
 person. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " here is another young man after the situation." 
 " Oh, very well, I wigh we were suited, Globule ; 'tis quite a nuisance. Well, 
 young man, what have you got to say for yourself, eh ?" 
 " Nothing, sir," 
 
 " Nothing — what do you mean by that V* 
 
 " I shall hope, sir, if I am so fortunate as to get the situation, to prove by atten- 
 tion to my duties, much more than I can possibly say. I don't like praising my- 
 myself, sir." 
 
 " Well, you are an original. I don't dislike the look of him. Globule ; I 
 don't like ill-looking people about me ; you are the ugliest servant I have, but 
 then you have grown ugly in my service, and I must put up with it. If hi* refer- 
 ences are good, and his character satisfactory, take him at once, and let us have no 
 more trouble." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Globule, and I saw that he was almost bursting with rage. 
 
 " Did you ever hear," he said to me when we were out of the room ; " did you 
 ever hear, in all your life, of such a damn'd old fool ?" 
 
 " He certainly can have no ey«;s, sir. I don't like to seem ever to flatter any- 
 body, but to my ideas, Mr. Globule, you are as gentlemanly and handsome a 
 middle-aged gentleman as ever I saw, and the old geneTal, I rather think, knows it, 
 and only says otherwise out of spite." 
 
 " Do you really think so, James ?" said the gratified butler ; " upon my life 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 589 
 
 you are a most discerning young man, and really deserve to get on — you do> 
 indeed, James." 
 " Thank you, sir." 
 
 *' Of course you may consider yourself as engaged, and I dare say we shall get 
 on very well together. You will always answer my bell, you know ; you will see 
 it marked * butler's bell ' down stairs, and I can only say, James, that I like you, 
 as far as I have seen of your manners and conduct." 
 
 " I'm very much obliged, sir." 
 
 Thus, then, by the aid of a little judicious flattery, laid on in the right quarter 
 and in the right way, I found myself installed as footman in the family of Major- 
 General Green. I was given an order to go to the tailor who made the liveries, 
 to be measured for a suit, and I was much amused at the whole affair, and really 
 passed a pleasant evening in the kitchen, where Mr. Globule did not condescend 
 to penetrate at all. There was another footman, as well as a page, a cook, two 
 housemaids, and a waiting-maid on the lady, as well as a little, impertinent- looking 
 devil of a girl, who weLsfemme-de-chambre to Miss Green. 
 
 I found out all this rapidly enough, and as I paid a great many gallant attentions 
 to all the females, I found myself a prodigious favourite with all but the other 
 footman, Thomas, who turned up his nose, more than nature had turned it up for 
 him, at everything I said. 
 
 I foresaw that he and I would be soon at war, and I made up my mind that he 
 should bitterly repent crossing me in any way. He did not know his own danger, 
 but my readers know that I am not a man to be trifled with with impunity by any 
 one. Thomas did not though. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 
 
 I MEET WITH A DISAGREEABLE ADVENTURE. 
 
 It was an understood thing that I was to be about a fortnight in my place befor e 
 anything was attempted in the way of robbery. My duty to the confederation wa s 
 to discover where all the portable articles of value were kept in the house, such a s 
 plate, jewels, &c, and then I was to afford such facilities as I could to the house- 
 breakers, and get myself into such a position that I could not be suspected. 
 
 The way this latter thing was to be accomplished, was by my affecting 
 indisposition, and getting leave to go out of town for a few days, when I 
 should of course be easily able to prove an alibi; and then, if there should be 
 any suspicion, I could but be discharged, which would save me the trouble of dis- 
 charging myself. 
 
 But all that was not to be done at once. 
 
 The livery that was ordered for me was duly made and sent home, and when 
 arrayed in it, I may truly say I was the pride and admiration of the kitchen. 
 The two housemaids looked defiance at each other, and tenderness upon me; and 
 as for Thomas, he was ready to burst with envy. 
 
 1 was told that it was a part of my duty to announce visitors, and that when 
 there came any company, I must be ready to hear the names from the hall-porter, 
 and then announce them at the door of the dining-room. I did shrink a little now 
 again, but after two or three announcements, and finding that I was no mora 
 regarded than a piece of furniture, I got on very well. 
 
 It happened that it was a very delightful morning, and many carriages were out, 
 so that there was quite a succession of appeals to what, 1 suppose, I may call our 
 knocker from twelve till three. It was near the latter hour that a thundering peal 
 called upon me, as usual, and I stood half way up the dining-room stairs to hear 
 the name, when the porter cried, — 
 
 " Sir Pumpkin Maxwell, and Miss Maxwell." 
 
590 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 I thought I should have dropped. They were my acquaintances from Brighton. 
 The very young lady whom I had danced with as a marquis, and from v^m I had 
 received a bracelet as a gage d' 'amour. In my agony 1 reeled back and laid hold 
 for support of a plaister cast of Clyte, which 1 brought off its pedestal, and it 
 fell with a smash upon the staircase. 
 
 "Why, James," cried the general as he, after coming to the door of the drawing- 
 room, and seeing the mischief I had done, looked amazingly indignant, " James, 
 ycu must be a fool." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said I, "Miss Maxwell and Sir Pumpkin Maxwell !" 
 
 There was a iaint scream, and Miss Maxwell passed me, keeping her eyes 
 rivetted upon my face, as if they had been forced to look upon me by some magic 
 spell. 
 
 " What a likeness/' I heard her say, and at that moment I was nearly made to 
 rush out of the house. Who would have imagined that such a mortification was in 
 store for me, but it could not be helped, and I was forced to pick up the 
 pieces ot the Clyte, when I would with great pleasure have thrown them all at 
 the general's head. I, however, did for a wonder succeed in overcoming my feelings, 
 and when the visit of the Maxwells was over, I had the mortification of seeing 
 both Sir Pumpkin and his daughter stare at me uncommonly hard ; it seemed to 
 me as if she must have drawn the attention of her father to the remarkable likeness 
 I bore the marquis. I heard him say, — 
 
 *' Well, you are right, but there is wanting that — that — kind of " 
 
 " Oh, yes — yes, a decidedly vulgar likeness, of course, but still a likeness." 
 
 " Yes — yes, that's what I mean." 
 
 They were gone, and 1 stood in the hall looking anything but pleased. 
 
 " Why, James," said the hall porter, " how came you to knock down the bust ; 
 the general thinks a good deal of them sort of nuisances. I don't see any good of 
 'em for my part, except to give people a start as is going up stairs of a night, and 
 forgets 'em." 
 
 " I really don't know how I came to knock it down, I'm a desperate footman. 
 I suppose there will be a row." 
 " I should say there would." 
 " Oh, well, he can't eat me." 
 
 The general, however, said nothing about it ; probably he thought that it was but 
 an accident, and that it was not to be remedied by putting himself out of temper 
 about it, but I could not help for all the rest of the day, cursing my evil destiny 
 which had brought me into contact with the Maxwells ; and this ill-humour and 
 dejection of mind was, in the kitchen, attributed to the breaking of the bust, which I 
 cared as much about as nothing at all. 
 
 I asked leave to go out for an hour or two in the evening of Mr. Globule, and got 
 it very condescendingly ; so putting myself into a hackney coach, I went direct to 
 old Sol's. 
 
 There the history of my progress was received with satisfaction, and I was 
 able to tell them that there was a large quantity of plate kept in a cupboard in a small 
 room at the back of the house ; but as to jewels, I could say nothing, for I had 
 not yet been, except to bed, above the drawing-room ; but of course I was to ascer- 
 tain all that, and in order that I might sooner get away, I promised to do it 
 at once. 
 
 I said nothing of the uncomfortable incident of meeting the Maxwells. I 
 knew if 1 did, that it would only provoke laughter, and that I was in no humour to 
 bear, as they would have found out; and as a quarrel would most likely have been 
 the result, I was wise enough to keep it to myself. 
 
 At ten o'clock I got back, and found the servants at supper in the kitchen, at 
 which I was not at all disinclined to join; but what surprised me most, however, 
 and made me think that something was in the wind, was the fact that Thomas 
 was exceedingly polite to me — indeed, quite civil, which he had never been before, 
 and that made me most suspicious of him. 
 
 I knew that he was of the sneaking order of geniuses, and that if he could do 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 591 
 
 an ill turn, he would, so I resolved to keep my eyes open, and to take care he took 
 me not unawares. 
 
 Still I could not exactly see any way by which he could do me harm ; hut for all 
 that 1 was not unmindful of the old proverb, that, " where there is a will, there 
 is a way," and I said to myself, Jf Beware of Thomas." M 
 
 And Ijow what I am going to relate, looks to me like one of those interpositions 
 of good luck which so frequently have occurred to me, saving me from the conse- 
 quences of deep-laid snares, in a very odd way, and, which, if I were atjall religiously 
 inclined, I should call providential. 
 
 When I got up stairs to my bedroom that night, I was rather sleepy, and it was 
 only by the merest accident in the world, that 1 looked towards my box, and I saw 
 a piece of tape hanging out of it, which 1 knew very well 1 had not left hanging 
 out. 
 
 I lifted the lid in a moment, and began to turn out everything as fast as I 
 could ; I had , my suspicions, and they were confirmed with a vengeance ; at the 
 bottom of my box was a richly chased bottle, and likewise a silver cup that I knew 
 was prized by the general, because it was presented to him. 
 
 *< So — so, Master Thomas," I said, *« this is the way you get rid of the dis- 
 affected towards you, is it? Well — well, we shall see, we shall ; we shall, my dear, 
 we shall see." 
 
 I listened at the top of the stairs, and feeling satisfied that nobody was coming, I 
 popped down to the general's bed-room. A diamond pin lay upon the dressing 
 table, and that I instantly secured, and then went up again. 
 
 Thomas's bedroom adjoined mine, but when I got there, I found his tiunk 
 locked — a trifling enough obstacle to me. I picked it in a moment, and then didn't 
 I lay very carefully, under all his shirts, the cup and the bottle ; and in one of 
 Thomas's shirts 1 stuck, with great care, one of the general's diamond brooches. 
 " Ha, ha, Thomas ! you really should not set your suit up against your betters ; and 
 I'm afraid, Thomas, you will get into some sort of disgr&ce to-morrow, poor 
 fellow 1" 
 
 I felt quite pleased that night when I went to bed ; the little agreeable seene 
 that I expected on the morrow almost reconciled me to the mal-apropos incident 
 of the meeting with the Maxwells. 
 
 I heard the rascal come up to bed, and he whistled as he undressed himself, 
 seemingly quite satisfied that he had got rid of me most effectually. I heartf 
 him laugh too, and I did not envy him in the act. Oh dear no ! 
 
 The only thing I was afraid of was that he would go to his box, and that 
 then all would be discovered, which discovery would not have been ever so agree- 
 able ; but at last, by the creacking of his bedstead, I knew that he had got 
 fairly iuto bed, and that the danger was over. 
 
 Then I could not resist getting up, and starting out into the landing, and put- 
 ting ray mouth to the key-hole of his door, and saying, — 
 
 ''Ha, ha, ha!" in as deep and sepulchral a tone as I could. 
 
 " Eh, eh — who's there ?" said Thomas. 
 
 "The devil," said I. 
 
 " Oh, no, no— I — I— oh, Lord, have mercy upon me ! Amen! Our Father, 
 which art— — " 
 
 I left Thomas saying his prayers, and stepped back again to my own bed. He 
 was, no doubt rather alarmed, and probably, just at that moment, repented that 
 he had played me so vicious a trick, but with the morning's light I knew that 
 repentance would vanish. 
 
 . I lay down to rest, satisfied I had got over a great danger, and thinking how falla- 
 cious a mode it was of judging of the honesty of servants to search their boxes. 
 Why, is not that the last place in which, if they had a grain of sense, they would 
 put stolen property, while is it not the first place that anybody else would put it 
 in ? Look at me with all my amiable innoeenee, very nearly falling a victim to 
 
 Thomas's ingenuity, or becoming the hero of a romance that might be entitled, 
 
 " The Kitchen's Tragedy, or the Fiend Footman," or " The Demon in Plush 
 
592 
 
 NEWGATE 
 
 Smalls, or the Secrets of the Sink."— who knows ? 
 " But I was saved." 
 
 " Thomas, my boy, you dug such a nice pit, and in you fell, old buck. Hal 
 ha! ha!" 
 
 Those were my last words, as I went to sleep that night, and I dreamt of a 
 row in the morning, and seeing Thomas cutting his throat with a blunt saw, 
 while the two housemaids hung round my neck, victims of sensibility and affection, 
 for the greatest love of a footman — meaning me — they had ever seen. 
 
 The morning came at last, as mornings commonly do, and I was up early ; for 
 I would not have missed the fun that was going to take place on any account. 1 1 
 had been a blusterous night, and it was quite an amusement to me to see how des- 
 perately pale Thomas looked. 
 
 He persuaded Mr. Globule to give him a small glass of brandy after breakfast, 
 for he said he felt unwell. He wanted it to keep his courage up, poor devil ! so 
 that he might not shrink when I was given into custody, as of course he fully an- 
 ticipated I should be. 
 
 I said I was faint too, and asked Mr. Globule to oblige me with a little drop, 
 which he did readily enough j for I was much more of a favourite with Mr. 
 Globule than Thomas was ; and then the cook had a drop, and then the house- 
 maids, and then Mr. Globule himself, and finally the page had a knock on the 
 head with the corkscrew for having the impudence to put in his claim for a 
 ittle drain. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIX. 
 
 THE FINDING OF THE STOLEN PLATE. THOMAS IS A tflTTLE BEWILDERED. 
 
 After this, we certainly all of us felt a little better, and Thomas brightened 
 up, not feeling half so remorseful as he had done before. Probably the remem- 
 brance of the visit of the devil over night stuck to him ; but it is really wonderful 
 how much real piety and French brandy will either of them do towards resisting 
 ( i the devil and all his works." 
 
 That glass of Cognac brandy did all the mischief. I was to be sacrificed, now 
 that Thomas's nerves were in better order than they had been when first he rose. 
 
 But nearly twelve o'clock arrived before anything occurred, and then there was 
 a violent ring at the library bell, which I answered as in duty bound, and the 
 general said to me,— 
 
 " James, did you see anything of that bottle with the chased top to it, that I 
 always like to have on my chimney-piece here ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " It's very odd. Go and inquire about. Everybody in the house knows that I 
 have a fancy for it on this chimney-piece, and I never wished or knew it to be 
 away before." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Down stairs I went ; and then, with all the calmness in the world, I said, — 
 " He has mislaid the aromatic vinegar bottle he used to have on his chimney- 
 piece, and and wants to know if any of us have seen it. I haven't. Have any 
 of you ?" 
 
 " Ha ! ha! ha!" laughed Thomas, but it was in such an odd, unearthly sort of 
 style, that we all stared at him, and then he wiped the perspiration from his face 
 as he added, — " I haven't seen it, not I, thank God ! 1 haven't seen it I" 
 
 " Well, nobody said you had," remarked the cook. " You need not put your- 
 self in such a fluster about it, I'm sure, Mr. Thomas ; I dare say it will be found 
 soon enough. No doubt Mr. Globule has taken it into his pantry to give it 
 a rub." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 593 
 
 "Oh, ah, no doubt cried Thomas, « no doubt, that's satisfactory, at any rate, 
 aint it, James?" • *" 
 
 « Very," said I ; " I'm satisfied, Thomas, if you are, old fellow, and 1 m very 
 glad there's a better understanding between you and me than there used to be, I 
 know you now, ai d you will soon know me, Thomas." 
 
 " Oh, understanding % Of course, a perfectly good understanding, James. The 
 fact is, at first 1 don't knuckle to anything well ; it aint my natur, but now that I 
 know you, I " 
 
 " Why, the general is ringing again," cried Globule, down the kitchen stairs, 
 f( what does he want now, I wonder 
 " His aromatic vinegar bottle/' said T. 
 
6U NEWGATE. 
 
 "Then, why the devil don't you take it to him ; you know all of you what an 
 aversion I have to the ringing of bells." 
 
 "We don't know where it is, Mr. Globule ; it's missing, unless you have it in 
 your pantry." i 
 
 '* Tut, tut, tut, why should I have it in there ; always some bother or another in 
 this house ; confound his aromatic vinegar bottle, I wish it would choke him ; who's 
 been in my pantry V 
 
 " Who — who do you suppose," gasped Thomas ; " nobody would take such a 
 liberty as to walk in, Mr. Globule." 
 
 Si I don't know about that, if nobody has taken the liberty of walking in, one 
 of the silver cups have taken the liberty of walking out, that's all I can say 
 about it." 
 
 " Why, good gracious !" cried Thomas, " the general's bottle and a silver cup. I 
 say, that looks bad, don't it? There must be thieves in the house ; oh, I begin to 
 feel uneasy ! Oh dear, oh dear." 
 
 " So do I," said I, " 1 begin to feel uneasy. Oh dear — oh dear." 
 
 From this moment the suspicion that something was wrong gained ground. 
 The general stormed for his aromatic vinegar bottle, and Mr. Globule made a 
 dreadful disturbance about the silver cup, until the house was in a confusion, and 
 then the general had us all up, and said, — 
 
 "I'm very sorry to trouble you, but some one or other must be guilty, and for 
 the sake of the innocent, I am quite resolved to sift this matter to the bottom. 
 Has any one an objection to having his box searched by a constable ?" 
 
 We all professed our willingness to undergo that ordeal, and a constable wa» 
 sent for, who, upon being made duly acquainted with the case, and assured that no 
 one had been out of the house since the cup and the bottle were lost, soon 
 gave it as his decided opinion that they were still upon the premises, " Unless," 
 added this police conjurer, " somebody has come in and took 'em away." 
 
 This was so reasonable a view of the case that nobody objected to it, and the 
 constable came up into the attics to search the boxes, commencing with that of the 
 page. 
 
 "Let me see," he said : "stocking, shirts, a jacket, a lock of hair, a book — well 
 there's nothing here." 
 
 "Search mine," cried Thomas. "Ha, ha! a good joke — ha, ha, yes. Search 
 away, sir ; oh, I don't want to screen my box ; search to the bottom of everybody's 
 box." 
 
 The officer looked at him, and then muttered something, not very complimen- 
 tary to Thomas's mental powers, as he knelt down by his box, and had the key of 
 handed to him. 
 
 " Ah, let me see, let me see : one pair of pumps, ah one pair plush breeches, 
 waistcoats — what a lot of them you've got — what's this ? 1 Lady Mary, 92.' " 
 
 << Oh, it's a Derby ticket." 
 t " Oh, very good, let's see : a pair o* razors, a lot of cravats, a seal with the motto 
 of ' ax my eye,' a lot o' shirts ; lor ! what a pin this here is in one of 'em." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 " A pin ; and if it is not a diamond pin, I'm a Dutchman. Hilloa, here's dis- 
 kiveries ! A silver cup, a seent bottle, a — a — an old pair of boots. That's all." 
 
 " No," shrieked Thomas, with a yell that made me even jump, " no, no ; oh, 
 
 God, no ! I did not put them there. They were in James's box ; I — I " 
 
 Down he fell in a sort of fit. 
 
 " My eye, here's a go," said the constable. 
 That's the general's brooch, 'too," said Mr. Globule; "I could swear to it. 
 Oh, Thomas, Thomas, Thomas!" 
 
 Thomas heard nothing, and saw nothing ; he was carried down stairs, and his 
 head put under the water-tap, when, after a good sprinkling, he recovered, and 
 looked wildly about him. The officer had declined pursuing his search, but he 
 I took Thomas into custody, who shouted,— 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 595 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; I am innocent— I didn't do it. It's all a mistake, and I'll confess 
 now all about it— I will, indeed." 
 
 " I warns you," said the officer, "all you says will be noted down agin you. 
 The least said, old brick, you'll find, is the soonest mended. Take my advice, 
 that's all, and come along with me, my tulip." 
 
 The tulip did not like it at all. and he got so maddened, that the otticer put a pair 
 of handcuffs on him, and then I took an opportunity of whisperings his ear,— 
 
 " Thomas, Thomas— he, he, he ! How are you now ? I'll come and see 
 you hung. Ho, ho, ho! There's nothing like a good understanding— is there, 
 Thomas ? You do know me now pretty well, I think, old boy." 
 
 He dropped all of a mass, as it he had been crushed, and finally so helpless 
 was he, that the officer was glad to get a coach to take him away in, and told us 
 all he had not had such an out-and-out crying fellow in his custody for ever 
 
 S °" And a precious donkey he must be too," added that official personage, "how- 
 somdever, his blessed goose will soon be cooked. Kim on, will you?" 
 And so Thomas, bless him! left his place. 
 
 CHAPTER XC. 
 
 THE GENERAL'S HOUSE IS ROBBED. — I CALL ON SIR PUMPKIN MAXWELL. 
 
 Few things have given me more satisfaction, in the course of my rather event- 
 ful career, than when I had succeeded in bringing trouble upon any one so 
 effectually as I did upon Thomas, and upon the fellow who wanted to poison me 
 in the coiner's den. I laughed when I was alone, for the servants in the kitchen 
 were all in such a state of consternation at Thomas's delinquency, that they were 
 anything but inclined for mirth. 
 
 As for poor Thomas himself, he must have been awfully puzzled to know what 
 to think, although, of course, after what I had whispered to him, he considered 
 I was .at the bottom of the affair; but how I came to find it out must have 
 astonished him not a little. 
 
 But I had other fish to fry, and soon forgot Thomas and his affair. To be sure, 
 I did hear incidentally, some time afterwards, that he had been tr ansported, 
 and serve him right too, the mean-spirited scoundrel ! At the consultation I next 
 had with old Sol and the fraternity, it was agreed that I should take wax im- 
 pressions of all the locks in the house that might be obstructive to the house- 
 breaking operations, and that, without further delay, the robbery should take 
 place. 
 
 I was to get so unwell, that I was to ask for leave to go to my friends in the 
 country, which could not be very well refused ; and, a night or two after 1 was 
 gone, the general was to find himself minus his plate and jewellery ; for, on 
 the occasion that I had gone into his bedroom, in order to get the diamond pin, 
 with which to get Thomas into a scrape, I had seen a valuable jewel-box 
 upon the dressing-table ; and, upon inquiry afterwards, I found that it was at 
 night always placed in an iron safe on the staircase, which was let into the 
 wall so well, that, until it was pointed out to me, I had never observed it at all. 
 
 This suited us well. If he had had the prudence to keep such valuables in his 
 own bed room, we might have been foiled, for it is a ticklish thing, and which 
 cracksmen always avoid if they can, going into the bed room of any one. We 
 determined that our force should be so great as to crush all opposition, 
 
 A child sleeping in a room where there is property will often protect it mcst 
 effectually. 
 
596 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 I began operations by pulling -a long face, and affecting to be anything but well, 
 and then I spoke to Mr. Globule, telling him that I found myself very sickly, 
 and asking if I cuuld have leave of absence for a time. He rather demurred, 
 replying to me, — 
 
 " Why, you know, James, I keep but two footmen, and to spare one of them 
 is a serious evil/' 
 
 " Yes, sir 1 ," said I ; " but I am better away than here pretending to do work 
 that I cannot get through, and the other young man you have in place of Thomas 
 is very active. 
 
 " Well," he added, " I suppose it can't be helped. Where do you want to go ?* 
 
 u Into Leicestershire," said I. 
 
 " Very well ; I will mention it to the general." 
 
 He did do so, and as a matter of course, I got the requisite leave to go, and put 
 up a few of my things in a small bundle, and started from the house telling them 
 lhat I intended taking a place in the Leicester mail, from the Post-office ; so that 
 j all went well, and I parted with everybody on good terms, the two housemaids 
 x shedding abundance of tears, for fear I should get worse, and what was worse than 
 that, get married in Leicestershire, and not come back again at all — they would 
 much rather, of course, wish that I was dead and buried. 
 
 I went direct to Sol's, and there I met the parties, who on the next night were 
 about to perpetrate the robbery. They were in full consultation, and they were 
 certainly a little startled, for they had all along feared I did not like the affair, 
 and was scarcely to be depended upon in it, when I said, — 
 
 " And now, gentlemen, that we have got all the affair in proper tune, and you 
 have pick-locks which you think, and which I think too, will open every door we 
 want to open, I have made up my mind, just by way of a little amusement, to go 
 with you." 
 
 u you— you?" 
 
 u Yes. I shall be of great assistance from my knowledge of the house ; and, 
 I wish likewise to convince you all that I am not at all lukewarm in the matter." 
 
 " Of course," said one, " if you do go with us, you will be of great assistance, 
 as you say, from your knowledge of the localities ; but you, at the same time, 
 must be aware that you are in considerable danger by coming with us. Have you 
 considered all that?" 
 
 "No," I said, " I have not — I never consider danger, but make up my mind 
 to brave it. If I were to begin at all considering danger, I should never have done 
 a vast number of things that I have done from time to time. Be content that I 
 will brave it, and I rather think that, by going with you, I shall make a great 
 difference in the amount of the booty we shall bring away." 
 
 They seemed to like the spirit in which I had made my proposal well enough, 
 and it was suggested as quite desirable that I should remain concealed until the 
 following night at old Sol's house. I laughed at this, and at once declared that I 
 had a strange adventure on hand, which would prevent me from doing so, and 
 therefore left them to carry out a project of my own. It was rather a bold one ; 
 for it was no other than to call upon Sir Pumpkin Maxwell and his family in 
 Spring gardens. 
 
 There was one difficulty in the way of doing this ; but I was not to be turned 
 aside by this. The principal one was the want of a name ; for I had certainly 
 called myself the marquis, but there I had stopped ; and in London it would look a 
 little odd if I did not say what I was the marquis of; but, as 1 told myself, 
 "human credulity is immense, and I can but fail, so I will make the attempt, 
 and if impudence can carry me through it, I am convinced I shall be successful." 
 
 After some little cogitation on the matter, I hit upon a plan of operation which 
 I thought would answer ; and, procuring a blank card, I wrote upon it, — 
 
 " Mr. Smith, who had the fortune to meet Sir Pumpkin and family at Brighton, 
 and was mistaken for a marquis." 
 
 This I considered would procure an audience as i matter of course ; but then I 
 had been seen at the house of the general, and as upon that inauspicious occa- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 597 
 
 sion I had denuded myself of most of my moustache, I went to a frisseur and 
 bought a pair, which were put on with so much skill that it would have required 
 people better versed in theatrical making up than the Maxwells doubtless were to 
 detect the imposition. 
 
 I had plenty of fashionable apparel, and so when I parted from old Sol, he held 
 up his hand, crying, — 
 
 " He's quite a peauty — quite a peauty I" 
 
 I did not know the exact number of the house in Spring-gardens, where the 
 Maxwells lived ; but that locality is not so extensive an one but that an inquiry 
 will soon find the object of your search. I, addressing myself to a footman who 
 stood at the door of one of the houses, asked him which was Sir Pumpkin's, and 
 he at once told me. 
 
 I made a thundering appeal to the knocker, and as is always the case when any 
 one almost knocks the panel of the door down, the portal was thrown wide open 
 in a moment. I handed my card to the porter, who looked at it with some sur- 
 prise, and then handed it Jo a gorgeously-attired footman, who looked at me and 
 then at the card, and then at me again, as if in doubt. 
 
 Probably when he glanced at me again, he saw a something in my face that 
 made him think discretion was decidedly the best part of valour ; so he went up 
 stairs with the card, which I saw delivered in that distance up to a gentleman of 
 the chambers out of livery, who looked at it with even more curiosity than the 
 footman had done. He shook his head, as much as to say, — " Oh, this won't do 
 but at that moment somebody came out of the drawing-room, and the footman 
 out of livery went out to meet the somebody with my rather singular card in his 
 hand. 
 
 Not even a minute could have elapsed, when down rushed Sir Pumpkin himself, 
 and seizing me by the hand, he said, — 
 
 "My dear lord, really Pm glad to see you ! Why, marquis, how could you 
 leave us so long without a call V 
 
 «' Hush ! I said. Recollect, I am only Mr. Smith.'' 
 Ha — ha — ha ! very good — very good. Walk up stair?, my lord ; walk up 
 stairs. My dear, here is the marquis.'' 
 
 "No, no," said I. "I positively cannot accept of your invitation to walk up 
 if you call me anything else but Mr. Smith. Allow for once or so in a week, when 
 I do myself the pleasure of calling upon you, to forget all affairs of state, and kings 
 and courts, and to be plain Mr. Smith ; you cannot think how delightful a change 
 it is to me, not to be continually called a lord." 
 
 * As you please," said the stupid old Pump, preceding me up the stairs back- 
 wards ; " as you please, my lord ; you shall feel yourself quite at home here, and 
 call yourself what you like, my dear lord. Pray walk up, Miss Maxwell will be 
 delighted to see you." 
 
 1 found the young lady in one of the most costly drawing-rooms I think that 
 ever T saw. The fact is that the Maxwells were immensely rich, but nobodies. 
 Old Pump had been Sheriff of London, and was knighted in conseqnence of a 
 Coronation, and as since that he had tried in vain to get into high life, of which he 
 knew so little, as actually to think a great deal of it. The idea, therefore, of a 
 visit from one whom they supposed to be a marquis was quite delightful to them ; 
 besides, they were lully impressed with the idea that I was one of the ministry, 
 and as ftiere were two marquisses at that time in the Cabinet, I was rather puz- 
 zled to know which one they took me for. 
 
 " Mr. Smith. Ha — ha • " announced Sir Pumpkin. 
 
598 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER XCI. 
 
 I MAKE GREAT ADVANCES IN MISS MAXWELL'S FAVOUR. THE BURGLARY. 
 
 I soon saw that 1 was a very welcome guest indeed to Miss Maxwell, who no 
 doubt had visions of a coronet floating before her mind's eye. 
 
 After some compliments upon both sides, and some of the usual small talk 
 about the weather I saw she glanced at her father, and said, — 
 
 " How wrong I was." 
 
 " How, my dear ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Don't you fcnow to what 1 allude? The likeness we thought we saw to 
 somebody when we called at General Green's in Portland-place." 
 
 " Oh, ah, I recollect ; upon my word it was a good jest, and the marquis ought 
 to know it." 
 
 " No — no ; It is too ridiculous." 
 
 " That's the very reason ! Do yo know marquis, (oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. 
 Smith — ha — ha ! ) my daughter was with me in making some calls, and among 
 other places, we went to General Green's, and there she saw a footman that she 
 thought bore some resemblance to you. How ridiculous ! " 
 
 " It was ridiculous." said Miss Maxwell ; " and I must have had a very imper- 
 fect reccollection of your features, for now that I really see you, nothing can be 
 more different." 
 
 I laughed, and said that I was glad to disclaim the likeness, and then we began to 
 talk about all sorts of matters, and they offered me a seat, in their box at the Opera 
 that night, which I resolved upon accepting ; for independently of being fond of 
 good music, I had nothing else to do just then but to attend to the Pumpkin 
 family, and see what could be make of them ; I had a notion that I ought to make 
 a good thing of the acquaintance, but I did not know exactly how to set about it. 
 I was waiting for some accident which would direct my thoughts to some particu- 
 lar course of action, so it was quite desirable I should be with them as much as 
 possible. 
 
 Very likely, my friends at old Sol's would have disapproved of the levity 
 with which I was showing myself in public ; but who was likely to recognise me ? 
 Did not actually the Maxwells, alter having seen me in both characters, find out 
 what a vast difference there was between the marquis and the footman ? 
 
 It was near Opera time then, and although I started the propriety of going home 
 to make some slight change of costume — although I was in an evening dress — 
 they would not permit me ; but old Sir Pumpkin showed me to his own dressing 
 room, and told me to make myself at home. 
 
 That my peculiar genius enabled me to do perfectly ; and in due time we went 
 in a handsome carriage to the Opera, where I found they had one of the best 
 boxes that could be had for money. It was a very brilliant house, indeed, and I 
 did enjoy myself amazingly. Miss Maxwell was in raptures at my remarks, and 
 I perpetrated a piece of assurance during the evening that quite fixed them in an 
 opinion of my rank and importance. 
 
 There was some slight bustle in a box near to us, and Sir Pumpkin said.- — 
 
 « Hilloa ! Here's the Duke of Clarence." 
 
 "What," said I, " has Clarence come to-night — why, he told me—but never 
 mind. Perhaps I ought not to say what he told me." 
 
 At the moment, I caught the eye of the duke, and bowed ; and he seeing a 
 gentlemanly personage bowing to him, of course* thought it was somebody he 
 knew, and acknowledged the bow at once. Oh, Impudence, what power hast 
 thou! 
 
 " You — you know the duke," said old Pumpkin. 
 Clarence ? Oh dear yes, of course ; I know all of them." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 599 
 
 "Oh, of course — of course." 
 
 After this, I saw that ray importance vastly increased in the eyes of the 
 Maxwells, and I overheard Sir Pumpkin say to his daughter, u Of course, he knows 
 all of them. How could they help knowing him, my darling?" Miss Maxwell, 
 with a sigh, replied, " How, indeed ! * I could see that she was fairly smitten ; 
 but then the reader must bear in mind that I was a good-looking fellow, or else it 
 could not have commenced at all. Appearance was most decidedly in my favour, 
 and then my supposed rank finished the business. . 
 
 I began, however, to feel that this sort of thing could not last very long ; and f 
 when I parted with the Maxwells at the Opera, having promised to dine with I 
 them on the next day but one, I took a thought, as I walked to old Sol's, as to 
 how Iwas to make the acquaintance pay; and I could not, for some time, hit 
 upon a scheme of operations, but at length the dawning of something that might 
 answer came into my head. However, I will say nothing about it just now, as 
 what it was will be best shown in its execution ; and it is necessary that I should 
 detail what happened at the audacious burglary that was to take place at the 
 house of General Green, in Portland-place." 
 
 My comrades gave me the option of altering my mind if I liked, and not having 
 anything personally to do with the robbery ; but I spurned such an idea, and told 
 them they did not know me, or they never for one moment would have entertained 
 it after I had said I would go. 
 
 "Say no more about it," I cried. <c I know I shall be the means of saving 
 you much time, and in these affairs, every minute is of the first importance*" 
 
 After that, they made no further opposition, and my readers will be so good as to 
 skip over the next day, and suppose that this is midnight, and that a slight mizzling 
 rain is falling as four men are assembled in a street close to Portland- place. These 
 four men were myself and the three who were, in their own phraseology, to crack 
 the general's crib. 
 
 After a consultation, we had determined upon getting into the house by the 
 back, through the stables, which I knew well, and although the coachman slept, or 
 was supposed to sleep, in a room over that portion of the premises, I knew that he 
 was such a drunken dog it was not at all likely he would be at home, and if he 
 were, I was certain he would be in a state of intoxication, and unable to make any 
 resistance to what was going on. 
 
 The stable led into a yard attached to the house, so that all we had to do was, by 
 a window which I knew was seldom fastened, to make our way into the back 
 kitchen. 
 
 The principal danger was in the first attempt to get into the stables, for they 
 were situated in a mews, so that there was a possibility of being observed, as we 
 should have to pick the lock of the door. One of our party only went to do this 
 job ; and a more favourable night for such an enterprise could not be, for nobody 
 was likely to be out of doors from choice, and it was intensely dark. 
 
 We waited at a public-house in the neighbourhood, where they asked no 
 questions, and I cannot give a description of anything afterwards for about an 
 hour, by which time we judged the stables were open ; and we were right ; for, 
 upon sallying down the mews, we did not see a soul until we entered the stable 
 door, and found our comrade standing on its threshold with it open in his hand. 
 
 « All right," he said. 
 
 In another moment we were all in the stable. 
 
 As 1 had fully anticipated, the coachman was not there, so we ran up to his 
 room, and I emptied a pail of water in his bed, and the,n we proceeded without a 
 light and with great caution across the yard to the house itself. 
 
 There was a little kind of area just outside the kitchen window, at which we 
 intended to make our entrance to the mansion, and I got down into it to try the 
 window, when I found that, for once in a way, it actually v. as fastened. 
 
 It took us ten minutes to get through it, for we had to saw a wooden bar 
 right through before that could be accomplished, but then we had free ingress, 
 and the whole house was before us. 
 
600 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 I set the boiler running in the front kitchen, and as it was a self-supplying one, 
 I knew there would be a tolerable slop by the morning, and then we lit a dark 
 lantern and proceeded carefully up stairs. Now, if any one had slept upon the 
 lower part of the premises, we should have been foiled most completely, unless we 
 had chosen to commit a murder, and even then there might have been noise 
 enough to have given an alarm, so that we should have done no good probably ; 
 but as it was, we had it all our own way below. I only wish we had been content 
 with what we could get there, and not troubled ourselves to go up stairs to that 
 confounded iron safe. But I will not anticipate. 
 
 The plate cupboard was soon opened, thanks to the accurate impressions I had 
 taken of the keys, and we each of us stowed about us a very tolerable booty of 
 silver, and then we might have gone off as clean as possible if we had had the 
 prudence to do so, but up stairs we went. 
 
 Of course we took every imaginable precaution not to be heard, and a ghost 
 could not have glided up a staircase with more care than we did, or with less 
 noise. We soon unlocked the iron safe which was let into the wall, and then 
 two of the party who were most clever at locks began to pick it, which turned out, 
 owing to its being rather a complicated affair, more difficult than we imagined. 
 At length it yielded ; but at the moment it did so, we to our surprise heard a 
 noise down stairs. 
 
 Of course all listened most intently. I could not imagine what it was. I knew 
 that it was a custom of the house for the hall porter to leave his post at twelve 
 o'clock, and, therefore, it could not be he. Who was it then ? 
 
 Hark — hark ! Yes, it is a key in the loek of the street-door ; some one has 
 been out late, and is now letting himself in with the key. If we had but known 
 that the front door was so insecure, we would have got in by that way, and so 
 have saved ourselves some trouble ; and what is more, we should have fastened it 
 well on the inside, so as to have given the party who was out at such an hour 
 some trouble to get in. 
 
 As it was, we were completely taken aback a little, and scarcely knew what to 
 do. I had most presence of mind upon that emergency, and spoke in a whisper, — 
 
 • c Don't be alarmed," I said ; " whoever it is will go at once up to bed ; and, 
 therefore, if we hide in the drawing-room until he has passed, I don't see what harm 
 we can come to. This way — this way." 
 
 Nothing could be better than this plan, and we made our way at once into 
 , the drawing-room, and waited quite in the dark, for I who carried the lantern 
 turned on the dark slide, for the invader to pass on to bed. There seemed, how- 
 ever, an amazing deal of difficulty in his doing that, for he tumbled up every stair, 
 and it was quite clear that he was drunk. 
 
 I was naturally enough rather curious to know which of the household it was 
 who was coming home m such a state, and by a little listening, I soon became 
 convinced it was my old friend Mr. Globule, who had been so very imprudently 
 enjoying himself, and who consequently came home in such a state of happiness 
 that he did not know one stair from another. 
 
 " Who the devil is he V whispered one of my companions. 
 
 " The butler." 
 
 " Damn him ! He'll wake up all the house. Did you ever hear such a row in 
 all your life ?" 
 
 I saw that it would not do to allow Mr. Globule to go stumbling up the second 
 floor stairs in that sort of way, so I waited for him at the landing of the drawing- 
 room, and when he got thus far, I seized him, and gave him such a blow in the face 
 that he was knocked perfectly insensible. 
 
 " What's that ?" cried the general from the landing above. " What's that, eh ? 
 I heard a noise, I'm sure. Who's there — speak, or I will fire ? Oh,'you won't, 
 won't you ? Here goes then, for a chance shot, at all events— it may do some 
 good." 
 
 Directly these words were uttered, the old general began to blaze away, and a 
 couple*of shots came rattling about our ears before we could get out of the way. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 601 
 
 I heard a cry from one of our little party, and as the general then said, Oh, so I 
 had you then, did I? We will try again," I thought it prudent to get out as 
 nuicklyaslcould. In fact., affairs were beginning to assume rather an uncom- 
 fortable aspect. I ran down the staircase as quickly as I could, not moch caring 
 whether I was followed by my companions or not, so that I made good my own 
 escape • and I was quite clear about the propriety of getting out by the shortest 
 
 cut now, which was by the front door, and not as we had come in, by the stable 
 
 ^r^f knowing the way well and was in ^Jf * > 
 and oneninc the street door, which was still only upon the latch, out 1 went, as 
 calml/as possible, for I knew that anything in the shape of a burned manner in 
 the street might expose me to the suspicions ot the watcn. 
 
 Indeed, a watchman did come up, and said,— 
 
 " Is there anything the matter, sirT 
 
 No. 70. 
 
602 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Not that I know of," said I. " What makes you think so V 
 
 "I heard a noise, sir, like a gun goiog off somewhere just now ; but I can't 
 tell where it was exactly." 
 
 "Well," said I, "I thought I heard something ; but perhaps it's of no conse- 
 quence. Good night, Charles." 
 
 « Oh, hang you !" 
 
 How very unpolite ! He didn't like to be called Charles. 
 
 CHAPTER XCII. 
 
 I FIND IT DESIRABLE TO HAVE NO PARTICULAR ADDRESS FOR A TIME. 
 
 I did not wait to see how my comrades fared. It was a decided case of every 
 one for himself; so 1 made the best of my way to old Sol's with what booty I hap- 
 pened to have in my pocket. The old sinner always gave a shilling an ounce for 
 silver, and I knew that I had ten or twelve pounds weight about me in spoons and 
 forks, so, at all events, I should get something by the adventure. 
 
 He was sitiing up for us, and, when he saw me alone, a sort of spasm came over 
 his face, and he said, — 
 
 " Holy Apraham, what's the matter?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Nothing — nothing? where are they all, my tear ?" 
 
 "That I can't tell you. There was a decided case of the devil take the hind- 
 most ; and, as I did not by any means want to give that gentleman any trouble on 
 my account, I came away first, 1 suppose. Has nobody been?" 
 
 " No, my tear ; but tell me all about it." 
 
 I did so, to the manifest uneasiness of the old Jew, who shook again as I spoke, 
 and groaned in the most diabolical manner that it was possible to conceive; at 
 which I laughed, as you may well suppose. 
 
 At this he was chagrined, and told me it was no laughing matter ; and then I 
 laughed the more, until the private bell rung, When he started to his feet, 
 exclaiming, — 
 
 <s That's one of them." 
 
 It was so, and presently there came another, so that three out of the four had 
 got safe away. The fourth had been shot by the old general, and lay, as they 
 asserted, quite dead on the stairs. 
 
 'f Ave you sure of that?" said Sol. "Are you sure, my tear, — that ish the 
 point V 
 
 « What, point?" 
 
 " Oh, you k ted men tell no tales, my tear." 
 
 61 Ah, well, that true enough; so you may make yourself easy, old Sol, — he's 
 dead enough ; the bullets came both of them slap in his face." 
 
 This we found was really the fact ; and when the general fired again, which he 
 did according to promise, he hit Mr. Globule, who thereupon raised such a 
 howling that the whole neighbourhood was alarmed, and as the general, finding 
 him dressed and with the dead thief, could not help thinking he had a hand 
 in the robbery, he gave him to a couple of watchmen, and had him walked off 
 to the watchhouse. 
 
 If I had planned it myself, I could not have desired anything better than the 
 discomfiture of Mr. Globule, but when I came to look into th -; papers where 
 there was a full report of the affair, I found the following paragraph : — 
 
 " General Green, it appears, caught a glimpse of one of the fellows, who wore 
 false moustaches, one of which had fallen off, and a watchman deposes to hav i 
 n 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 603 
 
 met a man with but one moustache on, and whom he should know again, in Port- 
 land-place, just at the time of the robbery." 
 
 " What do you think of that, Sol V said I. 
 
 "Oh, my tear, you did come in with one moustache." 
 
 " The deuce I did." 
 
 " Yesh ; and you must keep yourself out of the way, my tear, or elsh you will 
 be nabbed, my tear." 
 
 This was good advice, and I took it. 
 
 •« Sol, Sol, it will be dull work ; but I will remain with you for a time.' 
 "And not go out at all." 
 
 « Stop: I have an engagement o'lt to dinner, and that I will and must know. 
 It's with an acquaintance, too, of General Green's, so it shall be done." 
 " I&h the poy mad?" 
 
 " Not at all ; but I am not going to throw away a splendid chance of making a 
 good round sum because I may have a little danger. I don't mean to say that I 
 would absolutely put myself in the way of General Green, as it appears he did see 
 me ; but I shall not shrink from a little risk at all events. My fate must 
 settle it." 
 
 '•' Ah ! well, well, — young plood, young plood." 
 
 " Yes, Sol, that's it,— young blood, as you say ; T have it in my veins. Perhaps 
 when 1 get as old as you are, I shall get a little sluggish like you ; but at present it's 
 of no use to say nay to me ; I must and will have my own way , and that will be 
 to go to the dinner engagement I hare with the friend of General Green, ay, 
 even if I should meet him there." 
 
 " Good luck to you, my poy ! but you won't leave off till you have a rope round 
 your neck, my tear, and when that ish the case, I promish you that I — I " 
 
 '* What, Sol? — what kind act will you do for me when I am in that extremity?" 
 
 " I will buy your clothes, my tear, after they have cut you down !" 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 Old Sol laughed, but I told him I did not mean to give him such an opportunity. 
 At this moment there came rather a sharp iap at the street door; and after the 
 old fence had reconnoitred, he came to me and said, 
 
 " Its Brand ! the runner." 
 
 "What! Brand? the devil 1'' 
 
 '< No, my tear, it's Brand, the Bow-street runner; not the devil, my tear ; though 
 plesh my heart he is quite a devil when he likes. Ah, my tear Mishter Brand, 
 you may knock again, my tear, — you may knock again. Ha ! ha ! you must have 
 patience, Mishter Brand." 
 
 " But the deuce," said I, " you must hide me somewhere." 
 
 " Of course, of course ; come this way."' 
 
 While Mr. Brand continued knocking at the door, old Sol led me up stairs, and 
 into a room so well contrived, that it was almost impossible any one could be dis- 
 covered in it, if he had but the time to avail himself of its capabilities of conceal- 
 ment. It was arranged thus, 
 
 There were four cupboards in the room, one in each corner— tolerably sized 
 cupboards, each about large enough to hold a man; at the side of each of these 
 cupboards was a sliding panel, that opened over a narrow chamber in the wall by 
 which the whole of the four cupboards were united, so that any one who had the 
 secret, could go from one to another, without any difficulty whatever. 
 
 After this short description, the reader will see how very easily anybodymiight 
 puzzle a search. In the first place he could go into one of the cupboards until ano- 
 ther one was searched, and then go into that which of course would not be looked 
 into again ; so that the officer who chose to search old Sol's hou.-se, might conscien- 
 tiously swear that he had looked into all the cupboards and found nobody, when 
 somebody had really been in every one of them. 
 
 It appears that Mr. Brand had some suspicions, but how or why he had 
 them he did not think proper to explain to old Sol ; but he made up his mind to 
 search the house— I think it was for me — but, at all events, he was permitted to do 
 
604 NEWGATE. 
 
 so with every possible civility ; and he did look in all these 'cupboards, while I 
 stepped from one to the other on my stocking soles, as comfortably as possible, 
 and mosf effectually avoided him. 
 
 The police, I can unhesitatingly say, after a long acquaintance with them, and 
 a thorough knowledge oi how they manage matters, and their general pecu- 
 liarities, are not conjurers. There is among the vulgar fraternity of thieves a 
 dread of their power, a fancy that they have a power which really does not be- 
 long to them; and like most imaginary evils when boldly faced, a police-officer is 
 generally but a very shabby, skulking, common-place personage indeed. 
 
 CHAPTER XCIII. 
 
 I MAKE SIR PUMPKIN MAXWELL BE MY BANKER AGAINST HIS WILL. — THE ESCAPE* 
 
 1 now began seriously to reflect upon the best mode of turning Sir Pumpki 
 Maxwell to some account. I was to dine with him, it will be recollected. I» 
 however, in consequence of a variety of circumstances, was not able to daa m„ 
 appointment. 
 
 I sent, however, an apologetic note in the name of Smith, which I am 
 sure led the old fool into a belief that it was a cabinet council, or some such affair, 
 that kept me from him, so that it did as well, if not better, than if I had actually 
 gone. 
 
 In that note, as I did not want a reply, I gave myself another invitation, which 
 I knew would be very acceptable news to them ; and, as I say, I now began 
 seriously to think of turning so very respectable an acquaintance to some account. 
 
 Human nature never presented itself to my eyes but under one aspect, and that 
 was the aspect gullible, and I never asked myself but one question concerning a 
 connection, and that was, " What can I make of it V I should certainly not, for 
 so long have, as I may say, misused the acquaintance with the Maxwell family, but 
 that other matters had interfered and prevented me from carrying it out properly — 
 i. e. 9 profitably. 
 
 But now that I felt myself a little free, 1 had no intention of letting the affair 
 drop. 
 
 " Sol, my boy," I said, *' I don't like confinement here, and must be doing some 
 work." 
 
 "Ah, well, my tear, that's natural — quite natural." 
 " Perhaps I may want help. Confederacy is everything, you know." 
 rt Yesh, very pertickler in cases of shwindlings.'' 
 " Cases of what ?" 
 } " Shwindlings." 
 
 \ " Swindling X What do you mean, you old rascal, by using such a word to me ? 
 j Swindling, indeed! Why don't you call it diplomacy at once, as you ought to 
 i do. How do you suppose that all our great men and patriots would like to be 
 j called swindlers?" 
 
 } " Ah, well, my tear, call it what you like ; only tell me wat you want me to do." 
 " Very good, very good. Now, some of our set are very tolerably well-dressed 
 people, you know, and I want two of them to be in Spring Gardens this evening 
 at about six o'clock ; and when they see me along with a gentlemen, I want them 
 to follow me, and one of them to say to the other — 'By Jove! that's the Marquis 
 
 of D and then the other should say — ' Oh, is it? There are to be some 
 
 changes in the ministry soon, that will have a deuce of an effect, one w r ay or an- 
 other, upon the funds. I only wish he would tell me whether to buy or to sell, 
 that's all I have got to say ; I would make a few thousands of it." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 60.5 
 
 " Is that all, my tear ?" 
 
 " It is. They may then go home ; and if the thing pays me, as I hope and 
 fully believe it will, they shall get something very handsome for the trouble they 
 take/' 
 
 "Oh, no doubt of that, my tear. You may depend it shall be done." 
 
 " Very well. Now have a coach ready for me at five o'clock, Sol — that's a good 
 fellow, and you shall find that you have done a very good evening's work." 
 
 Old Sol would evidently have liked to know all the particulars of what I was 
 about, but I always made it a rule never to give more particulars to confederates 
 than would just enable them to act with me. There are many good reasons for such 
 a course. In the first place, they don't begin to reason about the enterprise, and 
 to do things that they think will be wonderfully clever in furthering it, but may be 
 diametrically opposed to what you may be trying yourself to establish. In the 
 second place, should anything go wrong, you are spared altogether the pain and 
 the trouble of explanations and laments and advice a3 to how you ought to have 
 managed. 
 
 For these reasons, I always kept my own counsel, only letting even old Sol, 
 who might have been trusted, know just enough, and no more. 
 
 I told him on more than one occasion my reasons for such reserve, and the cun- 
 ning old fellow saw the soundness of them, as I was sure he would, at a glance. 
 
 " That's right, my tear," he said. "You are right; there' ish nothing like 
 keeping your own counshel." 
 
 " I know it, Sol." 
 
 He got the coach ready for me, and, dressed in as gentlemanly a style as I could 
 possibly think of, I was about to start, but old Sol stopped me, saying, — 
 
 " Why, my tear, won't you have some jewellery? My tear, I have such a lot 
 of things ; rings, chains, brooches, pins. Ah, my tear, go like a gentleman, and 
 have a lot of jewellery." 
 
 '* No, thank you," said I. " That won't do at all. You have got a thing or 
 two yet to learn, old Sol. Good bye — good-bye, old fellow ; if I were to take 
 your jewellery, who knows but T might not come back again?" 
 
 While old Sol was telling me he was not afraid of that, I got into the hackney 
 coach, and directed the driver to take me to Spring Gardens. 
 
 Now in my note to the Maxwell's I had said that I would call and see them 
 on that day at about six o'clock ; and that I would dine with them afterwards, 
 for I knew their dinner hour was seven enfamille. I expected to get through some 
 rather important business between six and seven o'clock, and 1 did — but I will 
 not anticipate. 
 
 The coach took me to my destination quicker than I expected, but for all that 
 I could see at once, by the demeanour of the servant who opened the door for me, 
 that I was anxiously expected ; and I was hardly allowed to give in my card 
 when I was ushered into the dining-room, where the Maxwells were assembled. 
 
 " Delighted to see you, my lord — 1 beg pardon, Mr. Smith," said Sir 
 Pumpkin. 
 
 Lady Pumpkin was all smiles and sweetness, but it was from Miss Pumpkin — 
 I like to call them Pumpkin better than Maxwell, because I had learned that 
 Pumpkin was the real name originally — it was from Miss Pumpkin that I got my 
 most enthusiastic welcome ; for she looked forward to being a marchioness*, and 
 sat down all my visits to the score of her personal charms. I dare say, all the 
 family did the same too. How egregiously mistaken they all w T ere, to be sure. 
 But thac was not the only nor the worst mistake they made. Oh dear no. 
 
 " We were so much disappointed," said Sir Pumpkin, " not to have the plea- 
 sure of your company on the occasion when you had told us you would do us the 
 honour of dining with us." 
 
 " Your disappointment," said I, and as I spoke 1 quite, as it were, involuntarily 
 cast my eye in the direction where Miss Pumpkin sat, " your disappointment 
 could not be greater than mine — may be, scarcely not so great." 
 
 I saw a look of intelligence and gratification pass between Lady Pumpkin and 
 
606 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Sir Pumpkin, while the young lady busied herself in picking the leaves of a 
 eamelia, and looked as prettily confused as she possibly could look. I was getting 
 on famously ; indeed, I had no doubt that I should make a tolerably good thing 
 of it. 
 
 But," I added, "you may easily suppose that circumstances entirely beyond 
 my control prevented me." 
 
 "Oh, we are sure of that. I believe a cabinet council sat very late on that 
 evening. 
 
 ,( Really," said I, " I — I — perhaps there was." 
 
 " Ah, you cannot deceive us," said Mrs. — I beg her pardon, Lady Pumpkin, 
 " we know " 
 
 " My dear," interposed Sir Pumpkin, " this h very impolite. Tf the marquis 
 chooses, for weighty reasons of slate to keep up an incognito, we ought to be the 
 last to say anything about it." 
 
 I bowed, but Miss Pumpkin returned to the attack. 
 
 " Is it true," she said, " that when a cabinet council is held, a man with a 
 drawn sword goes poking about under all the chairs and tables?'' 
 
 i( Yes," said I, as if taken off my guard, "and once we actually found— a — 
 hem ! nothing at all. Oh, nothing at all — dear me." 
 
 How they all laughed ; and the old lool of a Sir Pumpkin] shook his head 
 as he said, — 
 
 " Marqnis, you may be a profound statesman, but you are a bad actor, — a very 
 bad actor." 
 
 " Well," I replied, pretending to be a little confused, " I suppose I am. But 
 I have a call to make in Whitehall before dinner ; it won't take me five minutes, 
 and I perceive it wants yet half an hour to your dinner time, does it not % Per- 
 haps you won't mind walking with me, Sir Pumpkin ? 
 
 " Oh, with pleasure," he cried, and he sprung to his feet in a moment, "with 
 pleasure, my dear sir, — it's quite an honour — quite." 
 
 1 saw that he was quite elated at the idea of walking along Whitehall with one 
 of the cabinet ministers, and that was just what I calculated upon; so out we 
 went together, and then came the purpose of that part of my plan, which I had 
 entrusted to the hands of Sol, and who 1 knew would set those to do it that could, 
 and would do it well. 
 
 Just os we vvpre turning out of Spring Gardens, two gentlemen passed, and one 
 of them cried to his companion, as he pulled him by the arm at the same time, — 
 
 " I say, look — look !" 
 
 " What — what is it? " said the other. 
 
 " Don't you see that gentleman ? There, there. It's the Marquis of D ~, 
 
 don't you know him ? The great Marquis of D ; the Secretary of State, you 
 
 know, for the Colonies." 
 
 *f Is it really ? Oh, ah, now I look at him, it is indeed. I saw him once in 
 the house." 
 
 " Ah. I only wish he would let me know whether to buy in or sell out of the 
 funds to-morrow. I should make a few thousands as easily as possible." 
 They passed on. 
 
 " You see you are known," said Sir Pumpkin. 
 " Yes. It's very provoking." 
 
 We walked on till I came to Downing-street, and then leaving him at the door 
 of the Foreign-office, I with all the brass in the world went in, and to the first per- 
 son I saw, I said, — 
 
 " Is Lord Doonuffin here V 
 
 " Doonuffin ?* said the messenger to whom I addressed my inquiry, " Doonuffin ?" 
 " I really don't know him, sir." 
 
 " Oh, oh, I must have made a mistake, sir. I'm sorry I troubled you." 
 ,: Don't mention it, Sir." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 607 
 
 Out I came to the deluded Sir Pumpkin again, who waited for me in full faith 
 that I had gose to give directions to one of my secretaries. 
 " Now, Sir Pumpkiu," I said, " I am at your service, sir." 
 
 We walked slowly back to Spring Gardens, but on the road I saw that Sir 
 Pumpkin was very thoughtful indeed. He reminded me of some old cunning fish 
 nibbling at a bait, and not exactly making up his mind whether he should make a 
 good bold grab at once or not. 1 knew tolerably well which way his cogitations 
 tended, but I took care not by the remotest hint to let him think that I did so. 
 Ke had been in business, and it was not in the nature of the animal to let slip a 
 golden opportunity, such as he thought was now presented to him. 
 
 As we neared his own door, he walked slower and slower, and then he suddenly 
 j said, — 
 
 " How absurd of that gentleman who spoke of you to his friend to say that he 
 wished you from your knowledge of political changes as a cabinet minister would 
 tell him whether to buy in or sell out of the funds/' 
 
 "Very absurd. 5 ' 
 
 " Didn't he say he could make a few thousands bv the information^ 
 " Well, I think he did." 
 
 "Ahem ! It aint quite dinner time yet. Suppose we walk into my library for a 
 few minutes, and have some quiet talk together. The general, who by-tbe-by, 
 with the exception of yourself and Mr. Uelaney, the private secretary of the pre- 
 mier, and who no doubt you know very well — at least he said when your name 
 was mentioned that he knew you — are our only guests, I see have not yet come. 
 So Ave have time to ourselves/' 
 
 " What general ?" said t, carelessly. 
 
 ** General Green, of Portland-place." 
 
 CHAPTER XCIV. 
 
 I AM FORCED TO BE STIRRING. THE CHEQUE. 
 
 This was news with a vengeance ; and, froaa the first moment that I heard it I 
 made up my mind that there was no dirner for me at Spring Gardens. It was 
 deuced ly provoking, too, just as I was getting on so nicely, that the old fool 
 • should likewise invite people that of all others I dare not encounter; of course the 
 general would be struck by my resemblance to his late footman, as well as, 
 perhaps, considering that I wore moustaches, to the housebreaker. 
 
 And then, as to the private secretary of the premier, he would, of course, at once 
 
 declare that I was not the Marquis of D , and there would be a blow up with 
 
 a vengeance. It was a decidedly awkward fix to be in, but my presence of mind 
 did not for a moment desert me; if it had, I should have been most inevitably 
 lost beyond all redemption. 
 
 The library of Sir Pumpkin was a splendid room, and as he entered it, and 
 glanced at a clock that was in it, and said, with an air of surprise, — 
 
 " Oh, that's all right. It wants a few minutes to seven, and as seven o'clock 
 means eight for dinner, we shall have some time before anybody comes, I hope." 
 
 This was a great relief to me, and down we sat together by the fireside, when 
 Sir Pumpkin, with an uneasy, fidgetty gesture, said, — 
 
 " You must know, my dear marquis, that when I left business, I put all my 
 cash into the Three per Cents. ; but, dear me, one requires cart loads of cash to get 
 an income out of that investment. It's terribly small, you know. I always keep 
 a good floating balance at my bankers' on that very account, iu order that, if any- 
 
608 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 thing very promising occurs, I may take advantage of it at once, and do myself 
 some good, you understand? Who is that?"' 
 
 There was such a rattling peal at the door, that albeit not of the nervous order, 
 I jumped again ; and we both listened attentively. 
 
 " General Green!" we heard announced to the groom of the chambers, and then 
 another voice higher up to the drawing-room, likewise announced General 
 Green. 
 
 " Dear me," said Sir Pumpkin ; "we must go up now. I — I wanted to say, 
 my lord — just that — that I — I — in fact, was going to buy or to sell in the funds 
 to-morrow, and as I am quite sure of your judgment upon all things, I was just 
 
 going to say which would you do ?" 
 
 He seemed relieved when he had got thus far, and I looked at him calmly and 
 earnestly. 
 
 '* Shut the door," 1 whispered. 
 
 He went t<i it on tip toes and did so. 
 
 "Lock it," said T. 
 
 He locked it, and then I felt secure from any interruptions on the part of 
 General Green, who, else for all I know, in his confounded familiar way, might 
 have heard from some of the servants that Sir Pumpkin was in the library, and 
 made his way there. 
 
 He looked at me as if his fate depended upon what I was about to say, and then 
 throwing as much solemnity into my voice cs possible, I said, — 
 
 " Sir Pumpkin Maxwell, you must be perfectly aware that a cabinet minister has 
 an awful load of responsibility on his shoulders, and that the solemn oaths that 
 bind him not to give any hint to any one whatever, are of such a nature that " 
 
 " Oh, pray excuse me," interrupted Sir Pumpkin, '* Put very sorry, my lord, 
 that I , and indeed I am very sorry, and 1 apologise most sincerely." 
 
 " Pray, Sir Pumpkin, hear me out." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, I beg pardon, certainly." 
 
 " Then as I was saying, we are bound by an oath of the most serious nature, 
 but— but — Sir Pumpkin — " I saw his face brighten. 
 
 " But you are a very particular friend, indeed, very — very particular, and may 
 be more so." 
 
 He bowed. 
 
 " So although my, oath is to me perfectly binding, I have no objection to say to 
 you that when a stock-broker, who is a confidential man, comes to me to-morrow, 
 I give him a cheque, and a slip of paper, on which are the names of about four 
 persons, and I say to him, these people think of buying into the Three per Cents." 
 
 " Buying, buying," said Sir Pumpkin. 
 
 Vi Yes, those who are let into this secret give me a cheque for the 
 amount they wish to invest, I pass it through my bankers, the Drummonds, and 
 give my own cheque for the whole amount, and that Sir Pumpkin is how we 
 manage now and then to make a few thousands." 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " But this of course rests entirely between you and I. There will be a rise to- 
 morrow afternoon in the Three per Cents of abou^ four — you understand V 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes, a thousand thanks; oh, my lord, if I migh*- so far presume as to 
 hope that some day my humble name should get down upon that much favouredlist !* 
 
 " Sir Pumpkin, I should not have said one word to you about this mattu* if I 
 had not intended to go all the way with you, I " 
 
 Bang, bang, bang came at the street door. 
 
 "How provoking," said Sir Pumpkin, (i this is Mr. Delaney." 
 
 " Mr. Delaney I Mr. Delaney !" was announced in the hall and on the staircase. 
 
 The noise of ascending footsteps came upon our ears. 
 
 " Sir Pumpkin," I said, " we will put it off for this time ; the next opportunity 
 that occurs 1 will let you know ; it's of no consequence this time, you see, and your 
 
 guests are waiting." 
 
 <l Damn my guests- — I beg your pardon, my lord, I really beg your pardon, but 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 609 
 
 if I were to give you a cheque for five thousand pounds, perhaps you^could manage 
 matters, don't you think, my lord, eh V 
 
 "Yes, of course I could, and you will, at all events, clear a couple of hundred 
 pounds, which is very well worth while to do without any more trouble than signing 
 ) our name, you know." 
 
 " Yes, yes — oh, of course. I never can express how infinitely I am obliged to 
 you." 
 
 He got his cheque-book out of a drawer, and drew for five thousand pounds 
 upon Diummonds, which was close at hand. In another minute I had the 
 cheque in my pocket. Then the handle of the library door was turned, and he 
 cried, — 
 
 "Who's there V 
 
 "Dinner is on the table, s"r," said a servant. 
 
 " Coming — coming. Now, my lord, that we have settled this little business, 
 allow me to have the honour of showing you up stairs," 
 " With pleasure," said I. * « Thank you." 
 
 No. 77. 
 
v 6 10 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Oh, no, no. It is I who ought to thank you." 
 " Not at all. Not at all." 
 
 In this highly complimentary manner we reached the door of the library, and bis 
 hjind was upon the latch, for he had unlocked the door, when I suddenly be^an 
 feeling in all mv pockets, and crying, — 
 
 " God bless me. No— yes— really now that is provoking. I never did such 
 a thing before. No, not once." 
 
 " What, my lord, what V 
 
 " Why, you know you went with me to the Foreign Office, just a little while ago." 
 " Yes — yes." 
 
 "Well, then, you would hardly believe it, but I have left the key in a private 
 secretoire, which, if any one looks into, will compromise one half the governments 
 of Europe." 
 
 "The deuce. I'll send somebody." 
 
 "Impossible. It would be of no use. I must go myself. Its terribly pro- 
 voking — terribly so. But I must. I should be wretched else all the evening 
 Never mind me, make some excuse. Don't keep back the dinner, and I'll get here 
 as soon as I possibly can. Sir Pumpkin. I shan't be long ; bot mind only speak 
 of me as Mr. Smith, and particularly before the secretary ; you will be pleased to 
 remember that ?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly, certainly. But I really am more anxious than I know how to 
 express. How very annoying.' ' 
 
 " Dinner waits/' announced a servant respectfully. 
 
 We were in the hall, when down came some people from above. It was the 
 descending guests. They were coming from the drawing-room arm-in-arm. Mr. 
 Delaney, as I supposed him to be, was leading Lady Pumpkin, and there was I. 
 The general was close at hand, too. In an instant, I stepped up to Mr. Delaney, 
 and said, in a low tone, but loud enough for Sir Pumpkin to hear me, — 
 
 " Remember, Air. Delaney, you don't know me; and I am Mr. Smith, and not 
 
 the Marquis of D . Remember that, Mr. Delaney. Deny me at once, I have 
 
 my reasons." 
 
 Now such an address to a perfect stranger, and from a perfect stranger, must have 
 sounded one of the mo6t odd things in the world j and no wonder, Delaney opened 
 his eyps to an unusual width, and stared at me as he said, — 
 
 <f I know you are not the Marquis of D . ' 
 
 "That's right, keep it up," said I. 
 
 "Capital, capital," said the hoodwinked Sir Pumpkin, "capital, upon my life, 
 capital.". * 
 
 I was out of the house in another moment, and now got clear of Spring Gardens. 
 I turned the corner, and made the very best of my way up the Strand, at an 
 alarming pace ; and then when I felt quite convinced all was safe, and that at all 
 events nobs-dy was following me, I stopped a moment, and then walked slowly to 
 a coffee-shop, in one of the distant corners of which I soon ensconced myself. 
 
 Now my readers, who of course are all clever fellows, will be apt enough to tell 
 me that the matter is not all settled yet, for that it is too late to present the cheque, 
 and before the morning Sir Pumpkin may likely enough have taken the alarm. 
 Nothing more likely ; but that is a risk that must be run ; and the reason why I 
 sat down in the dark corner of the coffee-house was to devise some means of 
 decreasing it as much as possible. 
 
 The only thing that would be likely to create suspicion at all would be my not 
 returning, and as for think'ng of doing that, it was out of the question ; so what I 
 set myself to do was to account for my absence, if possible. I procured pen, ink, 
 and paper, and wrote the following note to Sir Pumpkin : — 
 
 " My dear Sir Pumpkin, Downing-street. 
 
 "One of our messengers, who I have before suspected was in the pay of Russia, 
 has been to my private bureau, in which I unfortunately left the key, and a paper 
 is stolen which is of vast importance. I therefore am so much engaged in giving 
 orders to the police, that 1 cannot do myself the pleasure of returning to you 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 Gil 
 
 this evening. Will you come to me to-morrow morning at twelve at the Foreign 
 Office, and you shall have a cheque for your cash. 
 
 " By-the-by, there is a royal dinner party, of rather large dimensions, on Tues- 
 day. Would you and Lady Pumpkin and your daughter like to go ? Yours ever, 
 
 " To Sir Pumpkin Maxwell, *&c. . Smith." 
 
 I went into a seal engraver's when I had finished this epistle, and borrowed a 
 great slashing seal of a boy that was in the shop, and some wax ; so that some- 
 body's coat of arms — God knows who's !— blazed away upon my letter in capital 
 style. 
 
 Sixpence satisfied the boy abundantly, and, having in the street taken off and 
 pocketed my false moustache, I walked to Charing-cross again. Lounging about 
 the public offices, there are always plenty of messengers, and I gave one of them 
 the letter and a shilling, telling him to leave it at Sir Pumpkin's, and that it required 
 no answer at all; but, if he were asked a question, to say that it came from the 
 Marquis of D. 
 
 At the mention of the name the man touched his hat, with an abundance of 
 respect, and started off with the note, which I hoped would have all the effect of 
 dispelling every shadow of suspicion from the mind of Sir Pumpkin. All I was 
 afraid of was Delaney, the infernal secretary ; but still I had great hopes that 
 whatever he said would be set down to a literal obedience to the instructions Sir 
 Pumpkin and Lady Pumpkin had actually heard me give him. 
 
 " At all events," I said, u I have done all that I can do ; so I shall rest myself 
 easy about the matter now, and go home." 
 
 Heme I called old Sol's, so there I went ; but, although the old child of Judah 
 pumped me in every possible way, he did not get anything out of me concerning 
 the transactions of the evening, which I told him were not yet completed ; but that, 
 when they were, I would no longer be so close upon the subject, and he should 
 know pretty well all the particulars. I did intend to tell him nearly all but the 
 amount of the cheque ; that I meant to keep to myself, or a larger share of it might 
 be required than I should have liked to disburse ; so I kept that rather important 
 little document in my pocket, and went to bed to dream of what I should do with 
 the five thousand pounds. 
 
 It's wrong and foolish to reckon our chickens before they are hatched, but those 
 promised to be sent were a very splendid brood, so that I could not help doing so to 
 some extent; and a very delightful employment I really found it to be. Perhaps 
 it is really true to some extent, although I always doubted it, that the anticipation 
 of a pleasure transcends the reality. 
 
 Certain it is that I spent the five thousand pounds in imagination remarkably well. 
 
 I had given orders to old Sol to awaken me at an early hour. I determined 
 upon being down at the bankers' quickly ; and perhaps, thought I, it will be just as 
 well to be about the spot before it opens, in order that I may reconnoitre and see if 
 any evil-looking persons are on the watch, in which case prudence would say, 
 don't present the cheque at all. I confess to feeling rather nervous all the break- 
 fast time on that eventful morning, and old Sol saw that I was so, for he shook his 
 old head as he said, — 
 
 "Ah, my tear, I hope no harmsh will come to you, you ish a prave lad. I 
 hope I shall shee you homsh again shafe." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER XCV. 
 
 WHAT OCCURRED TO ME AT THE BANKING-HOUSE. 
 
 I laughed at old Sol, not that I felt quite sure about the matter, for I knew that 
 there was risk to be run ; but when did risk ever deter me, or render me fearful 
 of a result? Never! And it never will. Iam now writing these memoirs in 
 a cell in Newgate. They expect to hang me, do they. We shall see. 1 have a 
 plan of escape, which I think — think did I say ? — I know it will answer. 
 
 But that is just at present of no consequence to my story now. 
 
 I knew one of our fraternity of the name of Jobbkins, who was one of the most 
 daredevil fellows that ever stepped, and I thought it would be no bad thing to 
 have him with me in case anything went wrong, as he would be of the most efficient 
 service. I called him. 
 
 " Jobbkins, my boy," 1 said, "I want you to come with me on a little business." 
 
 * ' I'm your man," said Jobbkins. 
 
 " I know it, and that's why I sent for you ; so you see it's all right enough ; sit 
 down old fellow; I have not above a few minutes to spate, and during them I will 
 tell you what I want you to do." 
 
 " That's your sort," sad Jobbkins, " that's your sort, old boy ; I'm yer harticle." 
 
 It will be seen that Jobbkins was not the most literary character in the world, 
 and did not take the greatest care of his English; but it answered the purpose 
 very well for all that, and I understood him. 
 
 « Well, Jobbkins," I said, "what I want you to do is, if I point out anybody 
 to you and say that he is in my way, that you will be so good as to put him out of 
 it by hook or "by crook, Jobbkins." 
 
 "That's yer sort." 
 
 " You will do it?" 
 
 " In course I will, captain, in course I will ; only say the word, and tell me 
 who's the ingewedal, and I'll soon pop him out of the way. You point him out 
 to me, captain, that's all." 
 
 " Come along then. You must not seem to know me at all ; just keep a few 
 paces behind me, and I will give you the office when it's necessary to do so. You 
 need not from first to last of the affair know anything of me whatever, — mind 
 that." 
 
 " Wery good, — anything you like, and the rest in half-pence, captain ; I've got 
 a dodge o' putting a ingewedal out o' harm's way, for a time at all ewents." 
 (( What is the dodge, Jobbkins P" 
 
 <■ Never you mind, that's all I've got to say. Never you mind about it. You'll 
 sec- it done a? neat as a beehive, old un. Don't laugh, that's all. Dont laugh." 
 
 J libbkins and I went off together towards Charing-cross a good hour before 
 Druu.monds' bank opened, so that I considered I should have plenty of opportunity 
 of seeing if the coast were clear, before I presented myself and my cheque at the 
 counter. 
 
 Jobbkins walked behind me, but ever and anon he made some remark as we 
 went on so that we might be said to keep up a running fire of conversation all the 
 way • but, as we nearcd Charing-cross, I told him it would be prudent to say no more, 
 ana that business must commence. He was a very good fellow for that, and he 
 at once left off talking, and in a lew minutes I ensconced myself in a tavern, from the 
 first floor of which 1 could catch a glimpse of the banking-house door; and there 
 I made up my mind to wait until it was within a few moments of the opening of 
 the establishment. [ 
 
 Mr. Jobbkins remained at the bar, where he enjoyed himself ever a glass of 
 g&inethmg hot, to his unmitigated satisfaction. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 613 
 
 I had began to think that my precautions were needless, and that Sir Pumpkin 
 had no suspicions?, until about ten minutes before ten o'clock (ten being the hour 
 at which the banking-house opened), and then I saw a young, red-headed, conse- 
 quential-looking fellow make his appearance. 
 
 There was such an air of self-sufficiency about the fellow that I hated the very 
 sight of him on the first moment. He was the picture of ignorant assumption. 
 Bah ! how I detested the fellow as he strutted about, and now and then he looked 
 at his watch, with an air as much as to say, — 
 
 Now, good people, any of you who are passing-, behold I have a watch! " 
 
 I could have sworn that fellow was a radical reformer — a high-flying liberal — 
 \ patriot of the first water. I could have staked my life upon it. How odd it is 
 that the highest and holiest causes have ever been sacrificed by their own advocates. 
 Thus parliamentary reform was kept back a good fifty years, owing to the down- 
 right bad character of its supporters. They had all the right on their side, but by 
 some means all the virtue and the respectability was on the other — ay, and a 
 large share of the talent too. 
 
 But to proceed. 
 
 From the first moment that I saw the red-headed rascal, I knew that he came 
 to watch me. I felt that he was just the sort of person, who, without any com- 
 punction, J would hand over to Mr. Jobbkins. 
 
 I watched him narrowly, and saw that he took good care not to move above 
 twelve or fourteen paces from the door of the banking-house, so down stairs I went, 
 and giving Jobbkins the wink to follow, out I went. 
 
 "Jobbkins," said I, "do you see that fellow opposite? " 
 
 " Rayther." 
 
 "Well. He's your man." 
 " Wery good." 
 
 There was a movement about the door of the banking-house, and at the moment 
 the clock of the Horse Guards began to strike ten, I darted across the road, followed 
 by Jobbkins, and just as the fiery-headed gentleman was about to walk up to the 
 door, Jobbkins interrupted him. 
 
 "How are you?" said he, and in a moment with one tremendous bang upon the 
 crown of it, he sent the hat of the intruder completely over his face. I darted into 
 the banking-house in a moment, and presented my cheque at the counter, to an old 
 man, to' whom I said, — 
 
 " Sir Pumpkin's compliments, and he would like notes." 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 I think three minutes not elapse when I left the banking house with the notes in 
 my pocket. There was quite a crowd about twenty yards from the door, and I 
 pushed my way in to see what it was all about. 
 
 Perhaps I could have made a shrewd guess, but that is neither here nor there. 
 
 In the middle of the crowd, I beheld Mr. Jobbkins and the red headed sprig, 
 but to my intense astonishment, the former it was who was getting all the sympa- 
 thy of the crowd, while the latter was getting its utter and unconditional 
 condemnation. 
 
 " Oh, the wretch V* said Mr. Jobbkins, "he was a lodger in my house, ladies 
 and gentlemen, and he took away my wife, one o'the blessedest, virtuousest, of her 
 beautiful sex afore he corned ! Ladies, I appeals to you, cos you is all beautiful, 
 and every one is feeling and kind and wirtuous. 1 appeals to you." 
 
 " I didn't do anything of the sort !" said the sprig. 
 
 " Who expectorated you to say you did,' replied Jobbkins. " I don't think as 
 how any o' these here ladies and gentlemen expectorate you to criminivote yersejf 
 you wagabone." 
 
 "No, I should think not," said a coal-heaver, who happened to present himself, "I 
 tells ye what, young feller, if you'd a took away my missus, I'd scfunchyou, that's all." 
 
 "But I " ' , 
 
 " Oh, the wretch !" said a masculine female, dealing him a buffet ; and then / 
 another lady knocked off his hat, which he had succeeded in wrenching off tin 
 
614 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 face a f ter the original bonneter, and where, by-the-by, he had better have kept it, 
 and tore out by the roots a whole handful of his hair. 
 
 " Murder ! murder !" he shouted. " I want to stop a fellow at the Bank. Let 
 me go, good people. Oh, let me go, do !" 
 
 But the signal of attack had been given and the women who had hear*l Jobb- 
 lrins's story, set upon poor carrots might and main, so that, in a few moments, 
 his " human face divine," had scarcely the most prominent part of it (a nose) 
 remaining. 
 
 I touched Jobbkins on the arm, and when he turned round, I gave him a wink 
 to be off, and sidling away through the crowd, we got into the Strand. 
 
 "Jobbkins, my boy," 1 said, "you have not done that amiss." 
 
 •* Lor ! I shan't forget that ere humbug in a hurry. Capital ! How he 
 did bawl, to be sure. ^wWell, I wishes him luck now, among all them ere women. 
 Ohl ch! oh!" 
 
 * ; So do I ; it ought to be a lesson to him not to interfere with gentlemen again. 
 But now, Jobbkins, we have not quite settled it all yet, my boy. You must get 
 a hackney coach, and come with me, or rather after me, as quickly as you can to 
 the Bank." 
 
 "The Bank in the City?" 
 
 (i Yes ; the Bank of England. 1 will tell you all about it afterwards." 
 
 So saying, I left Jobbkins, and knowing that I could, by going right on at a 
 good pace, get to the Bank before I could go through all the ceremony of hiring 
 a hackriey coach and the drawling through the streets in one of those uncoa|^ 
 fortabfe vehicles, I walked. Of course my object now was to change the notes a^ 
 soon as I could for gold ; and I thought there was a good chance of doing so by 
 promptness, before anything about the affair could be said, considering the situation 
 in which 1 had left the spy, who was set upon me, and who 1 thought wouldr find 
 some difficulty in iescuins himself from the hands of the Philistines. 
 
 I found, from after inquiry, that he had more trouble than even I had expected, 
 for he was half murdered before some constables rescued him. " Served him right ! 
 
 At the pace I walked I soon enough reached the Bank, and saw that Jobbkins 
 had not yet arrived. However, I knew that he would not be long, so I at once 
 went into the bullion-office to get change for my notes. 
 
 A man with five £1000 notes, that he wants changed for gold, is not an every 
 day customer at all, so that I was looked upon carefully, in order, I suppose, that 
 I might be known again ; for in all this public establishment, and many of the 
 private ones in this country, I have found that the maxim of thinking every man a 
 rogue, until you have proved him to be the reverse, is in full operation. 
 Will you wait a short time V' said a clerk. 
 
 Now, 1 suspected they wanted, for some cause or another, to send down to 
 Drummonds, from where the notes came; for there had been, previous" $b the ques- 
 tion being asked me, a consultation of a book, and so on. 
 
 "No," I replied, promptly ; "why should I wait?" 
 
 Tnere was another pause, and the clerk who had spoken to me, whispered to 
 another one, who came and said, — 
 
 " Will you take a seat, sir ; we shall not keep you above half an hour.' 1 
 
 " I shall neither take a seat," said I, 64 nor will I wait half an hour. Here are 
 certain notes of your issuing. They are payable on demand here. I demand their 
 payment, and you perhaps are aware that a refusal is an act of bankruptcy." 
 
 " Oh ! we don't refuse." 
 
 " Then pay your promissory notes at once." 
 
 They could not get out of it any way now. They were evidently suspicious, 
 but in about ten minutes I had the gold in a bag, which 1 had taken good care to 
 provide myself with. The weight w as something considerable, nearly approaching 
 seventy pounds in actual gold ; and one of the porters carried it for me to the door, 
 where I found Jobbkins with a coach. 
 
 In we got, and the coachman asked where to ? 
 
 "No. 100 Oxford street," said J; and I saw the porter at the Bank make a 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 615 
 
 note of it, as well as of the number of the coach. How suspicious people are to 
 be sure. It's quite disgraceful. 
 
 The coach made about a quarter of the distance to Oxford street, when I pulled 
 the check-string, and Javvey alighted at once. 
 
 f* Have you any objection," said I, " to something to drink." 
 
 "Lor*, sir — I any dejection sir— not I — anythink. 
 
 " Very good. I am famishing for a drop of something myself ; but I can't leave 
 my bag here ; but nay friend will go with you unto that public-house, and bring 
 me out a drain of something." 
 
 Jobbkins went with the coachman, and presently came to the coach door with 
 a glass, of brandy and water in his hand. 
 
 " He*s half drunk already,"' said he. " What's to be done, captain." 
 
 " Keep him at it a little longer, and then come out, andlwalk after me ; for I 
 shall be off towards the Minories again. This bag is E^Jrcifernal weight, and I 
 can't carry it all the way back ; carry it we must between us ; that's quite clear. 
 It wont do to trust to any more vehicles. We don't know what mischief might 
 result from them. 
 
 " All's right," said Jobbkins. " I'll make him so drunk that he shan't know a 
 pint pot from a coach horse. You get on, captain ; I'll soon be after you." 
 "Very good. That will do." 
 
 Jobbkins went into the public-house again, and I quietly got out of the hackney 
 coach and went off with the gold. In a very short time he joined me. 
 " Well," I said, " is the coachman all rigbtT* 
 
 " A gettinsr on that ere way, captain. He's tidyish by this time. He's a having 
 •^bf the sixth glass of hot with." ' Z 
 
 " I should think then that will about do ; and now take a turn at carrying this, 
 will you V 
 
 " You don't mean to say as this is all tin %** 
 
 " Yes, I do. But mums the word when we get to the Minories. I know I 
 can trust you ; and I know I can trust old Sol. But I don't know that I can trust 
 anybody else there ; so I don't intend to try the experiment friend Jobbkins, you 
 understand." 
 
 CHAPTER XCVI. 
 
 I GET INTO DANGER IN CONSEQUENCE OF MY WEALTH. — THE DEATH. 
 
 Jobbkins '^did perfectly understand me ; and in due time we arrived at old Sol's 
 shop in the Minories j and probably never since there had been a threshold there, 
 had so costly a load all at once crossed it. 
 
 The old man was very well pleased to see me return, for he guessed that the 
 adventure I had gone upon was none of the safest ; and he quite rubbed his hands 
 with glee. 
 
 "Now, Sol," I said, " I have made a good sum of money by this transaction, 
 and I mean to take care of it. By that I don't mean to intimate that I shall not 
 spend it. No doubt I shall do that quick enough ; but what I mean to say is, 
 that I don't want other people to spend it for me. How muclTdo you expect for 
 keeping my secret, and doing all you can to keep me safe likewise V 
 
 V Oh, my tear, I shall leave it to you." 
 
 " No, that won't do. If you leave it to me, you shall have nothing at all ; so 
 I tell you. Name your sum, and I will tell you if it is too much." 
 " Two hundred pounds, my tear." 
 
 " You shall have them, and perhaps more, for all I know— perhaps more, Sol 
 
616 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 but at all events, you shall have that much, old boy, and there it is. Jobbkins 
 there is the same for you." 
 "Lor!" 
 
 e * You deserve it ; for^without you I should not have been able to manage it so. 
 Now that business is settled, tell me what room I can have here, old Sol, in which 
 the cash will be safe V 
 
 (e My tear you shall have the best room in the house." 
 
 " Very well, that will do; I shall sleep here for some time, until I hear what 
 sort of public disturbance is made about the affair, and then when it dies away — 
 for after all it will only be a nine days' wonder — I can take what steps I tike." 
 
 " Sho you can, my tear." 
 
 Old Sol then maderae free of his best room, of which he gave me the key and 
 sole possession. It w&j| room fitted up both as a sitting and bed-room, and a very 
 comfortable place too iro^as ; and then to a cupboard in it I removed my gold. 
 
 But do my readers think that I meant to keep it there ? Oh no, far from 
 that. I had no reason to suppose that 1 was otherwise than safe, but still I did 
 not like altogether to trust anybody ; and I had half arranged in my mind what to 
 do as I went along to old Sol's with Jobbkins. If any attempt should be made 
 upon my wealth, I knew ihat it would be a matter of time and consideration, and 
 that consequently for the p|psent I was safe enough ; so out I went, after making 
 as great an alteration as possible in my personal appearance ; and when I did that, I 
 flatter myself it was an alteration indeed. 
 
 My readers will be, perhaps, a little surprised* to hear that I took a long walk 
 out of town in the direction of Finchley, and began to look about me among the 
 birds and trees and flowers, which were country matters that, as a genera! thing, 
 I did not know much abjut. 
 
 But I had fin object. 
 
 I walked into a public-house, and asked if there was a cottage to let, furnished, 
 in the neighbourhood, and was at once told of one. It was a little place, and 
 everything in it was as shabby as furnished houses usually are ; and if my readers 
 have at any time had anything to do with domiciles let furnished, they will know 
 that that is an amount of shabbiness that you cannot get much beyond. 
 
 But it would answer my purpose very well for all that, and I took it at once, and 
 hired likewise the old woman who had charge of it, to remain and take care of it 
 in my absence, telling her that I was in business in London, but that, when the 
 whim took me to do so, I should come down there. 
 
 This was all very satisfactory to her, and I sent her to the village to make some 
 | purchases of coals and wood. 
 
 1 While she was gone, I sought out a retired spot in the garden, and buried one 
 j thousand pounds, which I had brought with me, out of my money ; and it was 
 my intention to bring it all, time after time, so that it would not be long at the 
 mercy of circumstances at the Jew's house. Indeed, I only took the cottage for 
 that express purpose, and I considered that, by so managing the matter, I was 
 giving myself all but perfect security. 
 
 When the old woman came back, I told her to expect me on the following day, 
 I and gave her some money in advance, after which I walked some distance, until a 
 coach overtook me, and I get comfortably to town. 
 
 I did not think proper even to tell Jobbkins of this safe place, in which I was 
 going to put all my money. I believed him to be a very honest fellow, but still 
 one need not go out of one's way to tell all one's affairs to a man because he is an 
 honest fellow. 
 
 If, however, any emergency had arisen, I would at once have trusted Jobbkins. 
 
 When I got back to the Minories, I was received with every demonstration of 
 affection by old Sol ; indeed, I rather thought he was too civil by half, and I went 
 up stairs as soon as I could to see that my money was all safe, which being the 
 case, I was reconciled a little to the elaborate compliments the old sinner continued 
 to lavish with such profusion upon me. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 He provided for me a first-rate dinner, and I must say that old Sol could, when 
 he chose, do the thing as decently as anybody. I was quite surprised at the 
 cookery, and told him so, while the wines that he placed before me were of the 
 most recherche character, and fully merited all the encomiums that I could heap 
 upon them. 
 
 " Ah, my tear," he said, " you can pay, and why should you not have all the 
 peshtV* 
 
 That is strikingly true, S©1," said I, 
 "and don't admit of any further argu- 
 ment. Now what will it all come to, old 
 fellow 1 ?" 
 
 " Why, my tear, you shall have just 
 such a dinner any day for two guineas." 
 
 " Two guineas ! That's a tolerable 
 price for a dinner, old Sol; but, as it in- 
 cludes wines and supper, it's all right." 
 
 "Oh, all right — all right, my tear ; I 
 lose one andshixspence by it." 
 
 I could not help laughing, and gave 
 him a good share of a bottle of claret, 
 which he enjoyed amazingly. I did not 
 mind for a time paying him his price, and 
 staying atthis house for safety's sake ; but, as soon as I could hear any news that 
 would make me think I might go about again, I meant to lead a very different sort 
 of life than was to be found in the Minories. 
 
 But I said nothing to old Sol, as yet, of an intention to leave, although, no doubt, 
 he knew me well enough to fully expect it whenever it should be safe for me to 
 do so. 
 
 I did not stir out of the place the whole of the day, and as I once, towards 
 evening, went down stairs, I opened a door that led into the extreme end of old 
 Sol's shop, for I wanted to speak to him. I saw him talking to a man whom I did 
 not know, and just caught the words,— 
 
 " Oh, of course, my tear, he shall sleep like a top. I will give him a glass, the 
 last thing, that shall do that part of the business, my tear." 
 
■9 "iMJJi — 
 
 618 
 
 H Who is to have the glass?" thought I. 
 f ** Very good," said the man ; " mind, we go shares after I have cut his throat." 
 
 " Oh, yesh — yesh — yesh." 
 
 I drew back again, and went up into my room to think about this a little. 
 
 " Do they mean me V* was the deeply interesting query I put to myself. (i Is 
 it my throat that is to be so unceremoniously cut to-night V* 
 
 Few of my readers, I expect, will be inclined to doubt that this was a very inte- 
 resting question, and, although I could not exactly solve it, no as to say I had no 
 doubt about it, this was suspicious enough to make me take every possible precau- 
 tion. I had plenty of arms with me, and I loaded a pair of long duelling pistols 
 that I had with a couple of slugs each, and about a tea-spoonful of shot beside, so 
 that I considered myself to be pretty well prepared for whatever might happen ; 
 and then I thought the'^est way would be to show myself below, in case it should 
 be thought that I had some suspicions. 
 
 The conduct of old Sol was certainly not of a nature to make me easier upon 
 the subject ; he was very civil and considerate, and at the same time I could see 
 that he was awfully nervous. 
 
 * Why, old fellow," I said, " you don't seem well." 
 
 " No, my tear, I aint well." 
 
 '« Indeed! what's the matter with you, old Sol? I thought you had an iron 
 constitution. ,, 
 
 " Yes, my tear, so I have ; but I am getting old, you know, and iron will rust." 
 " Ah, that's true, and I shall have a bottle with you this evening, Sol, if you 
 like." 
 
 w With all my heart, my tear." 
 
 i( Do you expect any of the ' family ' here to-night V 
 
 if No, my tear, I don't. They ish all gone to crack shomebody's crib a good way 
 off ; we shall have all the house to ourselves, my tear. 1 ' 
 
 "That's all right, then. ' I feel inclined to enjoy myself to-night ; so we will, 
 when you've shut up your shop, sit down, and be quite rational, old fellow. Upon 
 my life you do look out of sorts, but you'll soon get all right again." 
 
 " I expect to be all right to-morrow," he said, and then he gave an odd sort of 
 chuckle, as if he had said rather a clever thing than otherwise, and I suspected 
 that this all-rightness bore some decided reference to my money, which was to be 
 got at through the preliminary process of cutting my throat. 
 
 But that was a matter upon which I was determined to exercise a veto, let it 
 cost what it might; and even if I were at all religiously inclined, 1 should pause 
 like the saints to improve the occasion, and to show how Providence had once again 
 stepped in to my rescue ; for if I had not happened just to go down stairs in time 
 to hear what old Sol said to the strange man, and what the strange man said to 
 him, I might have had my throat cut as quietly as possible. 
 
 The moroseness of old Sol was evidently upon the increase, and it was sot until 
 we had sat for some time, and he had drank more than was usual with him, 
 that he began to recover his customary tone and manner, and spoke according to 
 his custom, 
 
 Then he was very entertaining, for he was a living chronicle of daring deeds, 
 done by the ''family/' which never found the way at all to the light, and when once 
 he began a train of anecdote telling, he told them well, and with a graphic effect 
 that, considering the peculiarities of his diction, was really astonishing. 
 
 I could have listened to the old rascal with pleasure all night; but, suddenly, as 
 the clock struck eleven, I saw him start, and change colour perceptibly. 
 
 " What'sjhe matter, Sol ?" said I. 
 
 " Matter, my tear. What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Why, you don't look very well." 
 
 " Not very well, my tear. I never was better in all my life. I don't want to be 
 told that I don't look very well by anybody. I am very well— very well, indeed." 
 " No offence, Sol. Take another glass." 
 u Oh, no offence— no offence." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 619 
 
 CHAPTER XCVII. 
 
 THE ATTEMPTED MURDER. 
 
 I thought it injudicious to make any further remarks about his looks, so I 
 dropped the the subject for the present, and pressed him to drink, which he did, but 
 evidently sparingly, as if he had ascertained that he had something to do that 
 might render sobriety highly desirable to him, and so indeed.it was, as the sequel 
 proved. 
 
 He recovered his spirits wonderfuly, and told some good things better than ever, 
 so that he puzzled me a little, and I could not tell what it was that made him give 
 such a start at hearing eleven o'clock strike. I was not deceived in that matter by ; 
 imagination, so I kept a good watch upon him, and presently (although we sat in a ! 
 room at the back of the house) I heard a loud shrill whistle proceeding from the 
 street in the front. 
 
 " What's that?" said I. *' It sounds like some signal." 
 
 "Very." 
 
 " Don't you think it is so, old Sol V* 
 
 " No, my tear ; sho many boys, ash they go pasht, make such a noise. Well, 
 you are a younger man you know, than me, captain, sho I shall go to bed." 
 
 " And I too," said I ; " for 1 don't like late hours as a general thing, you know, 
 and to tell the truth, I feel a little fatigued. I was up early, you know, this 
 morning, Sol." 
 
 " Sho you was ; sho you was, my tear. But stop a bit, before you go up stairs 
 to bed. I'll give you a treat, such a treat as I don't give everybody. It's a cor- 
 dial, only known to our people, my tear, and I should get into disgrace for giving 
 it to you, if it was known ; sho you musht keep it a secret, you know." 
 
 " Oh, trust me for that," said I. 
 
 He went to a cupboard which he unlocked, and brought out a bottle something 
 in shape like a champagne bottle; and as he tapped it with his fingers, he 
 said, — 
 
 H This is the sort of thing to give a man a new existence, to make him live all 
 the days of bis life, and three or four over, my tear.'* 
 " Indeed ; is it so excellent, Sol?" 
 
 " Excellent. It's only what the best of my peoples are let drink, my tear. I 
 really ought not to give it to you, but you shall now for all that ; it's a cordial." 
 
 *' Perhaps, then, Sol. after all you had better not give it to me at all." 
 
 "Oh, yesh, yesh. I never go back of my word, my tear — never go back of 
 my word, never, never. You shall have it, my tear, as I said you should ; sho 
 there's an end of it. Oh, delicious. How it comes out of toe plessed bottle?" 
 
 u Well, since you are so pressing, Sol, we will take a glass together." 
 
 " We. my tear ? God bless you ; I dare not. It's excusable giving a drop of it 
 to a stranger, bat not to take it ourself, except at a feast. Oh, no. It's a shore 
 trial, but I must not take it." 
 
 *' More fool you then, Sol, if it's good ; give me the glass." 
 
 He poured me out a glass of something from the bottle, which looked like pale 
 sherry in colour, only it came out with an outrageous thickness ; and then pretend- 
 ing wistfully to lick his old parched lips, the sinner handed it to me. 
 
 * Well, Sol," I said, " here's luck, and may you always succeed in what you 
 undertake, old boy." 
 
 " Amen ! my tear, Amen ! You ish getting quite pious." 
 
 " Yes, it's not the worst trade going ; and when all others fail, I think I shall 
 set up in it. Hush ! Hush ! What's that? They're outside the room door." 
 
 " Outside the door V 
 
 "Yes; don't you hear?" 
 
 "Hew what?" \ 
 
620 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 4< Why, bless me, you can't be so deaf, Sol. Go and see what it is, or I will* 
 Yes, I will." 
 
 " No, no, my tear ; I'll go. Itsh shome cat or another, my tear. The beasts 
 iah always here. Only let me get hold of one of them, that's all ; I'll go and shee 
 what it is. I'll go — yesh, I'll go." 
 
 He went to the door of the room and looked out, and that gave me the oppor- 
 tunity I wanted ; namely, to throw the contents of the glass of cordial into the 
 grate ; and when he turned round, he found me with the empty glass at my lips, as 
 if I had just drank off the abominable mixture. 
 
 " There's nobody !" he said. 
 
 " Aint there ! Oh, well, I thought I heard something. I say, Sol, I can't say 
 that I am in such raptures with your cordial as you are. It's all very well I dare 
 sav in its way, but yet there's an odd taste about it that I don't exactly like. 
 What is it?" 
 
 "Oh, that's all your fancy, my tear." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is ; I shall go to bed now, Sol, and be sure you rouse me early 
 to-morrow, old boy ; I want to go to the country. I find that those little trips rub 
 off 1 the rust of staying here, and I come back much more contented." 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt. I'll call you early enough. He ! he ! he P 
 
 " What the deuce are you laughing at?" 
 
 "I laughing, my tear ? What put that in your head — I haven't laughed for 
 seven years and more." 
 
 " Well, I suppose I am getting stupid, as well as sleepy." 
 
 Sleepy— -sleepy. Are you sleepy V* 
 " Uncommonly so." 
 
 "It's soon." I heard him mutter to himself. "It's very soon. Well, well, 
 it's all the petter — it's all the petter — it will be all over soon — it's all the petter." 
 
 * You old rascal," thought I. " It shall be all the worse for you presently, at 
 all events." 
 
 I reached my bed-room in safety ; and old Sol, seeing, as he thought, that I was 
 almost dropping with sleep, left me, after wishing me an abundance of good nights, 
 and chuckling as he went out of the room, without any reserve now ; for he evi- 
 dently considered that the narcotic was having its effect upon me ; and, no doubt, 
 if I had unsuspiciously taken the cordial,, I should not have been alive to pen 
 these few particulars of my life and actions. 
 
 When I was alone, my first care was to look to my pistols, and to convince 
 myself, which I soon did, that they were all right, and would not fail me at the 
 moment when they would be most wanted, and then took off my coat merely, 
 and got into bed, carrying both the pistols wtth me under the bed-clothes, ready 
 for immediate use. 
 
 (< Now," said I, " you may come as soon as you like, old Sol ; I am quite 
 ready to give you a warm and comfortable reception, old boy ; and the sooner," the 
 better. 
 
 I should have liked to have known what was passing now in the lower part of 
 the house ; but, of course, I had no opportunity of doing that, and all I could hear 
 was a confused murmur of voices ; but whose voices they were could only be a 
 matter of guess, as none of the sounds came with sufficient distinctness to my ear 
 to make up an opinion upon evidence. 
 
 1 think about half an hour elapsed — perhaps not so much, for I had no means 
 of knowing, as I had put out my light, and, therefore, although my watch was in 
 my pocket, I could not tell by it — when I heard a creaking noise, which I well 
 knew was made by one of the stairs that was loose, and always responded to the 
 tread of any one in that way. 
 
 " They come, they come !" said I. 
 
 The more distinctly I heard the sound of footsteps, and I became convinced 
 that two people were approaching my room, and that they were not taking extra- 
 ordinary care to be silent, although they certainly did not come noisily. 
 
 No doubt the uarcotic was fully relied upon. 
 
NEWGATE 
 
 621 
 
 There was an unusually large gap between the bottom of my room door and the 
 floor, and upon that I kept my eyes fixed, for I knew that it would give me the 
 earliest intimation of the approach of a light, and I was right ; for in about half a 
 minute there gleamed through it a broad glare, and I then heard voices distinctly. 
 
 Old Sol and his dear friend outside seemed to be debating something between 
 them. Perhaps it was who was to strike the blow, or perhaps that was settled, 
 but was some minor point of convenience or concealment connected with my mur- 
 der ; for that my murder was intended, I had no more doubt than that I then 
 lived. 
 
 Whatever, however, was the subject matter of the consultation, it was soon 
 over, and the handle of my door was turned. 
 
 A full glare of light came into the room, and I heard a voice that I knew 
 nothing of say, — 
 
 "Sol, why don't you shade the light? why, it's enough to awaken anybody, and 
 I don't want a struggle." 
 
 «' Yesh, my tear," said Sol, << it might awaken anybody, but it won't awaken 
 him, my tear, he is shound enough ; the cordial hash done hish business for him. 
 Oh, it's a beautiful cordial." 
 
 u And you are sure the money is here ?" 
 
 " Quite shure, my tear, do you think I'd take all this trouble if I vasn't, my 
 tear-— do you think I'm a fool?" 
 
 " No, Sol, nobody ever accused you of that, whatever other thing they may 
 think you ; but, come on, come on, hold the light high, and I'll have his head 
 half off in a minute with this knife." 
 
 They came to the bed-side and I feigned sleep, but from the corners of my 
 eyes I kept watch upon their movements, and I had one of my pistols ready cocked, 
 and the barrel of it just protruding fiom the clothes so as to enable me to take 
 a eood aim. 
 
 Old Sol was never any great beauty, but as I caught a glimpse of his face 
 I thought I had never seen anything so hideous in all my life ; but it was the 
 proceedings of his companion that I paid the most attention to now. He was a 
 ferociousrlooking fellow, and in his hand lie carried a carving knife — the very one 
 which had been laid upon the table'at dinner-time ; the Jew held the light, and in 
 his wish and eagerness to see the deed done effectually I suppose, he leaned forward 
 so that tfceir two faces were quite close together. 
 
 I took deliberate aim, and just as the carving knife was raised, I pulled the trig- 
 ger of the pistol — it missed fire I 
 
 CHAPTER XCVIII. 
 
 THE FIGHT ON THE STAIRCASE. 
 
 Yes, the weapon, upon which I may be said to have staked my life, missed fire 
 — the pistol failed me, but they heard the click of the lock, subdued even as was 
 that sound by the bed-clothes that covered it up. Yes, they heard it, and it struck 
 terror into their very souls. 
 
 (i He's awake," cried Sol. 
 
 '* Wide awake," roared I, in a voice of thunder, and springing up in my bed 
 I seized the pillow, and flung it in the face of the fellow with the knife. 
 
 Sol dropped the candle, and all was darkness in a moment. 
 
 "Kill him, kill him," he cried, "oh, kill him any way, he musht be killed 
 now." 
 
 1 darted out of the bed on the other side, and then I stood profoundly still 
 
62 2 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 and thought if my eyes got accustomed to the darkness, I should be able to catch 
 a dim view of one of my enemies, and that then I might, at all events, shoot him ; 
 for the other pistol was in my grasp, and that I hoped would not fail me as its 
 companion had done. 
 
 It was odd enough, but they both seemed to me to have adopted the same plan 
 as I had, namely, to be profoundly still, and there we were all three of us, scarcely 
 daring to breathe, I fixed my eyes^in the direction of the door, which was open, 
 and from a window on the staircase there came a dim light, that soon by con- 
 tinuing to gaze at it enabled me to distinguish the door-way from the unusual 
 blackness of the rest of the room. 
 
 I thought I had heard a creeking sound, and as I looked, I felt convinced that 
 my enemies were cautiously making their escape. 
 
 The intention, I did not doubt, was to get fire-arms from the lower part of the 
 house, and then return to the attack, for after what had already happened, it was 
 not safe to leave me alive. The Jew had said as much. 
 
 I strained my eyes to -pierce the obscurity, and then I felt certain that I saw a 
 dark object passing out of the room. It was one or the other of them, I cared not 
 which, so long as I had the chance of a shot ; so I with great care levelled the 
 pistol. 
 
 This did not fail me. The report, in the confined space of the room, was loud 
 and terrific, but it was not loud enough nor terrific enough to smother a shriek 
 whieh went through my ears with most awful violence. I had hit somebody. In 
 another moment the sound of footsteps scampering down the staircase came quite 
 plainly upon my ears, and the state of affairs seemed to me to be that I had shot j 
 one of my enemies, and the other had run away. 
 
 1 was not without the means of getting a light, and now I procured one in a 
 moment ; and as the candle that I had left extinguished on the dressing table 
 now illumined the apartment, I looked around me with eager curiosity. 
 
 I could see no one, but the moment I looked towards the door a sight met my 
 eyes that I shall not readily forget. There lay old Sol, half in the room and half 
 out, and almost literally without a head. The reader will recollect how T had 
 loaded the pistols with'a couple of slugs, and also with a teaspoonful of small 
 shot as well. It appeared as if the whole of the charge had hit him in a mass 
 just at the back of his head, and blown his skull off. There he lay a hideous 
 spectacle upon his face, and looking about as smashed a specimen of humanity 
 as I had ever looked upon. 
 
 But I did not waste what for all I knew might be very valuable time upon a 
 contemplation of old Sol, who was rightly enough served for his treachery ; but 
 leaving my candle in the room, I went to the head of the stairs and listened, to 
 hear if I could discover anything of the movements of the gentleman with the 
 carving knife. 
 
 There was certainly a chance, perhaps, even a likelihood, that after what had 
 happened he would go away, but then he might do just the reverse, and his fears 
 of ulterior consequences, combined with his cupidity, might tempt him to stay and 
 see out the adventure. 
 
 Acting therefore under the latter idea, I did not think it prudent to go down 
 stairs in a hurry, but closed my bed-room door so as not to have any light from it. 
 By-the-bye, I had to kick old Sol out of the way. I leaned over the balustrades 
 of the staircase listening. 
 
 The event proved that my caution was by no means thrown away. 
 
 I had not been long in my position, when I saw, for it was a well staircase, a 
 light below, and presently my friend of the carving knife made his appearance. 
 He had a pair of pistols in one hand, and carried the light in the other. 
 
 In a moment I went back to my bed-room, and got a long dagger-like knife, 
 that I always had about me when I travelled, and stood at the head of the stairs. 
 I was in hopes he would have crept up in the dark, in which event I should have 
 had him comfortably enough all to myself ; but he brought his light with him, and 
 so prevent*** the possibility of a seizure taking place j and under those cireum- 
 
NEWGATE, 
 
 623 
 
 stances, I thought I had better bring affairs a little to a climax, before he got all 
 the way up. Accordingly I began to descend, and as soon as he heard me, he 
 paused. 
 
 I pretending then suddenly to see him, after I had got down to the first floor, 
 ran into a room ; then I closed the door, but not so close but that I could see him, 
 if he came up to that part of the house. 
 
 I suppose this movement of mine impressed the gentleman with an idea that I 
 was more willing to avoid an encounter than to court one, and that possibly I had 
 no arms, having discharged my only pistol that would go off. At all events, he 
 came up the stairs with more confidence than before, and looked bold enough. 
 
 I locked the door of the room in which I had taken refuge on the inside, and 
 then I stood away from it, for fear he should fire through the panels. 
 
 " Hilloa V he said. u Who are you? I heard a noise up here. What's it all 
 about ? I was nearly knocked down by a man running away. I hope no mischief 
 has been done." 
 
 " Oh !" thought I, "that's your game, is it? but I have had too good a look at 
 you to be deceived as to your identity." However, I replied, — 
 
 " There has been a disturbance. Who are you." 
 
 "Oh ! my name's Jones. I came in to see what was the matter." 
 
 " Well, sir, all I say is, that there has been an attempt to murder me, and I'm 
 afraid to come out of this room now in consequence." 
 
 " Oh ! you need not be afraid. I will protect you. Come out at once." 
 
 <J I am unarmed.'' 
 
 " I have arms. Come out, and we will search the house. Perhaps we may 
 find some of the villains. At all events, you are quite safe now.*' 
 
 " I begin to think I am," said I ; ft and yet I don't like to leave a secure shelter. 
 I tell you what I'll do — if you will go down stairs, I'll pop out my head and look ; 
 and then, if I don't see anything alarming, I'll come out. But how do I know you 
 aint one of the very men, you see ?" 
 
 " Well, you can satisfy yourself upon that head in a minute. I will stand some 
 distance down the stairs, and you can open the door a short distance only, and 
 have a good look at me, you know." 
 
 « That's fair," said 1. 
 
 " I looked about the room, and, by great good luck, I found a hat, which I 
 placed at the end of a stick, and then cautiously opening the door a short distance, 
 I protruded it out. Click went the lock of a pistol. 
 
 "What's that?" said I. "Oh, what's that? It sounded like a pistol that 
 wouldn't go off. Oh dear, what is it ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing — nothing," he said. J ( l didn't hear anything. Put out you 
 head again, and take a good look at me, H and then you will be satisfied. Oh, don't 
 be afraid." 
 
 " I suppose," said I, " it was only my imagination, after all."^ 
 
 I then again protruded the hat a little way out, when he fired at it in a moment, 
 
 and a bullet whizzed through it. I gave a cry, and pretended to fall down just 
 
 inside the door. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" I heard him say, as he came up the few stairs he had descended. 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Of all the fools I ever met with, this fellow is — or has been, I 
 ought to say now — the greatest. I have settled him now at all events ; and it's 
 no bad job he shot old Sol, for I shall have all his money to myself now, though 
 how such an ass came to have the courage to do so, I can't think. I suppose, 
 after all, it was a random shot in the dark." 
 
 On he came, without any caution, and pushing open the door, he walked into 
 the room, again saying as he did so, — 
 
 " The fellow must have been a born fool." 
 
 With my left hand I caught him by the throat. 
 
 " Not quite such an idiot as you think," said I. '< You are caught now in your 
 own trap." 
 " Mercy ! Oh, mercy !— mercy 1 " 
 
624 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 u I don't understand you." 
 
 With a shriek he fell to the floor ; for, somehow or another, the long double- 
 edged dagger I had slipped in between two of his ribs as easMy as possible, and 
 must have gone into his very heart. He rolled once upon the floor, grasped at 
 nothing with his hands, and then with a hideous gurgling sort of groan, he died. 
 
 There was a ring at the street bell at this moment, and I ran down to the passage 
 to reconnoitre, and see who it wa«. To my great relief it was Jobbkins. I paused 
 a moment or two, and said to myself — " Shall 1 trust him or not?" and then I 
 made up my mind that I would ; and I at once opened the door, and let him in. 
 
 He was surprised to see me, and looked aghast for a moment or two. Perhaps 
 my looks sufficiently told him that something serious had taken place, although 
 they afforded no precise guide to what it really was. 
 
 " Come in," I said, " and don't stand staring there." 
 
 CHAPTER XCIX. 
 
 . JOBBKINS AND I TURN QUITE RURAL. 
 
 Jobbkins did walk in ; and when the door was closed, I made it fast again, and 
 led the way to the Jew's room at the back of the shop, and told him to take a seat. 
 
 " Jobb, my boy," I said, "Jobb, listen to me. What do you think of old Sol 
 trying to hocuss and murder me to-day, or rather to-night. To cut my throat, and 
 bringing a fellow with him to do it with a carving knife. What do you think now 
 of that, Job ? What would you have done ?" 
 
 " Smashed 'em." 
 
 " You don't mean that. Oh no ; you would have quietly let them cut your 
 throat for old acquaintance sake, or else you would have contented yourself by 
 scaring them away, at all events." 
 
 " Would I ! You don't know me yet, captain ; that you don't. Would I ! I 
 tell yer that 1 would have smashed them both, and no mistake." 
 
 " Well, Jobbkins, I'm afraid I have." 
 
 "You have?" 
 
 " Yes. That's somewhere about it. Listen to me, old fellow, and I'll tell you 
 all about it." 
 
 I then related to him the whole affair, just as it stood. I concluded by saying, — 
 if Now, Jobbkins, I have trusted you in this business implicitly. My life is in 
 your hands ; and as I won't now make any half confidences with you, 1 shall 
 add, come with me, and help me to take the rest of my money away, and I will 
 show you where I hirle it ; and you shall help me to spend it, old fellow, guinea by 
 guinea. What say you ? Will you follow my fortunes from this time ?" 
 " Agreed." 
 
 cc Then we understand each other well. [Come up stairs. Let us get the money, 
 and be out of this murder-hole as quickly as possible. It's absolutely horrible 
 to stay in it now a moment longer than we can help." 
 
 We went up stairs, and I showed him both the bodies, at which he looked with 
 the most supreme indifference. Jobbkins was not the most sensitive person in the 
 world. 
 
 " Ah," be said, as he touched the dead body of old Sol with his foot. " Ah, 
 so that's an end on you, is it, you old waggerbone ? Well, who would a thought 
 it? It's a funny thing to find a man so wery perticular that he can't eat a bit of 
 pork, and yet he can bring hisself to cut the throat of a fellow creature. Them's 
 the things, captain, as gets the better o* me." 
 
 " And of everybody else too, Jobbkins," said I. " But come, lend me a hand 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 625 
 
 with the money, for I don't want to stay here a moment longer than I can 
 help." 
 
 We stepped over the dead body of the Jew, and went into my apartment, where 
 I soon loaded Jobbkins with the money, cramming my own pockets with as 
 muchfof it as I could ; and when that was done, we both turned our backs upon 
 the scene, well enough pleased to get out of a place that presented nothing but 
 disagreeable images to the mind. 
 
 liil 
 
 ' Are you going to your cottage now V 
 said Jobbkins. 
 
 " I am," said I ; "and you must go 
 to some livery stables and hire some ve- 
 hicle to_take us there. I don't think there 
 will be any danger in that course now ; 
 and as the weather is" fine, it will be quite 
 a change fo us to ruralise a little in the 
 country." 
 
 " Rayther a change," said Jobbkins. 
 We soon succeeded in getting a chaise, 
 and a boy to go with us and bring it back, 
 and off we went from the yard of the 
 livery stable-keeper, who did not know 
 where we came from, and so was not very 
 likely to give any information that would do us any mischief, even if ever such a 
 racket were made about the affair. 
 
 We did not intend that the boy with the chaise should know the precise cottage 
 to which we went, so I stopped at a foot-path which led to it, and dismissed him 
 just as the clock of some neighbouring church struck three in the morning. 
 : " It's an odd thing to awaken up the old woman you have taking care of your 
 
 place," said Jobbkins. 
 
 " Never mind about that,'' said I 
 
 I" we will give her some golden reasons for 
 
 thinking nothing about it. But I was just thinking, Jobb, what a row there will 
 
 when the dead bodies are dis- 
 
 be in the Minories 
 covered. 1 
 
 " Well, I doesn't know, 
 
 to-morrow, or rather to»day 
 
 said Jobbkins. " You see old Sol had a cellar un< 
 
 No. 79, 
 
626 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 derneath his shop, that was crammed full of papers, and books, and clothes. 
 There was an opening just behind the counter that led straight down to it." 
 
 " But what has that to do with the matter ?" 
 
 "Just as it catches." 
 
 " Just as it what ? What do you mean?" 
 
 (( Why, you know, captain, as we was a going out you gave me the light ; and, 
 says you, Jobbkins, says you, just pop that out, old fellow ; and arter that, away 
 we goes, you know — without so much as looking behind us, you know." 
 
 " Well, and you put it out , did you not 1" 
 
 (t Not exactly. I popped it down the blessed hole that led to the cellar, and if 
 it don't make a blessed flare up, I'm wery much mistaken, that's all*" 
 " You think the house will be burnt down then ?" 
 " I does." 
 
 " Good. The bodies then of both the J ew and Gentile may be consumed together 
 in the flames, and nobody be a bit the wiser as to how they came by their death— 
 a consumation devoutly to be wished. I only hope it may be so." " 
 
 " Well, there's a tidy chance at all ewents. But where 's your little country 
 crib P " 
 
 " Close at hand. The place rather bothers me at night though ; but I shall 
 know it if I come at all near it by a peculiar portico it has in the front of it, with 
 creeping plants all over it." 
 
 "Then here it is." 
 
 " Yes, here is the place, and now to awake the old dame who keeps watch and 
 ward here for me, which I hope will not be a difficult matter, for I can feel a driz- 
 zling rain beginning to fall, and am rather chilled by sitting in the chaise so long." 
 
 I tapped at the door several times, and at last succeeded in rousing the old woman, 
 who, whatever was her astonishment at my appearance at such an unconstitutional 
 hour of the morning, did not make any scruple about getting up and letting us in. 
 She lighted a fire very quickly, and then, after making ourselves comfortable for 
 about an hour, with such "combustibles" as Jobbkins called drink, as happened 
 to be in the house, we went to bed, and soon fell asleep : at least, I can answer for 
 myself, and I dare say Jobbkins did not have to woo the drowsy god for any length 
 of time in vain. We both had the blessing of easy consciences ! 
 
 I don't know really what the old woman thought of us, but having paid her 
 better than usual, I did know that she would keep all her thoughts to herself, 
 except those that were of the most agreeable character, and whatever she might say 
 to her neighbours, we, at all events, were entitled to, and would receive, her very 
 best respects. 
 
 By about nine o'clock in the morning we arose, and 1 must confess that even I, 
 accustomed as I was to the ways and manners of cities, to the constant hum and 
 bustle of multitudes, and all that goes to make up the constant round of noisy 
 excitement that is to be found in London, was pleased with what I saw. 
 
 I looked from the window of my bed-room. 
 
 Oh, what a serene quiet there was about and upon everything. How softly 
 and gently the cool morning air found its way in at the lattice. I felt a new life 
 creeping upon me, and really I became almost sentimental. 
 
 "Hilloa, Jobbkins," Ij cried, for he slept in the next room, "Jobbkins, my 
 boy ; how do you feel now, old fellow ? " 
 
 " I dosn't know yet." 
 
 " Get up then, and look out." 
 
 Jobbkins did so, and after gazing for a while upon tree and flower and stream, 
 he shook his head, and turned away without so much as saying a word, and there 
 was, at the same time, I thought, an odd, convulsive look upon his face. I 
 followed him. 
 
 " Why, Jobb," said I, " What's the matter ?" 
 
 " Nothink." 
 
 " Oh, but there is though ; I know better than that, old fellow ; there's something 
 ! at all events, so don't say there is not. Come now, what is it f 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 627 
 
 " Then the truth is, captain, I can't bear it." 
 
 « Can't bear what ? Why you speak like an ancient oracle, Jobbkins ; what 
 can't you bear >" 
 
 " These ere trees and flowers and fields ; I — I was born among em, and— and 
 I felt as if I was just somewhere about choked as I looked at 'em. 1 can't bear it, 
 captain. I shan't be able to stay here, I tell you ; I was born in such a place as this, 
 but I haven't seen anything fit to be called a tree for many a year, and I didn't 
 ought to want to come to do so now." 
 
 He turned away, and I could not get him to talk about the place again for some 
 time. I took a ramble in the neighbourhood, and a very delightful one it 
 was, and asked myself what I could desire better than to be for the remainder of 
 my days enabled to remain where I was to spend my money. 
 
 I began to consider how I could invest my five thousand pounds so as to make 
 it produce an amount of interest that would enable me to live comfortably, but 
 such reflections were soon cut short by matters of more stirring interest. The world 
 would not let me be alone, and I was forced again to battle with it. 
 
 Besides, I was a little afraid that when the novelty of my situation wore off, I 
 should begin painfully, perhaps, to revert to past themes, which it would be just as 
 well not to think about at all. v $ 
 
 CHAPTER C. 
 
 THE HORSEMAN.— HOSPITALITY AND TTB CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 That day passed off pleasantly enough, and if every one had been like it — if I 
 could have ensured all my days in that place, being as free from care and annoyance 
 as that was up to nearly night fall, all would have been very well indeed ; but 
 such was not to be. 
 
 Before the cottage was a very neat little garden, in which some of as pretty floral 
 decorations , as I had ever seen bloomed in all nature's freedom and beauty." The 
 effect of the setting sun upba them was good, and I enjoyed it, and had even tried 
 to coax Jobbkins to do so likewise, but he would not. 
 
 61 No, captain," he said, " I'm afeard o' sad things. I'll go and find out some 
 public-house, and get into the parlour, and have something to drink and a pipe, 
 and fancy myself in London again." .„ an 
 
 There was an inn not far off called the White Swan, and I told Jobbkins as 
 much, so away he went to make himself comfortable in his way, leaving me to 
 look at the flowers and trees. 
 
 I had not been loag so occupied when I saw coming at a slow pace a'man on 
 horseback ; he looked pale and jaded, althoughfcof an age whom one might suppose 
 that he would have been able to cope with a little ^fatigue ; but by a second glance 
 at him, I saw that he was one of those victims of consumption which in all 
 stages one meets with frequently in this country, which seems to be the fatal home 
 of that fell disorder. , 
 
 The horse walked only, for it seemed as if the rider had given him time to take 
 his own pace, or perhaps had not power enough to exercise any control over the 
 animal's actions. At all events as he neared my cottage, I saw the young man 
 swerve on his saddle, and I fully expected he was about to fall. 
 
 Now I don't, as my readers who have followed me thus far must be well aware, 
 profess anything in the shape of sensibility, sympathy, and all that sort of thing, 
 but somehow, by a natural impulse, Iran forward to save the young fellow from 
 falling, but he had recovered himself before I reached him. 
 " Are you ill 2" I said. 
 
628 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " No, no, not now, thank yon ; it was a sudden faiutness that came over me • 
 that was all ; I shall do very well now, thank you." 
 
 " You do not seem capable," I added, " of going on just now — excuse me for 
 saying so — and I would not do so unless I was prepared to offer you my assistance. 
 Here is my cottage that you can sit down in for a while, if you like." 
 
 " Your cottage ?" he said. 
 
 He glanced at my London attire as he spoke, as much as to say, — " You don't 
 look like the occupier of a cottage." 
 6 Yes," I said, " I have a cottage, sir, at your service." 
 
 He hesitated for a few moments, looked behind him down the road, and then 
 said, — 
 
 " Sir, I will be very much obliged to you for a little rest and a glass of water, 
 till my sister comes up ; I believe I am a couple of minutes in advance of the 
 carriage." 
 
 He dismounted at my door, and I tied the bridle of the horse to the gate, so 
 that when his party came up, they should, by seeing the shed, guess where he was, 
 and stop accordingly. He walked into the first room in the little place, and I 
 offered him a glass of wine, which he accepted with a gentlemanly courtesy, that 
 showed decent bringing up, at all events. 
 
 u A very pretty place this," he said. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " it is rjretty. Do you purpose going much farther?" 
 
 " Not a great way. They have taken a house on this road, I think about three 
 miles further on. My sister is an invalid. 
 
 " Ah,'' thought I, " it's in the family ; neither your nor your sister will have 
 long to inhabit any house, I am thinking." 
 
 " Horse exercise," he added, " has been recommended to me by a London phy- 
 sician, so I rode on before, while she came more leisurely in her carriage." 
 
 " Well, sir," I said, " three miles apart, in the counttry, almost constitu es 
 people neighbours; and perhaps in your rides, we phall have the pleasuretof 
 seeing you occasionally ?" 
 
 u I shall have great pleasure/' he said, " and shall be happy to see you at our 
 place; it is called the 'Oaks,' and is a very large built house, on the left 
 hand side of the road ; we have taken it, as it is famished, for our health's sake. 
 May I ask your name, sir?" 
 
 « Smith/' 
 
 "Thank you. My name is Villiers ; and if you ask for me when you calf at 
 the * Oaks,' I shall be happy to see you at any time, and believe myself fortunate 
 in making your acquaintance." 
 
 At this moment the sound of carriage wheels began to be distinguishable, and 
 rising he said, " I suppose that is my sister ?" 
 
 We both went to the door, and at a quarter of a mile nearly down the road, 
 I saw a carriage, not, it is true, of any great pretensions, but still a respectable 
 enough little vehicle, drawn by a sober looking horse, that did not seem as if for a 
 long time he had everl>een put out of his regular trot of about six miles an hour. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Villiers, "it is my sister." 
 
 "Perhaps she too would take a rest," said I. 
 
 " Oh no, thank you, I think she would prefer going on, but I shall be happy to 
 introduce you. My sis:eris a widow, and became one under calamitous circum- 
 stances ; and dejection of spirits, I think more than anything else, has affected her 
 health. You will soon see that she has been and is a sufferer. Allow me the 
 pleasure of introducing you." 
 
 I thought this a very fortunate chance for getting into decent society in the 
 country, and it struck me, that perhaps when I was tired of everything else be- 
 longing to an out of town life, I might find a pleasant re'axation for any ennui 
 that might come upon me by making an occasional visit to Oak-hall. 
 
 " Sir," I said, " I am much obliged for the honour of the introduction you so 
 kindly offer." 
 
 He bowed, and we both walked through my little front garden to meet the 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 629 
 
 carriage, the driver of whi'jh had seen the horse, and was driving to that side of 
 the road evidently to stop. 
 
 Mr. Villiers was a few paces in advanee of me, and as he walked to the carriage 
 door, the glass, which 1 suppose had been put up on account of the dust, was let 
 down to the side. 
 
 " Sister, I wish to introduce you to a gentleman who has been so hospitable as 
 to allow me to rest and to give me refreshment in his cottage." 
 
 As he said this, he stepped aside, and introduced me. I bowed, the lady shrieked, 
 and when I looked up, I saw it was the widow of the man I had run through the 
 body at the hotel in the street leading out of Oxford-street. 
 
 Awkward. 
 
 " 'Tis he — 'tis he !" she cried. 
 " 'Ti3 she — 'tis she !" cried I. 
 
 The brother looked amazed, and well he might. For the space too in which 
 one might have counted six, I stood irresolute, but for no longer a period ; for the 
 necessity of taking care of myself came across me most stringently, and I darted 
 into my cottage and shut the door in the faces of the party. 
 
 "Oh^ for Jobbkins" thoaght I, " if he were but here now he might do me some 
 service." 
 
 Bang, bang, bang, came upon the door, and I heard the brother's voice cry, — 
 " Surrender, villain, we are armed, and you cannot escape." 
 " Indeed," thought 1, " Can I not." 
 
 Now only that morning I had taken a good look at my own premises, with a 
 view of seeing what capacity they had of concealment, or what facilities were 
 afforded for flight, and I had come to the conclusion that there were no hiding 
 places, but that if it should become necessary to get away in a hurry, through the 
 back garden would be the way. 
 
 Immediately beyond the garden was a small farm-yard, not belonging to my 
 premises, but which could easily be crossed, and beyond that again was a planta- 
 tion of young thriving trees, quite sufficient to afford a good shelter to any one who 
 might wish to get among them. 
 
 " Then" thought I, as I first found out all these matters, "this shall be my place 
 of refuge, if by any sudden whim of fortune I should be beleagured in my cottage." 
 
 I little expected how soon, however, and by what a strange perverse accident, I 
 should have to fly to such a refuge. 
 
 But so it was. My fate, as the man of exceptionable morals in the play says, 
 cried out aloud, and there was no such thing as resisting the invocation to flight. 
 
 I knew that the cottage door would not hold out for any length of time, but 
 people always pause before they break down a door, so I fled through the kitchen, 
 and into the back garden, in which, by-the-by, I had taken good care to bury all 
 my money except one hundred pounds which I kept in my pocket in case of any 
 emergency. 
 
 The old woman had gone out on an errand — so far that was lucky ; so on I 
 dashed as quickly as I could, and got over the low paling, and crossed Farmer 
 Somebody's yard, and in about two minutes I was in the plantation, with a con- 
 viction that I had not been seen by my enemies, inasmuch as I knew that the 
 cottage afforded a cover for me all the way, and that they were all in the 
 front of it. 
 
 CHAPTER CI. 
 
 A FEW REFLECTIONS— A HUE AND CRY— THE WOOD. 
 
 Yes, here 1 was at last, in the plantation, and after plunging some two or three 
 hundred yards among the trees, I came to a pause to recover my lost breath, for 
 I had made good speed. 
 
630 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 "Well," I said, as I sat down upon the stump of an old elm, " this is not the most 
 agreeable of all incidents in my life, but it must be put up with for all that. Now 
 who on earth would have supposed, first of all, that that woman would have taken 
 to heart, as she seems to have done, the death of that jealous-pated fool her 
 husband ? Then again, why the deuce did she not go to the part of the world she 
 came from, and so been out of my way ; and if she didn't do that, why the deuce 
 did she come here? I wish she was at the bottom of the sea." 
 
 But wishing an enemy in a submarine grotto never yet placed him there, so I 
 soon gave up so idle a mode of spending my time, and began to look about me. 
 
 I found that the plantation was thicker, and more extensive than I had thought 
 it, and that the trees on the outskirts of it only were young, there being some 
 near to where I was of towering height and most magnificent growth. Tndeed the 
 place might be called a wood, with more propriety than a plantation. 
 
 There was that strange solemn sort of stillness about the place that there always 
 is among trees, a stillness that is only to the imagination made the more absolute 
 by the faint rustling sound of the wind among the trees. I think I waited about 
 a quarter of an hour before I heard anything that was at all calculated to give me 
 a notion that my foes were serious in an endeavour to find me out. 
 
 Then there came a confused murmuring noise upon my ears, and I was so 
 anxious and so very impatient to know what they were about, that I went to the 
 verge of the wood to look, and keeping myself sufficiently concealed among the 
 trees, so that I could not be seen, I got a pretty good view around me. 
 
 There was a hillock of considerable altitude, although small in its general 
 proportions, close to the meadows that skirted the wood, and upon that I saw 
 several persons, who were looking anxiously and earnestly in different directions. 
 
 I had no doubt but that from there they had a good view of the surrounding 
 roads and fields, so that it would be no easy thing to escape without being 
 seen. 
 
 "Well," I said to myself, "lean wait until night, very well. I am quite 
 willing, my good friends, that that should be the case if you please. 1 will wait, 
 and so may you." 
 
 I regretted that I did not know the extent of the wood, nor what sort of 
 country it was on the opposite side of it ; but that was information which I had 
 positively not time to get. If I had been left alone for another day or two I 
 should have known all about it, but to come upon me so quick was really not 
 fair. 
 
 However, there I was, to make the best or the worst of an awkward set of 
 circumstances, as I felt inclined, and as I determined upon the former, I once 
 again plunged into the wood. 
 
 I had my pistols with me. I was never without them, and I had my knife, so 
 that it was not altogether the most attractive scheme for anybody to come upon me 
 if they had but known it, to attempt my capture, for I should not be scrupulous. 
 
 Another quarter of an hour passed, and I was standing with my back against 
 a tree thinking, when all at once, a little to my dismay, I heard voices very close 
 at hand. 
 
 " What's the use of keeping all together in this kind of way ?" said one. 
 
 " Ah, that's true enough," remarked another, " we may go about till dooms- 
 day in the wood ; and if he is here, he has nothing to do but to dodge us ; but 
 if we separate and go about, we hare a thousand times better chance of catching 
 him." 
 
 Then, to my surprise, I heard the voice of Jobbkins. 
 
 "Oh, lor 1" lie said, "oh lor! that ever I should have come for to have 
 gone all for to be the sarvent of a feller as had done a murder I Why, he might 
 a' murdered me." 
 
 " Well, my good fellow," said one, "you are not to blame. You say you 
 took service with him in London, only two days ago, and knew nothing of him; 
 but your readiness to join in pursuit of him clears your character, and no doubt 
 you will get a situation again." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 631 
 
 *' Thank you, sir. I humbly thank you. I'll cotch the waggerbone, if I can, 
 sir ; you may depend upon that, sir. Lor ! I hadn't no idea o' what he were. I 
 lived, sir, along o' the Bishop o* London afore I got his situation. It's enough to 
 make a poor fellow go out on his mind." 
 " Pho ! pho ! you need not care." 
 
 " Suppose, sir, we separate into two and two, and go through the wood, in every 
 art of it; I think, sir, he must be here, as he is nowhere else, and we have 
 eard no signal from the hill, that he is seen in any of the meadows, or on 
 any of the roads P" 
 
 * Well, perhaps that will be the best way ; two of you can stay by me, and the 
 others can go in couples through the wood." 
 
 Whoever this busy gentleman was, it was quite clear he was anxious to take 
 care of himielf, by his keeping two of the party with him. 
 
 " I should like to come across you/' thought I. But I was more amused at 
 J obbkics than I was alarmed at the parties who were in search of me. I could see 
 in a moment the game that he was playing, and knew well that I should soon have 
 him with me to the great discomfiture of the man who would be with him, and 
 who would be forced to take the consequences of that situation. 
 
 Of course, he, Jobbkins, no more knew in what direction to look for me in the 
 wood than anybody else, but he had this advantage, that I should, as a matter of 
 course, disclose myself to him if he came sufficiently near to allow me to do so, 
 without getting into mischief. And now I asked myself whether it would not 
 after all be the best plan to get into a tree ; I was just considering that subject^ 
 when to my horror some one touched me on the shoulder, without my being at all 
 aware of his presence, and said, — 
 
 " My friend, what's it all about?" 
 
 I turned as if I had been shot, and immediately behind saw a tall, rough-looking 
 man in leather leggings and a green smock frock : he had a gun in his hand, and 
 his face was bronzed by long exposure to the open air. 
 
 "Come, come," he said, seeing that I was speechless from amazement, <f you 
 need not be afraid of me. They are hunting you in the wood, but the laws and I 
 have fallen out long ago, so you may trust to me. What is it all about ?" 
 
 "A robbery," said I. 
 
 " Pho ! is that all— come along with me ; do you know the warren ?" 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, I will take you to it ; you will be safe enough there. This way— » 
 this way." 
 
 He led me along through some of the most entangled parts of the wood, and 
 then suddenly turning round, he said quickly, — 
 
 " I have been thinking as I came along, that for the sake of others as well as 
 myself, I have no business to expose a well-kept secret to you, who are a a positive 
 stranger ; so if I rescue you from these people in the wood, you must trust me 
 implicitly—are you willing to do so ?" 
 
 "Certainly, I am. I think I am doing so now, and am much obliged to you.*' 
 
 " But I do not choose that you should see the mode of getting at the place to 
 which I am going to take you, and therefore if you come at all, you must consent 
 to be blindfolded. 
 
 "I must confess," replied I, " that I don't much like the idea of such a thing. 
 But I consent." 
 
 He produced a small bag which he requested me to put over my head and face, 
 and then he drew it tolerably tight round my neck ; I had hopes that the. blind- 
 folding would not be of so very effectual a character as to prevent me from catching 
 a glimpse of where I was going, but the bag most effectually settled that question. 
 
 He took me by the arms and turned me round twice or thrice, so as entirely to 
 confuse my topography, and then on we went. 
 
 " May I," said I, in a muffled voice, " be so bold as to ask where we are going, 
 nd if it is far?" 
 
 < ap. .a i 
 
632 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 r< You may ask what you like," he said, " but there is a good chance of your 
 being overheard if you do, for those who are seeking for you are very close at 
 hand now." 
 
 This stopped me, and I thought it was just as well to say no more about it, but 
 to give as much attention as I could to what was going to happen. 
 
 Suddenly I became conscious that we were treading on wood, and I heard a door 
 shut. Then there was a pause of a few moments' duration, and then another door 
 was shut. 
 " Come on," said my guide. 
 
 The smell of damp air came to me even through the bag, and I wa3 certain we 
 were going down a very steep descent, and then he stopped me suddenly, and 
 said, — 
 
 " I really hope that in bringing you here, I have not brought an enemy. If I 
 thought that, this moment should be your last."j 
 
 " It is not generous," said I, " to bring me here, and then as good as tell me 
 that you suspect me. If you did so, why not leave me alone in the wood 1 ?" 
 
 He was silent for a moment, as if the answer had rather struck hirn, and then 
 he said, — 
 
 " I cannot say but that there is some truth and reason in your argument, and 
 therefore I will add no more upon that point ; you are now in perfect safety in a 
 place, the very existence of which is only known to me and to some others ; there- 
 fore, I shall trust implicitly to your honour, to forget it when you leave it, or to 
 remember it only as the place in which you found refuge, and the secrets of which 
 are sacred to you." 
 
 " I promise," said I, " all that you require, and I should think myself the 
 veriest wretch that ever breathed if I were to break that promise." 
 " I am satisfied," he said. " Be it so." 
 
 CHAPTER CII. 
 
 I GET INTO RATHER A TANGLE OF PREDICAMENTS, BUT, AS USUAL, GET OUT 
 
 OF THEM. 
 
 After this the mysterious personage took off the bag from my face, and, I must 
 confess, I looked round me with a tolerable amount of curiosity. 
 
 I found myself in rather a spacious cavernous -looking place, apparently worked 
 out of clay and sand, and in many parts supported by beams of wood, laid trans- 
 versely, which again were held up by perpendicular pieces, so that the place had 
 an air of security about it, although of such slender architectural strength. 
 
 " Well," he said, " what do you think of the warren?" 
 
 " This is what you call a warren, is it ?" said I. " It's a nice place enough." 
 
 " No doubt, and as for security it is perfect." 
 
 " "Ho you live here alone ?" 
 
 ' Yes. But when you talk of my liviug here, you may fancy that I don't often 
 ■ nonil so myself within these walls. This is my retreat — my lair; my time is mostly 
 passed in the wood. I only come in here when the hunters are abroad." 
 "I suppose," said I, *« there is game in the wood ?" 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then in point of fact, without offending you, or wishing in the least to pry into 
 your affairs, I may call you a poacher — is it not so ? 
 
 " As you please — as you please ; I'm not just now in the humour to dispute, but 
 it is not always so. You say you committed a robbery — where was it ? Anywhere 
 about this neighbourhood ?" 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 633 
 
 " Oh no, in London ; I came down here to hide myself, or rather to do away 
 with the necessity of hiding, which in London was a necessity ; but they have 
 broken up my quarters, as you perceive." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose they would hang you, eh?'' 
 
 ft They might fake that liberty." 
 
 " Stop — stop — for God's sake, stop ! What are you about. Stop, I say, that's 
 Joseph." 
 
 " What's Joseph— what do you mean ?" 
 
 i 
 
 it is 
 
 « That stool you are going to sit 
 upon, that's Joseph, and I am all his 
 brothers. Blood, blood ! Ha! have 
 at him ; there, there he goes, with a 
 white hood on him. Ha, ha ! I shall 
 have you now— have you now, you i 
 devil— now, now, now." 
 
 He looked with straining eyes on 
 l; vacancy as he spoke, and raising from 
 one corner a large stone iri both his 
 hands, he flung it with all his might, 
 eryingf — 
 
 "Ah, I think I had you then, 
 vushed vour great toe, have 1 1 
 ro and get it mended then. Ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 Pleasant this," thought I, " the fellow is as mad as a March hare." 
 ' How do you feel now ?" he said, 
 Pretty well," replied I. jgfl 
 How's your toe V 
 
 Getting better," said I, for I thought it was best tojhumour him a little. # 
 Oh, is it," he said. « Wei], we will soon alter that. Getting better is it ? 
 Oh, no," said I, perceiving my mistake, «« it's desperate bad. How very bad 
 to be sure. Oh, dear !" 
 
 JNo. bO. 
 
G3 4 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 This state of the case seemed to please him better, for he laughed and sat down 
 hi naself, and began to sharpen a large knife upon the sole of his boot. 
 
 " We 1>" I thought to myself, " I suppose this may be considered as an illustration 
 of jumping out of the fryirg pan into the fire, with a venyeance. I must humour this 
 fellow till he lets me "out ; and if he gets at all troublesome, I shall be under the 
 disagreeable necessity of blowing his brains out." 
 
 I did not at all like the look of the knife that my friend had, and which he was 
 so solicitous to sharpen. 
 
 After a time he spoke, for I thought it was not policy to interrupt him by any 
 remark. 
 
 " How do you feel now ?" he said. 
 rt Why, how do you think ?" said I. 
 
 " Oh, very bad/' said he, "very bad indeed. Are you crushable?" 
 " Perhaps I am, and perhaps I aint," I replied. " What do you ask for? How 
 do you feel ?" 
 
 " Much as usual, like a stick of brimstone, you know." 
 
 * Well," said I, " there's plenty of wood outside, and I wonder you don't set up 
 in the match line— you would make your fortune." 
 " Do you think so ?" 
 
 "Do I think so? Why, I am certain of it with your talents. It amounts 
 to a positive certainty. A man of your abilities must succeed in anything he 
 undertakes, that quite clear — you know that ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, that's settled/' 
 
 li Well, then, what's to hinder you doing as I propose ; besides you will be able, 
 yo-.i know, to smother all your enemies by ramming lighted matches down their 
 throats. Don't you think vou will, eh ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly.'' 
 
 Ci Then I tell you what we will do ; in a little time we will go out and look 
 about among the trees for one suitable to cut up and begin the business with. What 
 do you say to twit V 
 
 " Why, it's not a bad notion to come from an ass like you." 
 
 " Thank you," I replied ; " a compliment is a compliment even if it comes from 
 a baboon." 
 
 1 regretted the moment I had spoken, that I had suffered myself to be irritated 
 by a madman, and when he turned his flashing eyes upon me, I thought to myself, 
 
 " Well I have done it now, I suppose, and must just, have a fight for it.'' 
 
 But to my surprise he did not resent what I had said, but with a toss of his head, 
 remarked that it was no matter. 
 
 As idea came in consequence across my mind, that perhaps he might, be bullied. 
 I had recollected reading that many a madman is only wild, leroeJous, and dangerous, 
 so long as given way to, and that they will readily enough succumb to any tm? who 
 resolves that he will be master. It was worth the trying at all events. 
 
 Rising, therefore, I cast upon him a stern look, and in a raised voice. I cried, — 
 
 " How dare you speak to me ? How dare vou? Be silent— be silent '" 
 
 " What," he cried. " Is that it ?" 
 
 "Sit down," I cried, Wd I kept my eye fixed upon him. "'If vou don't sit 
 still, 1'il smash you into atoms. Sit still this moment." 
 
 I saw him quail, and of course that encouraged me to persevere in what I was 
 about, so I gave him no time to recover himseif, but added imperiously, — 
 
 " I have come here to command vou, and if you don't obey me. I'll knock a thundei- 
 Dolt against your skull, and see which is the hardest — I'll exterminate you !" 
 
 " Oh, no — no — no," he said, in a low voice. " Oh, no — 1 — I am quiet now. 
 What would you have of poor Philip? Yqu see how quiet I am now." 
 
 " Get up and walk into the wood at once." 
 
 IHe rose trembling, but the moment his eyes fell off my face, he seemed to forget 
 one half of his terrors, and I heard him begin, to mutter curses. It would not do 
 ■ to let him go on in that strain, for if he did, I felt confident that he would soon. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 635 
 
 work himself into a frenzy, so I seized hold of him by the back of his neck, and 
 twisted him round so that he faced me. 
 " Will you dare to growl ?" said I. 
 
 " Oh, no — no — no, I won't. Let me go — don't strike me, master, I am quiet 
 now — poor Philip is quiet now, you see. He don't want the chain and the lash ! 
 Oh, no, no V 
 
 I guessed by these words that the poor creature had at one time been in one of 
 those most horrible of all places — a madhouse-cell, and I said no more to him, but 
 allowed him to walk on, and if he felt inclined to curse or not, I don't know, but 
 certainly, if he did, he kept it all to himself. 
 
 He walked on through a doorway, and thence along a narrow winding passage, 
 and then through another door, after which we began the ascent that 1 knew we 
 must encounter, from a recollection of a descent in entering the place. To my 
 great surprise we emerged at the side of a hillock, and when I looked round the 
 entrance looked so like a new hole made for the purpose of collecting sand from it, 
 that I felt confident it might very well pass unobserved, and yet I did not feel 
 quite sure that it was such a secret as the maniac pretended it was. For all I knew, 
 it mignt be perfectly well-known to everybody in the neighbourhood, and conse- 
 quently be much more like a net in which I should be caught, than a place of 
 safety if I had stayed in it. Under these circumstances, therefore, I rather had 
 cause for congratulation on my adventure than otherwise, for during the short time 
 I had stayed in the cavern, or the warren as the maniac called it, I had given myself 
 a chance that my enemies might have left the wood. 
 
 When, however, I now emerged into the open air, I listened with no small 
 am®unt of ir.terest to hear if any sound indicative of the presence of foes met nj'y 
 ears, and, as I did so, and was just upon the point of telling myself that all was 
 safe, for that I heard nothing, the madman gave such a yell close to me that I 
 jumped again ; but, when I turned round, which I did as rapidly as I could, for I 
 rather dreaded an attack than not, I saw him rushing away as fast as his legs would 
 carry him. 
 
 No doubt that not being under the immediate influence of my eye, he had 
 gathered courage enough to fly, but not enough to attack me, although he 
 might have done so at a considerable advantage, for I was not paying attention to. 
 his movements just then. 
 
 Upon the whole, however, I was rather glad to get rid of him than otherwise ; 
 for had he stayed by me he would have been but an uncomfortable companion. 
 
 " And now, what is to be done V I asked myself. " Am I to remain here till 
 night or not V* 
 
 There was a good deal to be said on both sides of this question, but at length I 
 thought it safest to remain where I was ; and, I think, if my money had not been 
 buried in the garden of the cottage, I should have made an attempt to get on the 
 London road as quickly as possible. But that was an attraction which certainly 
 kept me in the neighbourhood, and made me decide upon patience till night. 
 
 CHAPTER Cm. 
 
 I JOIN JOBBKINS, AND HAVE A LITTLE ADVENTURE.— LONDON AGAIN. 
 
 Of course I made this resolve with a mental reservation of a very partial and 
 useful character, to the effect that I would be guided by circumstances in carry- 
 ing it out, and that, if anything happened to alter the present aspect of affairs, 
 and present to me a new combination, I would take another thought about the 
 matter. 
 
636 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 It was quite as well that I did so, for scarcely had I come so far to a conclusion, 
 than I heard a footstep upon the underwood in the plantation, and that was so 
 light, that probably, but for the cracking of a dry twig that lay upon the ground, 
 I should have detected nothing of it. 
 
 " Oh," I thought, "the enemy's at hand," and I popped behind a tree away 
 from the suspicious sound that I had heard. 
 
 All was still for several minutes, and then, by dint of intense listening, I was 
 certain that somebody was coming towards where I was. I peeped round the 
 tree, and, in a few moments more, saw two men moving slowly and cautiously 
 along. It was with no small degree of satisfaction that, in one of them, I at once 
 recognised Jobbkins. The other looked like a gamekeeper. 
 
 As they came nearer and nearer to the tree, their cautious mode of progression 
 increased amazingly, and at length they stopped, and Jobbkins said, — 
 
 " I say, old fellow, how far is it ?" 
 
 " Close at hand," replied the man. " Now I tell you what it ie. There will be a 
 good reward for finding this master of yours ; and I don't mind your having 
 your half of it, you know, provided you assist in the capture, and don't hang back 
 at all." 
 
 '* Yes, you said that before; and you sees as I aint hanging back at all. But 
 where is we agoing to 1 that's what I wants to know, old fellow." 
 
 " Well, I don't mind telling you, though it's not known to anybody, even about 
 these parts. The fact is, there's a kind of cave in a hill close by here, and between 
 you and I, I think it's as likely as not, that the man we seek is hidden there. He 
 has hit upon it perhaps by accident." 
 
 i( What makes you think thatl" 
 
 " Why, just this. He aint in the wood, and he has not come out of it, or else 
 he'd have been seen by those who are looking out for him about the roads and 
 meadows. Where else, then, can he be f * 
 
 * 1 don't know." 
 
 u Come on, then. It's worth a search in the cave. You shall go first." 
 
 ** Oh ! you ought to go first, you know ; as I don't know the way, and you do." 
 
 u No — no ; I'll tell you which way to go. But I say—what's your name ?" 
 
 "Joe." 
 
 " Well, then, Joe, you know him. Do you now, candidly speaking, think he'll 
 resist ? Do you now V 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Oh ! well it's very foolish of him, because 1 shall be forced to be violent ; and 
 so, Joe, I think that when you see him, you had better say I am a dreadful fight- 
 ing fellow, you know, and that his very best plan of saving himself from coming 
 to some mischief, will be to give himself up to us at once. You say that to him, 
 Joe." 
 
 M Lor', bless you ! you don't know him." 
 M What do you mean?" 
 
 "Why, long afore I had said half of that, he'd have snapped my head off. You 
 don't know him." 
 
 " Is — is he so very violent as that, Joe ?" 
 " Out and out." 
 
 " Really — I — I — What a fine morning ; aint it, Joe ? I say, are you thirsty ? 
 I am a little ; aint you V 
 " Always is." 
 
 " Well, really, it's ridiculous when one comes to think of it, you know ; but after 
 all, Joe, we are not constables ; are we ? and whether we take the trouble to catch 
 anybody or not, who has done anything, is, after all, you know, Joe, quite optional. 
 Indeed, I don't think, when you come fairly to consider it, Joe, that it's quite a 
 reputable thing, hunting up a fellow just to give him over to the law, and then what 
 a bother in attending the assizes, and all that sort of affair. Really, Joe, I— I 
 begin to think-- — *' ' 
 
 « What?" 
 
4 
 
 NEWGATE. 637 
 
 " Why, that especially as you are thirsty, you know, and it's on your account I 
 speak — that we are quite letting ourselves down by engaging in this matter at all. 
 What do you say, now, in a word, to giving it up, and going to the White Swan, 
 and having a drop of something ; eh, Joe?" 
 
 *' A very good idea," said Jobbkins. 
 
 This did not suit me. Now that I was so near Jobbkins, I wished to join com- 
 pany with him at once ; and of course he did not know where I was exactly, so 
 that we might have a difficulty in meeting if I delayed it, and I at once, therefore, 
 made up my mind to a course of action. 
 
 (i Shall we go," repeated the fellow, whose cowardice was beginning to get so 
 conspicuous. " Shall we goat all, Joe. Come, come, I think we have had enough of 
 this. I'll stand treat, Joe. There now, that will suit you, I think. " 
 
 " Uncommon/' said Jobbkins. 
 
 " Not while I know it," cried I, bouncing forward. " You came after me, and 
 I'm determined to have both your lives, as some revenge, at all events." 
 
 The moment I uttered these words, the gamekeeper turned with a shout of 
 terror and fled, leaving behind him a gun that he had been carrying, and which 1 
 had not observed before. As for Jobbkins, he was so delighted that he lay on his 
 back and rolled about, roaring with laughter. 
 
 " Oh, that's good !" he cried, — " that is rummy !— Oh ! oh ! oh !— I shall 
 bust." 
 
 (( Haste," I said, " haste ; somebody may be within hearing." 
 
 " Oh dear me!" he replied, " they're all gone; but what's the meaning on it 
 all ? it beats me all to shivers to know what it's all about, it does." 
 
 " I will tell you the whole particulars, Jobbkins : the fact is, that this neigh- 
 bourhood has, in the most strange and unexpected manner in the world, become 
 too hot to hold me." 
 
 "Then cut, captain, — cut out of it." 
 
 " You forget that the money lies buried in the garden, in the bag beneath the 
 old mulberry tree." 
 " Oh, ah, to be sure," 
 
 " We must get that, and then I say heigh-ho for London ; for I have had a good 
 dose of the country by this time. I can tell you I don't want any more of it, 
 Jobbkins, for some while to come ; and now, as we have a little time to spare, and 
 you say there are no enemies in the wood, 1 will tell you how all this affair, that 
 seems so inexplicable to you, came about." 
 
 I then related to him the whole particulars of my adventure with the lady at the 
 hotel, and how she kept, at the oddest and most uncomfortable moments, crossing 
 my path. 
 
 " Well," he said, ''that's a rummy go." 
 
 " It is, Jobbkins ; but you perceive that the neighbourhood of Oak House would 
 not now be at all healthy for me, and that the very best thing I can do is to 
 get out of it as quickly as possible. But how is the money to be got ?" 
 
 " Leave me to manage that, captain. You know they don't suspect me ; but they 
 think as I'd nab you if I could, so I shan't be watched, you see; and just after 
 dark I'll go into the garden and get the tin." 
 
 " But the old woman?" 
 
 " Oh, I'll send her out on a message, and if she won't go like an agreeable old 
 duck on a message in this here world, I shall be obligated to send her on one to the 
 other." 
 
 " Well, Jobbkins, I shall leave that part of the affair entirely to you. Now, I 
 suppose I must do without victuals and drink for the rest of the day, as the wood 
 is well watched. 
 
 "You must for once in a way ; but you know you can make up for it when 
 you gets to London." 
 
 "Not much of a consolation that when one's stomach is concerned, but I 
 soppose I must put up with it ; and if I am very sharp set, I must eat a few 
 
638 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 leaves off the trees, I fancy ; or, perhaps, after all somebody may come this 
 way with something, and if they do, they will pay toll, I rather think." 
 
 Jobbkins stayed with me until the shades of evening began to gather around 
 the landscape; and I think never had a day passed so wearily as that. But it 
 was a matter of absolute necessity that I should remain in concealment until dark- 
 ness favoured me sufficiently to allow me to emerge. 
 
 M I tell you what," said Jobbkins ; " you know you will have to walk to London, 
 and you won't be able to do it all, in consequence of having nothing to eat, and it 
 won't be safe to turn in anywhere on the road.'" 
 
 " Well," said I, " I must confess you are a Job's comforter." 
 
 <l Yes, aint I ; but I tells you what's most likely ; there's only the old woman at the 
 cot'age, for that's just about the best place anybody will expect to see you in. 
 Suppose you come with me then ? We can shut up the old woman in one of the 
 rooms, you know, and then we can not only get the money from under the tree, but 
 you can have something good to eat and drink before you start — what do you say 
 to that ?" 
 
 " Let it be so," said I, "for I am famishing." 
 
 With the understanding then that he should go into the cottage firsthand then 
 come out if no one was there but the old woman, and make me a signal, — we 
 now started from the wood, and walked confidently, for nothing would have been 
 more likely to excite suspicion then creeping along, while if we do not care what 
 noise we made, the probability was that no one would turn to look at us." 
 
 We met three men in a short time, and one said, — 
 
 **■ It's a nice evening — any news of the fellow as did the murder V 
 
 " Not as I knows- on," said Jobbkins. 
 
 " Ah ! he's got away safe — good night." 
 
 " Good night." 
 
 We found, by the little encounter, how much better it was to put a bold face 
 upon the matter, than to sneak along as some people would foolishly have done, 
 had they been situated as we were, and we entered the cottage without any fur- 
 ther interruption at all. The night had set in very dark, for the moon did not rise 
 as yet for at out two hours. 
 
 " Wow^waita minute," said Jobbkins. 
 
 I did so, taking up my station under an old chestnut-tree, that was not far 
 from the door, and as about five minutes elapsed without his coming out again, I 
 began to feel a little uneasy, and just as that feeling was creeping over me, I heard 
 a pane of glass broke in one of the windows of the cottage. 
 
 This gave me the alarm, and made-me think that matters were by no means 
 * all right, and I was quite convinced in that notion, wHen I * heard the voice of 
 ' Jobbkins cry,— 
 
 " Cut ! cut ! cut !" c * 
 
 I did not wait for any further hint. The report of a pistol came upon my 
 ears, and some leaves off the chestnut-tree fell upon my head, as I darted from 
 under it. 
 
 I knew the road across the fields to London very well, and I took it, vaulting 
 over a stile that was in the way, and running at a hard pace. After I had gone 
 about half a mile, I stopped to listen, and fancied I heard a hasty footstep coming 
 after me, and the more I listened, the more sure I was of it. But it was but one 
 footstep, u and shall I run away for that V said I. <f Oh, no." 
 
 I threw myself flat upon the grass, in order chat my figure might not be in 
 relief against the night sky, and there I waited until a man was about to pass me, 
 and he was so close, that I stretched out my leg, and over he went head and heels. 
 
 I sprung upon him in a moment. 
 
 " Murder! murder !" he cried, and then my hand fell upon a heavy stick he 
 carried." 
 
 " Hush I" I said. " Who are you ?" 
 
 " Brown the constable," he replied. "I'm Brown the constable; don't stop 
 me, there's a good fellow, — don't stop me, there's a good fellow, don't." 
 
NEWGATE. 639 
 
 » Well, Mr. Brown," I said, " you are too clever by half." 
 
 There was no resource for it, and I was positively compelled to give Brown a 
 good tap on the head with his own stick. He gave a groan, and lay quite quiet, 
 and then off I set again at a good pace, although not a ran, fou I was so near the 
 London road that I thought it would be imprudent to do so, for fear of encounter- 
 ing the mounted patrol. 
 
 CHAPTER CIT. 
 
 I GET ON FAMOUSLY FOR A WHILE J BUT THERE ARE CHANGES IN LIFE. 
 
 I overtook the coach to London, uot on a level certainly, but by taking a 
 shorter cut across some fields I intercepted it, and off I went, and soon had the 
 pleasure — and it was one to me — of seeing the gas-lights of London glaring in 
 the sky. 
 
 Oh, London, beautiful London! with all thy faults I love thee still ! Now, if 
 I were inclined to rhapsodise, which I cannot, for it is rather out of my line, I 
 could say much of London, and not be fearful even of having some of its most 
 insalubrious districts thrown in ray face. There is a charm to me about such a 
 place as Drury-lane even — the charm of old association — Bah ! it's all very well to 
 talk of the country, and the bubbling streams, and all that kind of thing — I 
 don't like it. 
 
 But this is all by the way ; and now I am going to treat my readers to three 
 years of my career in a very few words. 
 
 While I was upon the coach, I began to think that a tour somewhere would be 
 for the benefit of my health. I recounted all the circumstances connected with 
 my affairs, and said to myself, — 
 
 " London, with its charms, is just the smallest degree too hot to hold me, just a 
 trifle ; and who knows but the whole of England may be rather too warm. I can 
 lay my hand upon a good round sum of money, — suppose I go to America?'* 
 
 Yes, that was my idea ; and, like most great men, jpwas not slow in carrying 
 out those notions that cross by my cranium. 
 
 I went to America ; I stayed there three years ; I spent my money ; I came 
 back, landing at Bristol with — oh ye gods! — nimepence-halfpenny! A few little 
 accidents had happened during my absence. 
 
 My old pal and friend, who had stood by me so manfully at Finchley, one day 
 wa9 s'tanding on a sort of raised platform, and it suddenly shifted from him, and it 
 was the death of him. There was a great crowd of persons present ; and it shows 
 what human nature really is, that not one of them stirred a hand or foot to 
 save him. 
 
 The Jew's house in the Minories had been pulled down to make room for 
 modern improvements. The family in Spring-gardens was dispersed. The—but 
 hold, I am at Bristol, and a little something happened to me on the road there 
 that deserves record. Well, suppose me at Bristol, that city of palaces as it has 
 been called, with the ninepence-halfpenny in my pocket, and a large fortune in 
 peispective, dependent upon a certain exercise of my wits, that commodity which 
 never failed me, and of which 1 have always had a capital stock in hand. 
 
 There had not been six persons onboard the American packet ship with whom 
 it was worth while to strike up an acquaintance—all commonplace, everyday 
 sort of people with the most ordinary notions in the world, — I cut them de id. 
 
 The first thing I did was to go into ajpublic-house — and the sight of an English 
 public house did me good, after being accustomed for so long to the dog-holes 
 they call stores in America — and I spend my ninepence at once. 
 
640 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Now/' I said, as I walked out with my hands in my pockets, " I have got rid 
 of one embarrasment, namely, the having a little money ; and I have really 
 nothing to put me out of the way, or to impede the free current of thought.'' 
 
 Memorandum. — Always get rid of your last coins as speedily as possible, you 
 then leave the imagination free room to exert itself ; but when it is tied down by 
 some considerations connected with perhaps some such a sum as ninepence, it is 
 perfect slavery to think at all. 
 
 "Now," said I to myself, " London is my place, but lam a few miles from 
 there, and something must be done to make the transit, agreeable ; but what that 
 something is to be, I do not exactly see. However, here goes for the road — the 
 road to London, and surely something will ensue of a consolatary character before 
 I have gone far." 
 
 It was early in the day. I had had some provisions on shipboard, and there- 
 fore was not troubled with the idea of starvation for some hours ; so off I set, and 
 soon left Bristol behind me. Perhaps, if I had known Bristol as well as lknew 
 London, I should have felt inclined to stay there and try my fortune for a while, 
 but I did not know it nor its resources ; so I did, I am sure, the prudent thing in 
 quitting it at once. 
 
 It was a pretty bit of road for the first five miies out of Bristol, and I occa- 
 sionally caught glimpses of the sea as I arrived at some piece of high land which 
 enabled me to look about me a little; and now I cannot help thinking that the 
 Providence which has so often befriended me was singularly solicitous on my 
 behalf on this occasion ; but the reader shall judge for himself. 
 '0 I should premise that, disliking formality, I had not come from America in the 
 -state cabin, and that my apparel here and there showed that a little change might 
 be for the better. For example, my elbows would protrude through the sleeves of 
 my coat, and my knees would show themselves occasionally, while my liat had 
 once a brim. I state these little particulars, that the reader of these "authentic 
 memoirs may understand why it was that just as I was passing the garden gate 
 of a villa, a gentleman who had rode up on horseback cried out, — 
 " Hilloa, my man !" 
 
 "Not very polite," thought I, but I stopped. 
 
 " If you have a mind for a job, you can hold my horse I shall be about half an 
 hour; Walk him gently to and fro, do you hear'?" 
 " Oh, certainly sir," said I, " anything you like." 
 
 He did not hear the last remark, but throwing me the bridle of the steed, he 
 took a key from his pocket and opening the gate, which was evidently a small 
 private one in the garden wall, in he went. 
 
 The horse was a nice creature with plenty of blood. "Anybody but me," said 
 I to myself, u wouJ4 steel this korse now, but I scorn the idea ; no, may the man 
 who places confidence in another never be deceived. I'll only borrow it." 
 
 I mounted and'trotted pleasantly and gently away. 
 
 Fortunately the road for about a mile and a half went on a descent, sotljat there 
 wSStvery little chance of my being seen from any of the windows of the villa by 
 the gentleman, who, if he had observed me, such is the exclusive feeling in the 
 country, that he might have thought I was taking rather a liberty. However, I 
 met with no interruption, and I soon improved upon the slight trot, and putting 
 the horse to a full canter, I got away at the rate of about nine miles an hour com- 
 fortably enough. 
 
 An hour and a half of this sort of thing brought me to the outskirts of a tolerably 
 considerable town, the name of which I did not know, but I did not much care 
 either. I looked about for a convenient place in which to put the horse for a rest, 
 for I had no idea of confining him to a stable into which inquisitive eyes might pry 
 and recognise him. He was a dark bay, and would easily have been identified by 
 any one who had known him even slightly. 
 
 Providence again ! While I was thus considering what to be at, I saw an old 
 fellow coming along very slowly with his hands behind him, a pair of gold 
 spectacles embraced his nose, and he had a warm, comfortable, well-to-do look 
 
NEWGATE. 641 
 
 ; , * 
 
 about him. He took a pathway across the fields, and I tied the horse at once to 
 a tree, and followed him. • 
 
 In about five minutes he passed a stile and entered a green lane> still sauntering 
 on in the same quiet musing sort of way. 
 
 I quickened my pace, and when I was near at hand, I cried, — 
 
 " Sir, sir." 
 
 rie listened at once, and adjusting his spectacles, looked anxiously at me. I 
 sprung up a bank, and saw that there was no house within a good half mile, and 
 {hen I walked close up to him. 
 
 [< Sir," I said, "how do you do V % 
 " You — you have the advantage of 
 nie, sir," he replied; "I don't know 
 you." 
 
 "Indeed, not know me, I'm the toil 
 man." 
 
 "The what ?" 
 
 " The toll man. It's five pounds 
 now to pass up this lane with t a pair 
 of spectacles on, by the recent of 
 parliament." 
 
 I never saw an old fellow look s& as- 
 tonished in my life, he felt hi specta- 
 cles to be sure that he really had 
 
 _____ them on, and then he said, — 
 
 Have — have you escaped from Zion House, my good friend ; pray be calm if 
 you have." 
 
 " What's Zion House," said I. 
 
 " Come, come, you know as well as I, it's the lunatic asylum there ; you can see 
 its windows glimmering in the sun, and I strongly suspect that you have come from 
 it. Now, my good fellow, I know you are well taken care of there, let me advise 
 you to go back, I dare say you know me, for I am the clergyman who reads 
 prayers there. Come now, go home—go home." 
 
 No. 81. 
 
642 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 "This gives me an idea," thought I, and rushing forward, I caught the old 
 fellow by the arm, and roared out in his face,— 
 
 e * I'm King Cheops, the great Egyptian. Give me money — give me money, to 
 build a tomb for old Pharaoh, that I got out of the Red Sea one day when I was 
 trolling for shrimps." 
 
 " Oh, my gracious !" he gasped, and he sunk upon his knees ; u oh, have mercy 
 : upon me, oh do I" 
 
 4 4 Is the other world better than this," shouted I. 
 
 " Oh, yes — yes, of course." 
 
 " Then you shall go there, and when you see Nebuchadnezzer, tell him that 
 Alexander the Great takes in washing here, and that King Cheops sent you to 
 whisper some scandal into the ear of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. To whoo ! to 
 whoo ! I'm an owl, and must have money or blood.'' 
 
 " Very — very good, sir. I — I — I — oh dear !" 
 
 " Call me majesty." 
 
 i( Oh, yes, your gracious majesty — take my purse. There it is ; there's more 
 in it than you want, my dear sir— I mean your majesty — Cheops — Thank your 
 majesty. I presume your most humble subject may go now ?" 
 
 «' You may," said I. " I have got the great pyramid in my waistcoat pocket, and 
 Cleopatra's needle sticking in my hat, so beware — beware my lord of jealousy. 
 Look to your wife. Ha! ha! ha! There — there she goes with the clown at 
 Astley's. Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 *' Oh, murder !" groaned the old fellow. w What a frightful adventure this is, to 
 be sure." And off he went up the lane, trundling along like an old wheellbarrow. 
 
 I had no time to lose, but went hack at once to where ray horse was waiting 
 for me, upon whom I mounted at once, and galloped into the town. I went right 
 through it until I came to the outskirts, and then looking about me, I saw some 
 cottages at a short distance off, and beyond them again a wood, that appeared to 
 extend for a considerable distance across the country. 
 
 An idea had been troubling my mind for seme time past, and now I resolved to 
 put it into execution. I stopped a lad who was whistling a tune and sauntering 
 along, and asked him to mind the horse for about five minutes, promising him six- 
 pence for his pains. 
 
 CHAPTER CV. 
 
 THE METAMORPHOSIS. — THE HIGHWAYMAN. 
 
 I did not intend by any means to get rid of my horse, although, under the cir- 
 cumstances in which I was placed, many timid people would have done so, thinking 
 that to be the very best plan they could adopt to screen themselves from the 
 consequences. 
 
 But my readers have already heard enough of me to feel convinced that I have a 
 genius, and that I am at times, if auything very untoward occurs, quite capable of 
 bending circumstances to my good will and pleasuse. 
 
 On this occasion, then, I hastened to the town, in which I had made a few 
 observations as I had ridden through it, and among other things I had noticed that 
 there was a shop where second-hand elothes were sold. 
 
 To this, then, I at once made my way, and to my great relief found that the man 
 who kept it was one of the children of Israel ; I say to my great relief, because 
 he was on that account less likely, for a consideration that I had no objection to 
 hand to him, to give any information regarding me to any curious inquirers. 
 
 He was a very civil fellow, and as I have always found through life in all affairs 
 
NEWGATE. 643 
 
 it is safest to trust people when the circumstances are such that you are quite sure 
 they would suspect as much as you could tell them, and I at once said to him, — 
 
 " You see how I am dressed. Well, I want other clothing. I have money, b:2t 
 I want you to charge me double price for the clothes you let me have, and to 
 discreet enough to say nothing about the bargain to anybody when I am go;\e, 
 Do you understand that?" 
 
 The Jew put his finger to the side of his nose, and winked,— 
 
 u Good," I said, " now for the change. Have you anything readily at hand, 
 that you think will suit me." 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said, " lots — lots, we have plenty of clothes of all sorts, that 
 we don't put out at the door. Come this way." 
 
 He led me up the staircase into a room where I found all sorts of property, 
 and where I was convinced that I should find no difficulty in suiting myself with ten 
 times the amount of things I really wanted. Now I don't know if I have told 
 the reader as much before, but I dare say I have — however, he can hear it again — 
 I am a gooa-looking fellow. 
 
 I don't say this from any vain boasting, because that is not in me. But it's a 
 fact, and I don't see why I should blink it in the smallest degree. 
 
 Well, then, when I had on a good suit of black from my friend Mr. Solomon's 
 wardrobe, I really looked uncommonly well. He told me so, and for once J 
 placed the most implicit reliance in the opinior uttered by one by the " peoples." 
 
 "You think I'll do?" said I. 
 
 "Do ! sho help me, you look peautiful." 
 
 " Very good, how much now ?" 
 
 " Five pounds ten, my good young man, and that's not exactly double, but only 
 half as much again." 
 
 By-the-by, I had quite forgotten to tell the reader that I had found in the 
 revr. gentle nan's purse, about thirty pounds, I did though ; so taking out six 
 shining gold pieces I said, — 
 
 " Now, Mr. Solomon, have you anybody about your premises who for the change 
 out of this will go an errand for me ?" 
 
 " It depends on what it is," he prudently replied. 
 
 " True, you are quite right there. It is to get me three pennyworth of white 
 paint in a pipkin, and a painter's brush." 
 
 He thought a moment or two, and tapped the side of his nose, and looked up 
 at the ceiling and down on the floor, andt hen he said with a despairing gesture, 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 " You wont?" 
 
 " Don't mistake me, I will send for the paint, but 1 can't make out for the life 
 of me what it can be for.'' 
 I laughed, as I replied, — 
 
 " The time will come, perhaps, when you and t may meet again old boy, and 
 then I will tell you ; but just now, you "had better not know ; I am well known 
 in London to some of your people, but I have been in America eight years." 
 I thought it was as well thus to improve upon the period of my absence. 
 
 " Which of my people do you know ?" he said. 
 
 " Why," said I ; "I am going to call upon one the moment I get to London, 
 from whom 1 know I shall get a hearty welcome. We call him Sol, he lives in 
 the Minories." 
 
 "Ah! did you know bim?" 
 
 "Yes," said I, of course, appearing ignorant of Sol's decease, *' I not only did 
 but do now, and at his house, I shall stay when I get to London." 
 
 " Ah, young man ; his house is too small to hold you now. He is dead." 
 
 I affected the greatest concern at this intelligence, but as I did not wish to linger 
 longer than was at all necessary to get the confidence of my friend the clothes 
 dealer, I got my pot of paint, and off I set quite satisfied that he would neither say 
 nor do anything to get me into any trouble. 
 
 I had kept the boy, who was minding my horse, longer than I intended to have 
 
644 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 done, but a shilling instead of a sixpence satisfied him. I kept the paint hidden 
 until he was gone, and, then, with the brush in my pocket, and the paint pot in one 
 hand, while I managed the bridle with the other, off 1 went for the wood that was 
 a little a head of me. 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 I reined in in my steed, for 1 heard a hallooing sound some distance behind me, 
 and the tramp of horses' feet. 
 
 A little to the left of where I was, there rose a little mound of earth. It was too 
 small to be called a hill, but yet it was some twenty feet or so above the road, and 
 I at once urged the horse to the top of it, for it was quite essential that 1 should 
 know if the sounds had any relation to me or not. 
 
 The moment I cast my eyes on the tract of country I had left, I saw at about 
 two miles off a party of horsemen coming on at a hard gallop, and it looked too as 
 if they saw me, for several reined in their steeds and pointed at me with their riding 
 whips and then I could see that they made increased speed. 
 
 "Now for it," thought I. " The cleverest fellow, I suppose, will win the day. 
 I fancy my clerical friend, or the owner of the horse, perhaps both, wish to culti- 
 vate my acquaintance, but as I have no time for civilities, I'll even keep as great a 
 distance as possible/' 
 
 I put the horse to a gallop, and in three minutes I dashed into the wood. 
 
 I dismounted in a moment, and tied his head to the bough of a large chestnut 
 tree, and then with my paint I very shortly transformed him into as pretty-looking 
 a skewbald horse, with a white star upon his forehead, as anybody could wish to 
 see. He was quite a picture. 
 
 My success in effecting this transformation quite transcended all my expectations. 
 I was fearful that the paint would have shown by looking too shiny, but such was 
 not the case, for the hair took it up in a way thut gave it the most natural appear- 
 ance in the world, and I was proportionately well pleased. 
 
 I turned ray hair back off the sides of my head, put on my hat in a different way, 
 and then mounted, after throwing away the paint pot and the brush, and calmly 
 turning the horse's head towards my pursuers, I let him get on quite at a walk. 
 
 In a few moments I emerged from the wood. 
 
 At about a couple of hundred yards before me, T saw ten or twelve well-mounted 
 men, and one of them galloping up in advance of the others, said,— 
 "Sir, have you ridden through the wood?" 
 *' Yes," said I. 
 
 " Did you happen to see a man upon a dark bay horse as you rode along, sir." 
 "I did ; and what surprised me was that he got quite into a tangle among the 
 underwood in getting out of my way." 
 " Then that's the robber." 
 
 "Robber! Good God! are there such gentry in the wood 1 I have valuables 
 about me." 
 
 " He has stolen a horse as well as committed a highway robbery on a gentleman 
 who is with us." 
 
 He beckoned to the others, who all rode up, and I actually trotted through the 
 throng, passing quite between the old parson and the owner of the very horse 
 I rode. 
 
 " That's a pretty creature," said the latter to me. 
 
 " Yes," I said ; but these fancy horses are not often good for much ; I have had 
 this one for some time though, and it has few faults, and is very safe." 
 
 " Well, don't let us delay, gentlemen," cried a man, who looked like an officer. 
 « We are much obliged to you, sir, for your information. I suppose you cannot 
 ride with us I 9 
 
 " Thank you ; I cannot, I have some calls to make across the country. I hope 
 you will be successful in your pursuit. Good day, gentlemen." 
 " Good day, sir, good day." 
 
 « Who is he, I wonder," I heard the owner of the horse say. " That is a very 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 pretty fancy animal he is on ; I should like to buy it, but I am afraid of offending 
 him by making him an offer, as he is a gentleman evidently." 
 
 I took no notice, but trotted on, for I had no desire to attract a close inspection 
 of my steed ; and in a short time the party was lost to my observation, as I 
 turned round in my saddle to look for them in the mazes of the wood." 
 
 CHAPTER CVI. 
 
 THE ROUTE TO LONDON. — THE WARWICK MAIL. 
 
 I must own occasionally to that failing of great minds — indecision. 
 
 Now, common people think they are saying a very clever thing when they assert 
 that decision, sudden and acute, is a mark of genius. It is no such thing. The 
 man who has only one idea upon any given subject, may, and of course must be, 
 a decided man, because he has no choice ; but your real fellow of genius and in- 
 ventive resources is in a very different situation indeed. The moment he begins 
 to reflect, so many combinations occur to him, that for a time, while he is weighing 
 their several merits, he must be undecided. 
 
 And so I was undecided exactly what to do after parting from the kind friends 
 who, if they had but known who I really was, would have taken no denial, and 
 would Hot have been at all undecided about insisting upon the pleasure of my 
 company. 
 
 I trotted on about a mile, and then I began to think, that by another road, 
 which was to be found, the best thing I could do would be to continue my journey 
 to London — that is to say, London was to be my destination ; but I was so many 
 miles from that city of my affections, that many adventures might likely enough 
 happen before I looked upon its domes and steeples, and saw its black cloudy 
 canopy spreading between it and the blue sky. 
 
 I was only sufficiently acquainted with the map of England to have a general 
 idea of my route. I knew that I was in Lancashire, and that to reach London I 
 must proceed southwards by east a little, and I knew that I should have to pass 
 through some of the finest of the midland counties in my progress ; but I likewise 
 knew that what was left of the old clergyman's thirty pounds would not be enough 
 to carry me on to the capital in the way which my tastes and habits made me 
 wish to be carried. 
 
 " Money ! money!" I said. " How is that to be got?" 
 
 Chance must decide that question, and so glancing upwards at the sun, I shaped 
 my course as well as I could in the proper direction, and thought it would be quite 
 as well to place a dozen miles of country between me and people who might pos- 
 sibly be inquisitive. I urged the horse on, and found that at all events the white 
 paint did not make any difference to him, for he got on famously, showing himself 
 to be what I had thought him, a really valuable creature. 
 
 About six miles were soon passed, and, then, as I was trotting at a gentle pace 
 (for the horse was warmed a little) through a beautiful valley, I heard the sound of 
 some other horses, but not far off. 
 
 I had given up all idea of pursuit or danger, so that I was not put out of my 
 way, but looked about me to see who it was, and turning down a green, sequestered 
 lane, I saw a man mounted upon a small black horse, the coat of which was very 
 shiny, and as black as it could very well be. 
 
 He was a man of about the middle size, plainly, and rather genteelly dressed, and 
 all the offensive weapons he seemed to have about him, consisted of a small riding 
 switch. 6 
 
646 NEWGATE. 
 
 "Good day, sir/' he said, as with a curvet the little horse brought him clo*e 
 up to me. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " it is a tolerable day." 
 
 "Ah," he added, " this is my favourite county." 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 " Yes. Have you ridden far ?" 
 
 " Not very. But I don't think Lancashire is the finest county in England, not- 
 withstanding you it call your favourite one, sir." 
 " Lancashire? But this is Cheshire./ 
 " Oh ! Have I ridden so far V paid I. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" he said, "you don't seem to know where you are, my friend. 
 Perhaps you don't know where you are going P Is that it P However, I have not 
 much time to spare, so I have no objection to tell you that you are five miles from 
 a public-house, and six from a private one." 
 
 «< Very likely." said t 
 
 " Oh. 1 hat don't concern you. Stand and deliver! Do you understand that, 
 
 my F ;;end ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Deliver what?" 
 
 " Your purse and watch, if you have one. Don't trifle with me, or by the holy 
 ~Pll put a bullet through the few brains you have. Quick, I say, give out the 
 rowdy." 
 
 " God bless me," said I. " You are a highwayman. Have you had any luck on 
 this t )atl lately f * 
 
 "0 i found your impudence, no. What do you mean by speaking to me ialfest 
 way ? I'll soon put an end to this, though." 
 
 As lie spoke, he put his hand in his breast and pulled out a pistol. 
 
 "Well, my friend," I said, "I think hawks ought not to feed upon hawks. 1 
 have a little bit of information to give you ; I am pursued by twelve mounted men 
 who will have it that I have stolen this horse ; and besides that, I heard them say 
 they would kill two birds with one stone, arid catch »a notorious highwayman who 
 was rereabouts." 
 
 "The devil." 
 
 " Very likely." 
 
 He levelled the point of the pistol, as he spoke, and I taking the opportu- 
 nity, seized it by the barrel, and had it out of his hand. It went off in the 
 struggle, but did me harm, and with the butt-end of it, which was heavily loaded, 
 it seemed to me with metal, I gave him a blow in the mouth that confused 
 him. 
 
 Y e collared each other, and I dragged him off his horse, dismounting myself 
 at same time ; and when we were on the ground, my advantage in height was 
 manifest enough over him, and although down we both went together, he was 
 undermost, and I thought all the breath was dashed out of his body, for he lay 
 quite still, and his eyes looked fixed. 
 
 I didn't want to kill the fellow. 
 
 By degrees he recovered, and the first words he said were, — 
 « Nabbed at last, by G ." 
 
 " No," said I, " you are wrong there ; I would have been friends with you if 
 you would have had it ; we are birds of a feather, and you had no business, fool 
 like, to peck at me. Get up, and go your way, and I'll go mine." 
 
 " Are you then really a highwayman P" he said. 
 
 " I am anything that comes uppermost, and that pays," said I. 
 
 He rose to his feet, and spat out one of his teeth that I had knocked from its 
 place with the bult-end of the pistol. Then wiping the blood from his lips, he 
 said with more good humour, real or assumed, than I expected, — 
 
 ™ I have been a cursed fool, but give us your hand, old fellow, and if you choose 
 to take to the road, you may depend upou my help in any way." 
 
 " I'm for London," I said. 
 
 "Well, never mind that ; the fact is, this part of the country is too hot to hold 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 647 
 
 me, and I must be off, so I may as well ride with you as not — what say you ? Two 
 heads are better than one, you know, and we may make much more by going 
 together than separately." 
 
 There was some truth in what the highwayman said, and after a few moments 
 consideration, I replied, — 
 
 " Well, I have no objection, but mind we part company whenever I please ; 
 don't suppose that I was reduced to the necessity of a personal struggle with you, 
 I am armed." 
 
 As I spoke, I showed him the stocks of a pair of pistols that I had quite con- 
 veniently about me ; and he gave a nod as he said, — 
 
 " I have to thank you for some forbearance, but I should not have shot you." 
 "Oh, don't mention it," said I. 
 
 " Well — well, of course I cannot convince you that I should not, but perhaps, 
 before we part, I shall be able to do you a service that will rub out the recollections 
 of the little fracas we have unfortunately had together. I am called the Wisp 
 by those who know me, and my little horse here is tolerably well known as the 
 fastest goer in England ; she can do on a pinch almost anything." 
 
 " I admire it, certainly. What do you think of mine?" 
 
 ** It's painted — I ought to have seen that at once." 
 
 " You have sharp eyes ; she is painted, and it has passed muster as a skewbald 
 under its late owner's eyes since that operation." 
 
 " It won't pass muster, though, under the hands of a groom, and you will find 
 yourself in a fix the first house you come to, when you want to put up.'* 
 
 This remark was so just a one that it gave me some uneasiness, but he relieve:! 
 me by saying, — 
 
 " Come, you think you are in a fix now, but I can help you out of it. Perhaps 
 you are far enough off from where you took the horse to enable him to come out, 
 without danger, in his natural colours. Is it so or not?" 
 
 " I think it is so." 
 
 " Very well ; then I know how. to get rid of all that paint* The nearest town 
 is about five miles from where we are now, aud you shall wait outside while I go 
 and purchase, at the first chemist's I can get it, the necessary things to turn your 
 skewbald into a dark bay again." 
 
 u Thank you, I shall be glad of that ; and, as my way lies each mile further 
 from the place I took him from, I will chance any danger." 
 
 Thus I and the " Wisp," as he called himself, patched up, after our encounter, 
 like any two great sovereigns, a sort of peace, which perhaps, after all, was as 
 hollow an affair as any treaties on a larger scale, got up by the wiliest diploma- 
 tists between nations. 
 
 But 1 was very well able to take care of myself, w it di&not greatly concern 
 me whether the Wisp were sincere or otherwise. 
 
 CHAPTER CVII. » 
 
 TREACHERY OF THE U WISP." THE DEATH AND THE ESCAPE. 
 
 After this we jogged on, talking about one thing and another, and my com- 
 panion was, or professed to be, very communicative about himself, while I acted 
 upon the plan of reserve, for, although he tried all in his power to what is com- 
 monly called pump me, it did not succeed. 
 
 If I were not intent upon my own adventures, and should feel that I was 
 using my readers ill by divaricating to anybody else, and I could no doubt get up an 
 amusing episode concerning what this vagabond related to me. 
 
648 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 But let that pass* 
 
 We, mounted as we were, soon got over the five miles which intervened between 
 us and the town to which he had referred ; and when we did come into the suburbs 
 of it, he paused, and said, — 
 
 ** Now I think you had better wait somewhere quietly, while I go and get what 
 is necessary to get off the paint from your horse." 
 
 " Very wen." 
 
 " You will find a meadow a short distance to the left, and I should advise that 
 you stay there until I come to you, or, if you like, I can take you to a house, where 
 you will be as safe as if it were your own." 
 
 Now I certainly much pcelerred the open air to any house, and so I said,— 
 " The meadow for me. I suppose nobody will interfere with me for trespassing * 
 " Oh dear, no ; it's a bit of common land, although I call it a meadow." 
 " Very good, I will go to, it and you will find me there, provided no untoward 
 accident should drive me from it ; we are all the creatures of circumstances, you 
 I know." 
 
 , "Very good.' 1 
 
 Away he went, and while he was gone, I reached the place he specified, finding 
 it to be, as he had said, a bit of common land partially enclosed and inclined ; 
 
 d before he came back, I took care to give the charge of my pistols a good ram 
 u jwn, and to look well to the priming of them, so as to be ripe and ready for 
 anything. 
 
 In one of my pistols I always kept a couple of bullets, and in the other a good 
 charge of shot ; and I knew which was which by a nick in the stock of one of 
 1 them. 
 
 It often happens that a charge of small shot is more serviceable in a pistol then 
 a bullet, for you cannot depend upon a pistol shooting, unless you are almost face 
 to face with your foe ; but shot will scatter, and one in your eye is not at all 
 agreeable, if even it be only one ; while if a bullet misses by a hair's breadth, it is 
 as good as a mile. 
 
 About twenty minutes elasped, when I saw the Wisp coming back. 
 
 When he reached me, he said, — 
 
 " All's right, I suppose P v 
 
 " Oh yes, I have seen nobody at all, but a donkey." 
 
 " Good, now dismount, and I'll soon transform your horse again." 
 
 He had a large sponge and a bottle of something. I did not care to inquire 
 what it was, but I fancy it was spirits of wine, and he commenced operations upon 
 the horse, and got off all the paint in the course of ten minutes. 
 
 "Now there is a pond a little way off, ride him in and wash his feet well ; for, 
 yo'A see, the paint that I liquified has run down him, and then he will be all right, 
 and I must say that, barring my own little nag, it's [as nice a creature as I would 
 wish to see." 
 
 I really felt obliged now to the Wisp for all this kind attention, and my sus- 
 l icions of the fellow gradually were thawing away, so that I rather began to con- 
 gratulate myself than not upon having found a fellow likely to be of so much 
 service to me. 
 
 He certainly had, when you came to look at it, a villanous countenance ; but 
 still a man is not wholly to be condemned on account of his looks, and while I 
 I did not give up the idea of keeping a wary eye upon my new friend, I began to 
 like him. 
 
 We went into the town together. 
 
 " Now," he said, "you, from the way in which we met, are naturally [sus- 
 picious of me ; so I will not recommend you to any house, but you can go to 
 which one you like, and I will accompany you." 
 
 44 Oh, I am not suspicious now," said I. " Where do you usually go?" 
 
 *«To the Red Lion.'' 
 
 « Well, to the Red Lion be it then." 
 
 f'lam glad to hear you say so, because there is not only there to be found good 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 649 
 
 accommodation for man and horse, but I don't think the landlord is a man that 
 
 interferes with other people's affelrs. 5 ' 
 
 With this recommendation of the Red Lion, on we went, until we reached the 
 
 hostel, which I found to be a comfortable-looking, old-fashioned, straggling house, 
 
 with a huge swinging sign in front of it, representing the red lion standing on his 
 
 hind legs in a very odd sort of way. 
 
 We resigned our horses to a groom who appeared, and I said to him,— 
 
 " Don't put my horse in a hot stall, but let him have a feed in the open air if 
 
 you can, and give him a rub down." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The Wisp gave no directions about his steed, except to give it a feed, and then 
 we together walked into the house. 
 
 There was a rude, comfortable sanded parlour, and we ordered the best refresh- 
 ments the house could afford to us, the Wisp saying, — 
 
 " You must allow me to consider you my guest here, and if you think it any 
 obligation, which really it is not, you can put that all right at our next trolling 
 place." 
 
 " Very well. As you please," said 1/ 
 
 " I'll be back directly," he said, rising and walking out of the room. 
 
 There was nothing particular in his doing so, but somehow or another, all my 
 suspicions of foul play came across me again, with full force. The room had but 
 the one door to it, but there was a window that was so close to the ground, 
 
 No. 82." ~" — — 
 
650 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 could step out of it ; and by the left hand of that window a projecting portion of 
 the house went out at right angles with it to about twelve or fourteen feet. 
 
 I stepped from the window, and walked along this portion of the place till I 
 came to the corner, and when I turned it, I soon drew back again, for there, with 
 his back luckily turned towards me, I saw the Wisp and the landlord talking 
 together. 
 
 I could overhear what they said, for they turned and walked slowly up to 
 where I was. 
 
 ''Don't turn the corner," said the landlord, "or he may see vou." 
 "How?" 
 
 "Why the window of the parlour looks that way." 
 
 t( Oh, ah, so it does. Well, as I was saying, there's sure to be a handsome 
 reward. I need not, you know, show in the business at all ; you know it would 
 not be prudent for me to do so." 
 
 " Not quite, Billy/' 
 
 " Well, he's one of the London lot, and has no business poaching in these parts. 
 I say, let him be nabbed at once. You can manage it, you are a constable, you 
 know ; and I have taken his horse out of the way, so he's helpless, rather." 
 
 " Ah, but he looks a rum un." 
 
 " What do you mean V 
 
 M Why, just this here, Billy. It's all very fine about taking this chap, but 
 I don't want a bullet, perhaps, in my inside — oh, no ! I'm no ways unwilling to 
 lend a hand, but Big Snubbins shall be sent for. He'll tackle him for you ; and 
 you won't, perhaps, be back'ard in coming for'ard yourself, if so be as you're 
 wanted." 
 
 " Certainly not. Damn him! I owe him one." 
 
 " Werry good, Billy. Then that's settled. You keep 'hind the house, you 
 know, all comfortable till big Snubbins comes, and then I don't mind." 
 
 "Very well, I must go round to him now, or else he'll think there's something 
 amiss; he was a little suspicious, I thought, when I left him." 
 
 They walked away from the corner, round which, if I had put an arm, I could 
 have touched them, and I thought it high time to get back to the room. 
 
 When the Wisp came back, he found me very quietly reading the County 
 Chronicle, and looking as unsuspicious as a new-born babby. 
 
 "All's right," he said. " We shall soon have something good to eat." 
 
 (l Soon," said I, with a laugh, " I am half famished. However, I'll be with you 
 directly." 
 
 Now as he had left the room with the same remark, he could not very well 
 object to my doing so, although he looked a little fidgety ; aDd out I went, pass- 
 ing through the house towards the stables in the rear. 
 
 These stables were in a yard, to which there was a gate opening into a little 
 field, and beyond that was a hedge, a lane, and the high road. The gate was 
 open. 
 
 One of the ostler's assistants came up to me in a fidgety way. 
 " Oss all right, sir," he said. <f All right, sir." 
 " Oh, very good ; and how is my friend's horse V* 
 
 My inquiry seemed to relieve him, and he led me to a stable where, taking his 
 feed, was the little black horse of Mr. Wisp. 
 
 "Go to your master," said I, " and tell hira I want to speak to him for a few 
 moments here." 
 
 The fellow hesitated a moment or two, but he had no very good excuse for not 
 going ; and, when he did go, he ran all the way very hard. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 651 
 
 CHAPTER CVIII. 
 
 A L1TTLB BIT OF RETRIBWTION. — EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY, 
 
 A glance round the stable was sufficient to show me what I most wished to 
 see, namely, the saddle and other finishings of the little black horse. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Wisp," thought I, "if you had an idea that I had set my affec- 
 tions upon any one horse in particular, you were most grievously mistaken ; for 
 your little, sleek, handsome steed, which, of course, you stole somewhere (very 
 wrong), will answer my purpose just as well as my own dark bay steed." 
 
 I flatter myself I know how to set about getting a horse ready for a start, as 
 well as most folks, and in one moment, the little black, sleek creature was 
 ready. 
 
 1 heard hasty footsteps. 
 
 " They come," I said, and I mounted him. I turned his head towards the 
 stable door, and cantered into the yard — a pistol ready cocked iu my hand, and 
 my riding-whip in my mouth. At the same instant the landlord made his ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 " Hilloa V* he cried. " What's this ? Billy, Billy, it's all up. I say, Billy. 
 Stop him ! Shut the gate, there — shut the gate, will you, some of you fellows ? 
 Here, big Snubbins. Now we have him." 
 
 The gate was banged shut, and from the back door of the house, issued Wisp 
 and a great lumpy, chuckle-headed-looking fellow, with a constable's truncheon in 
 his hand ; who, I supposed, was the Big Snubbins the landlord had been so very 
 anxious to get as an ally in the job of effecting my capture. 
 
 " Stop !" said I, " I hold two men's lives in my hands, so beware of me." 
 
 " My horse ! my horse I" cried Wisp. 
 
 " A fair exchange is no robbery, my friend," said T. " You have been so obliging 
 as to put my horse out of the way, so I will borrow yours." 
 
 I wheeled the horse so suddenly that the fellow who had shut the gate, and who 
 stood by it, was alarmed, and darting under the belly of the steed, he ran across the 
 yard ; in a moment the horse vaulted over the gate, and it was well he did so, for 
 Wisp fired at me, and the ball no doubt would have hit me had we remained 
 stationary. 
 
 I paused in a moment and presented my pistol, saying, — 
 " By Heaven it has missed fire !" 
 
 " All right," said Wisp, " he's unarmed, or as good as unarmed ; now come 
 on. We'll pay you now, my man." 
 
 He ran forward and laid his hand on the bridle of the horse, I placed the muzzle 
 of the pistol, the trigger of which I had not yet touched, to his head and fired. 
 
 " There's a receipt then," said I, " with a stamp to it." 
 
 He gave a shriek and fell forward ; the gate stopped him from being in my way, 
 and then profiting by the confusion that this affair caused, I turned again and 
 galloping over the little field, cleared the hedge, and was in the open road. 
 
 " Ah, ah ! I've got him," cried Big Snubbins, who had ran round that way, and 
 made a dart at the horse's rein, but he missed and fell. The horse would not tread 
 on him, made a demivault over him, and he sprung to his feet again. 
 
 I had my pistol with the small shot still remaining in it, for it was the one with 
 the bullets that I had given Wisp his quietus with, and I presented it at him. 
 
 "Hold hard!" he cried. "None of that ere. Hark ye, my fine fellow, I'll have 
 you yet as sure as my name's Snubbins." 
 
 " Well, Snubbins," said I, " I have scarcely seen enough of you to know you 
 again without a mark — so here goes." 
 
 He doubled, twisted, and shrunk himself up, and avoiding his face, I fired at 
 another portion of his anatomy, when he gave a roar like an infuriated bull, and 
 
652 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 off I set at a gallop on the main road, expecting to be followed closely, nor was I 
 deceived as to that expectation long. 
 
 I did not, however, put my little horse to its full speed ; I did not know what 
 work he would have to do for me, and I was anxious to spare him. Moreover, I 
 wanted to get out of the main road entirely. 
 
 A stern chase might he a long chase, but it was one I did not like. 
 
 I nad got about three miles when I stopped to tighten a girth, and then laying 
 my ear to the ground, I distinctly heard the hard tramp of horses' feet. 
 
 u Ah, my ewn dark bay I have no doubt will be out, but, if I mistake not, this 
 little bit of blood will be more than equal to anything that can be brought out of 
 the stables of the Red Lion to pursue me. I'll give them a steeple chase for it." 
 
 There was a bank on the left hand side of the road, and up that 1 clambered 
 to get a look at the country, which, to my satisfaction, I found was well wooded, 
 about three or four miles off in that direction, and a little further on, on the road I 
 was going, the bank was so low T that the horse could easily w^alk over it. 
 
 I at once mounted again. 
 
 " Now for a chase," I said ; " we'll see who's best mounted, perhaps ; I wish I 
 had not thrown away one of my pistols." 
 
 The fact was, when I shot the Wisp, my whole attention was so engrossed with 
 the idea of getting clear away, that I had thrown down the then useless weapon, 
 but I retained the one with which I had peppered Big Stubbins, and that I reloaded, 
 putting in a charge of shot and some small slug along with it — a tolerable dose 
 for anybody who was disposed to be fractious with me, or to make themselves 
 troublesome. 
 
 I soon reached the low part of the bank, and stooping so that my head should not 
 'be seen by my pursuers as 1 crossed, I found myself in another moment in a pretty 
 meadow, and the open country stretching out for some distance, until the wood that 
 was near at hand merged upon it, and this, thought I, will be my pathway. Ten 
 to one if they have a horse with them except the dark bay that can take a fence. 
 
 I_cantered along under cover of the hedges, for I was not disposed to throw away 
 a chance, and if they would keep the high road and leave nae alone I was quite 
 satisfied. But there was no such favourable and easy fortune in store for me. I 
 heard a voice cry, " Tally ho !" as if I had been some sort of game, and in ano- 
 ther moment four horsemen appeared in the first meadow and they evidently 
 saw me. 
 
 To skulk under cover of the hedges was now of no use, so out I sprung and 
 made direct for the wood. A touch of the whip sent the little horse on like light- 
 ning ; I never had been taken through the air at such a rate in all my life. 
 
 44 This will do," thought 1 ; " they seem instead of coming on to be going back 
 from me." 
 
 The leaps too that came in the way of the little horse were taken beautifully, 
 while I had the satisfaction as I glanced round, to see that my pursuers were in 
 confusion at the first hedge thoy came to, and the only horse that seemed to have 
 a chance of keeping up the chase was one that had thrown his rider. 
 
 It was coming along finely with the stirrups dangling about it, but it turned off 
 after a field or two, and I could see nothing of it. 
 
 But now a new danger appeared. As I cleared a hedge I saw two gentlemen 
 mounted upon superb hunters, and my sudden appearance caused no little astonish- 
 ment ; they put both their horses in motion and crossed me. 
 
 "A steeple chase, gentlemen," I cried, "a steeple chase." 
 
 " Oh, is that it," cried one, " give way, my lord, let him go on. By everything 
 that's a rasper, and he has done it well — did you ever see " 
 
 T was off and away, and the sound of the voice died upon my ears. Now the 
 woody country was not half a mile ahead of me, and I thought that such a head- 
 • long pace was not required, as I could neither see nor hear anything of my foes, so 
 I gently and quietly reduced the gallop to a canter, and in a few minutes plunged 
 among a magnificent group of chestnuts and poplars that formed the commencement 
 of the little forest. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 653 
 
 " Hurrah !" I exclaimed, u I am safe now, I suppose; but I must find some 
 shelter for my gallant little steed, and husband his resources. This is a chase 
 that may he resumed, and although my opponents may be able to get fresh cattle, 
 I cannot." 
 
 Tke cool shade of the trees was very grateful and pleasant to me indeed, and 
 the quiet ride of about half a mile that I now took was especially agreeable, after 
 the fever and excitement of my previous progress. 
 
 As I was ignorant of anything but the general geographical position of the 
 country, I was now rather puzzled to know where 1 was ; but I thought that even 
 if I should meet some one in the wood, it would look bad for me to ask such a 
 question as, " Can you tell me where I am, my good fellow ?" 
 
 Curiesity is easily excited anywhere ; and such a demand might easily provoke 
 it beyond all reasonable bounds, so I thought I would keep my own counsel, and 
 get through the wood as soon as I could. 
 
 I trotted on, until by the scattered manner in which the trees began to grow, I 
 thought I was on the outskirts of the mimic forest, and then 1 drew reins sud- 
 denly, for I was certain that before me I heard the sound of horses' feet. 
 
 When I was still, I no longer doubted of the fact, for 1 plainly heard such 
 sounds ; and I thought that as they might bode me no good, it would be as well to 
 reconnoitre the place round about, before proceeding further. 
 
 CHAPTER CIX. 
 
 MORE DANGER, — THE KEEPER'S HUT.— A NARROW ESCAPE. 
 
 I dismounted and tied my horse to a tree. 
 
 " I will creep forward on foot," thought I, " which will enable me to get through 
 smaller spaces, and more among the brushwood than I could with the horse, and 
 see what manner of people these are who are in advance of me." 
 
 Accordingly taking care to tread as softly as foot could fall, on I went ; and 
 always keeping out of the widest pathways among the trees, I reckoned upon 
 coming close to the horsemen I had heard something of, without their per- 
 ceiving me. 
 
 I was not mistaken. 
 
 After I had gone about one hundred yards, then I halted and hid behind the 
 trunk of a great chestnut tree ; for I felt confident I was in the close vicinity of 
 people by the voices I heard. After a few moments, however, I shifted my 
 position to another tree, and then I saw five men on horseback, their steeds all in 
 a foam from hard riding, standing together. 
 
 One was talking and pointing with the handle of a hunting whip somewhere, 
 just as I perceived them, and was near enough to hear clearly what they had 
 to say. 
 
 " You may take my word for it," he said, "he won't be able to do it 
 any other way.'' 
 
 /'Well," replied another, "you are of that opinion; but, what if he won't 
 break cover 1" 
 " He must." 
 
 " Indeed ! And why must he ? — I don't see any must in the case." 
 
 ?* Why, what is he to do ? You all know, as well as I, that the only place of 
 shelter in the wood is Mike's cottage ; and of course if he goes there Mike has 
 him safe enough." 
 
 "Oh, yes ; but we may have to wait a deuce of a time." 
 
654 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Well, we can do that ; you see, now, that where we are we can command a 
 view of the only outlets of the forest, so that we cannot fail of seeing him if he 
 stirs out at all. A little patience is all that's required. 
 
 "Well," said he, who seemed to doubt the scheme, u you can wait here if you 
 like, but he may take it into his head to stay in the forest till night." 
 
 " In that case," said the first speaker, " I grant you we are done rather, but the 
 probability is, that he will fall into our hands, or go back and be taken by th» party 
 waiting for him on the other side of the wood. But I tell you what wouIA be no 
 bad thing." 
 
 "What now?" 
 
 " Why, for a couple of us to ride into the wood, and tell Mike at the cottage to 
 be on the look out." 
 
 " Agreed," said the man, who undoubtedly was of too restless a temper to like 
 the thought of waiting. He was and wanted to be doing something. " I'll be that 
 one, if you like, for one is enough for such an errand." 
 
 " Ah, but if you meet the fellow in the wood " 
 
 " I'll take my chance ; I am armed. You would hear shots, — the cottage aint 
 far off." 
 
 He made a turn with his horse and came into the wood. 
 
 " I should like," thought I, tl to know where this said cottage is situated ; so I 
 will make bold to follow you, whoever you may be, until 1 see." 
 
 I was the more inclined for this course, as the man had said it was quite near at 
 hand ; and as I knew he could not make much speed, and indeed had no induce- 
 ment to do so through the wood, I thought it would be easy enough on foot to 
 dodge him. And so it was; for he picked his way as leisurely as possible - ; and 
 I followed until he came to a little low fence, and there, sure enough, about twenty 
 paces within it, was the thatched roof of a cottage. 
 
 " Hilloa !" he cried. " Hilloa ! Mike." 
 
 "Ay! ay!" shouted a voice, and a man came and looked over the fence. 
 " Oh, hew do you do, Mr. Mitchell, " he added; " I didn't know it was you, sir." 
 
 " Yes, it's I, Mike. I hare only come to say that a'fellow is in the forest, that we 
 are trying to catch ; but he's as slippery as an eel. He has done no end of mis- 
 chief in the Red Lion Inn, you must know ; so as he is somewhere among the 
 trees, if he should come to your hut, you will be doing yourself a good turn by 
 catching him.'' 
 
 "Oh, very well, you may depend upon me. What sort of a looking chap 
 is he sir?" 
 
 m A gnod-looking fellow rather, on a little black horse." 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 Away rode Mr. Michell, no doubt thinking he had managed the affair very 
 cleverly ; and I took another thought on the matter, to know what I should 
 do. " First of all," thought I, " I consider that it would be advisable to follow 
 Mitchell, to see how his report would be received by his friends, and to make 
 sure that they did not undertake any more dangerous steps than waiting for me at 
 the outskirts of the wood.' 
 
 The distance was short, and he soon rejoined his companions. 
 
 " What news ?" cried one. 
 
 " I have seen Mike," he said, " and he will keep a look out. Hilloa, what have 
 we here?" 
 
 As he spoke, he directed attention to some meadows about half a mile off, and 
 there I saw a party of about thirty fellows with dogs and horses and hunting coats, 
 rolling along as gaily as possible. 
 
 u Going to cover," cried one of what I may call my party. 
 
 " Yes," said he who had been to visit Mike ; "it's Squire Peachey, and his lot- 
 I say, would it not be a good thing if we could get them to ride through the forest? 
 Whv' they would be sure to unearth the fellow we want." 
 
 " By everything that's good, that's a capital thought," said the first one whom j 
 
NEWGATE. 655 
 
 had heard speak, u I will ride on' and meet them. Keep a good look out while I 
 am gone." 
 
 I saw him ride forward and meet the sportsmen, to whom he lifted his hat, and 
 presently he was in the midst of them ; and by their nods, and all leaning their 
 horses' heads towards the wood, I felt confident that they had had the kindness 
 to accept the proposition of hunting me, instead of a hare. 
 
 I had already made my determination, in case of such a contingency. 
 
 To wait another moment where I was, would have been folly. There was but 
 one course to pursue, and that must be a bold one. The wood was completely 
 surrounded, and I was to be ferretted out of it by thirty or forty huntsmen. What 
 was I to do but to go to Mr. Mike, and seek shelter with him ? 
 
 Now that gentleman was not likely to accord shelter to me with a very good 
 grace, but then people do many things in this world, and do them very well too, 
 without having much real inclination for them, so I did not despair upon that head. 
 Expedition was the grand thing. 
 
 I was back to my little horse in a few moments, and, having mounted him, 
 trotted as fast as I could to Mike's hut. 
 
 I dismounted when I reached the little paling, and then walked round till I 
 came to a gate, at which I entered, leading my horse by the bridle. I took a dis- 
 tol — the only one I had — from my pocket, and knocked with the butt end of it 
 against the door. 
 
 In a moment it was opened by the man himself. 
 
 "How are you, Mike?" I said. 
 
 He stared as if he had seen a spectre. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, Mike/' I added, "lam the gentleman Mr. Mitchell spoke 
 to you about a little while ago, and told you to look out for ; and this, you see, is 
 the little black horse he described to you — so there is no mistake. Now, Mike, I 
 tell you what my orders are." 
 
 " Orders !" he gasped. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, in a loud fierce tone, " orders, sirrah ! I never condescend to 
 do anything but order such as you are. Get out of the way." 
 
 He retreated into the cottage, and I led the horse fairly inside, the sagacious 
 creature, after a glance at the height of the door, stooping just low enough to 
 clear it. 
 
 It was a wretched habitation ; it seemed to consist of but one room, but the 
 corner of it was fenced off by a couple of old blankets hanging upon a line. The 
 furniture consisted of a table and one chair, and a lot of dirty pots and pans. 
 
 " Who is behind that curtain V said I. 
 
 " Nobody," said Mike, getting towards the door of his cottage to make a bolt 
 of it. 
 
 " Hark ye, my friend," said I, as I pointed the pistol at him, " I never miss my 
 aim, and if you attempt to leave this place, I'll send a brace of bullets into your 
 brains, if you have any." 
 
 He was evidently cowed, and I saw him trembie as he moved away from the 
 door. " There's nothing behind the blankets,'' he said, " but my bed. Nothing ; 
 my — my wife has gone to market. There's no occasion to shoot me, sir." 
 
 " That's my opinion/' 
 
 <4 Then you — you won't, sir ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, if you wish to preserve your life ; but to do so you must attend 
 to my instructions. I am being searched for through the wood. They want to find 
 me ; but they will come here, and ask you if you have seen me ; and I shall hide, 
 together with my horse, behind these blankets. You will sit or stand close to me, 
 and say you know nothing of me. If you give the least hint of alarm, or move 
 one step from where I say you are to be, you may ensure my capture, but you do 
 so at the price of your own life, for you shall be a dead man that moment.'* 
 
656 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER CX. 
 
 A TICKLISH SITUATION. — I PART WITH THE LITTLE HORSE. 
 
 Mr. Mike [looked at me perfectly bewildered for a few moments, and then he 
 said, — 
 
 " It is not likely, sir, that I want to throw away my life just for the pleasure of 
 giving you up. If you like to trust me, I will do as well for you as if the pistol 
 was at my ear." 
 
 " No, Mike, no, I would rather not." 
 
 " Very well, very well." 
 
 " Stop, I will tell you why. You had better by far assist me on compulsion 
 than willingly, Mike, for you know you can tell the story and so screen yourself. 
 I have really done nothing particular, only shot two men at the Red Lion." 
 
 "Only!" said Mike. 
 
 At this moment I heard the tramp of horses' feet, and placed my little steed 
 behind the blankets. I turned a fierce glance at Mike, and pointing to the spot on 
 which I desired him to remain, I said, — 
 
 <c Now, beware ! for I swear by heaven above, and by hell below, that I will 
 take your life if you attempt to play me false." 
 
 Then before he could say anything in reply I was behind the blankets myself. 
 There were many holes in them, and 1 showed him the muzzle of my pistol within 
 about two inches of his head. 
 
 M That'll do,' : he said, with a groan. u I aint quite a fool, and I aint quite sick 
 of my life yet. You may consider it's all your own way, sir/ 1 
 
 1 must confess it was rather a serious sort of thing waiting there ; but there 
 was certainly no other resource for it but to put the best face I could upon the 
 matter. Yet as minute after minute passed away, and of course I knew that Mr. 
 Mike was getting a little over his first terror, and was calling all the ingenuity he 
 might be master of to his aid in order to circumvent me, I could have repeated 
 with the poet, — 
 
 Oh, what a wretch, tormented dire is he, 
 Who danger knowing, danger waits ; 
 And ever knocking at his heart with dread, 
 Is dismal expectation." 
 
 At length, as all suspense, let it be of the most poignant description, must some 
 time or another have an end, mine did. A voice broke the stillness that reigned 
 around. 
 
 " Hilloa, Mike ! — Mike, are you at home ?" 
 "Call out yes," said I. 
 " Yes," he shouted. 
 
 " Say come in," said I, "and when they are here, ask them to be quiet, for your 
 
 wife behind the blankets is not very well." 
 44 Come in," he cried ; " come in." 
 
 The door was flung open, and three of the party of huntsmen who had dis- 
 mounted entered the tent, and began all talking together. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Mike, " my poor wife is not very well, and I would thank 
 you to make as little noise as you can, and not by any means to go near those 
 blankets, if you please, gentlemen." 
 
 " Why, you don't seem very well yourself, Mike," said one ; " but Doctor 
 Jones is of our party to-day, and he shall advise your wife. He will be here 
 directly. We are looking for a fellow who has done a couple of murders, they say, 
 at the Red Lion Inn." 
 
 " Are you, gentlemen ? Well, I hope you'll find him. But as for Doctor Jones, 
 my wife has such a dislike to doctors that I am sure she won't see him." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 657 
 
 As the demon of ill luck would have it, the little horse gave a slight cough at 
 this moment, and one of the party cried out, — 
 u God bless me ! is that your wife, Mike ?*' 
 * Ye— ye— yes, sir. Oh, sir V 
 
 ** Really, what a dreadful cough. I certainly never did, in all my life, ever hear 
 anything equal to it. It is positively horrible." 
 
 " Oh dear, yes, gentlemen ; it is, poor thing. How are you now, missus 1 Ah, 
 
 tmlL°%T^T n her ^ft g^men; she don't cough so bad when she 
 
 rupt vou 1 "ffithS n? ^l^i 18 t0 be g0ne * Wel1 ' Mike > ^ won't mter- 
 and Jecure him Mh" ^ ^ the had bett <* ^nd a hand 
 
 " S i • j. be ? feW P° Unds ln y° uv wav > you may depend uuon it " 
 Thank y ou kindly, gentlemen-thank you kindly/' Y P P 
 
 No, 83, 
 
658 NEWGATE. 
 
 They rose to go, but there was more ill luck in store for me, for at the very 
 moment they reached the door, a woman with a basket on her arm made her 
 
 appearance. 
 
 " Why, Mike," cried one, " here is your wife." 
 « Oh, the devil !" cried Mike. " It's all up." 
 " Beware," whispered I. 
 "Oh, what shall I say ?" 
 
 " Trust to your mother wit, or I'll shoot you, by G — d !" 
 
 " Why, what's all this about ?" said the woman, bouncing into the room. 
 " What's the meaning of all this, I should like to know. I'm sure there's some- 
 thing going on that oughtn't to be. What are you all staring at, eh, you 
 boobies V 
 
 " Sit down, wife, sit down," said Mike. " Pray, hold your tongue, and sit 
 down." 
 
 "I hold my tongue, you never-do-well vagabond! I should like to see me 
 hold my tongue— that I should — but I'll have my say, that I will, do what you 
 may, and think what you may. I aint a sort of woman to go for to put up with 
 any nonsense.'' 
 
 '« There's some mystery here," said one of the hunting"party. H What on earth 
 can it be all about, I wonder ?" 
 
 Mike took the three gentlemen on one side, and whispered something to them, 
 upon which all their faces widened into a grin each, and, in another moment they 
 left the cottage. I wondered what on earth he had said to them ; but, while his 
 wife was taking off her bonnet, he whispered to me, — 
 
 " I told 'em BetHaggins, the pig-man's daughter was here." 
 
 M Oh !'' said I. 
 
 « Eh? what's that ?" cried Mrs. Mike. " What's that— who said 'oh/ I should 
 like to know." 
 
 " It was 1, madam," said I, popping my head, through a great hole in one of 
 the blankets. " How do you find yourself to to-day ? Much as usual, I suppose ? 
 You look rather jolly." 
 
 Mrs. Mike glared at me with all her power of vision, and, when I stepped out of 
 my place of concealment, she retreated until she came to an old stool, with three 
 legs, upon which she sat down in silence. 
 
 " You look surprised, madam," I said. 
 
 " I — I am surprised — 1 — I — who are you ?" 
 
 " Mr. Smith, at your service. I mean to stay here some little time long^ so 
 you may as well make me comfortable as well as yourself. I don't want anything 
 that I don't pay for ; but you must neither of you stir out of this hut till I am 
 gone, which will be when I think those fools have thoroughly examined the wood, 
 and not before." 
 
 " Mike, Mike," said a man, popping his head in at the cottage door. " If you 
 should happen, by any chance, you know " 
 
 He got out no more, for with one well-planted blow in his face, I sent him 
 sprawling. Mrs. Mike began to scream, and Mike cried aloud, — 
 
 w Help, help, help ! He's here, he's here. Have him now." 
 
 I could have shot him, but what was the use of wasting a charge upon him, when 
 I might want it before I could get time to reload ; so I, feeling that, at all events, 
 the cottage was no longer a place of refuge for me, darted out of it, leaving the 
 horse behind me, and plunged among the trees. I did not pause, but rushed on 
 for my life, until hearing no sound of pursuit, I did not go quite so fast, but stopped 
 a little for breath, and looked about me and listened like a hunted hare, who 
 finds he has a moment's respite from his pursuers. 
 
 All was still and serene. The sun peeped down from among the leaves of 
 the trees, 
 
 " Dappling the walks vriih light and. shade," 
 while occasionally a bird twittered out a feeble song from the deep recesses of 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 659 
 
 some shady covert, into which no eye could penetrate. But stop, I am really 
 growing a little romantic, and that will never do for me. Besides, I had some- 
 thing else to think about. 
 
 Hearing no sound of pursuit, I went on till I came to a part of the wood that 
 was but the length of a field from the high road, but, where that high road led to 
 I had not the remotest idea. 
 
 As I looked, however, up the road — up, I say, although I had no notion of whether 
 it was up or down — a most agreeable sight met my eyes. A stage coach with four 
 horses was coming along at a good pace. 
 
 Hope brightened at my heart. I sprang across the meadow, and standing in the 
 road, waved my hat. The coach stopped. 
 
 " Where to, sir ?" said the coachman. 
 
 " Right on/' said I, for I had no notion of what else to say, and, although I saw 
 " London" painted upon the panel behind, and got, likewise, the further informa- 
 tion, that it was the '* Tally-ho," my topography had been so confused by the 
 wanderings in the wood, that I did not know if the coach was going to or coming 
 from the capital. 
 
 I had no doubt, however, of the policy of getting away from where I was, at the 
 rate of ten miles an hour, so I mounted the roof. 
 
 CHAPTER CXI. 
 
 STAGE-COACH PASSENGERS. — LONDON AT LAST. 
 
 Off we set. u Thank Providence !" said I, and I must have said it aloud, for an 
 old gentleman, who was beside me on the coach, rather stared. No doubt he 
 thought it an odd thing to thank Providence for getting upon a stage-coach. 
 
 I wanted very much to ascertain where we were going, so I thought I could not 
 do better than get into conversation with the old fellow. 
 
 " A fine day, sir," I said. The weather is always an Englishman's resource. 
 
 " Eugh ! any fool can see that," was the reply. 
 
 This was rather unpromising, but I added, — 
 
 " Your journey has not agreed with you, I perceive. Do you always get uncivil 
 when you have the stomach-ache?" 
 
 He glared at me ferociously, but said nothing. My remark, however, seemed 
 to have given great satisfaction to a woman, with a child on her lap, who was sitting 
 on the other side. She q^ite laughed. I suppose the old fellow had not been 
 very civil to her, and that she was glad to see him snubbed by somebody 
 or other. 
 
 She quite, as the saying is, cottoned to me. 
 
 *' It is a fine day, sir," she said, li though some people is so grumpy that they 
 can't say as much." 
 
 " Yes, madam, you are right. Is that infant yours ?" 
 «« Yes, sir, and I'm the mother of four, though I say it." 
 
 " What a beautiful ckild ! A most charming little thing — and how very 
 like you, to be sure. I suppose the wonderful likeness is always remarked — is 
 it not?" 
 
 "Lor, sir! you is very good. It is in a manner o' speaking sometimes; but 
 you mustn't think that the mother of four is anything in looks — consider my age." 
 " And why not? I'm a tolerable judge of ages. You are twenty-eight, about." 
 ,f Humbug!" muttered the old man. 
 
 <c Thank you, sir," said I. " We might have guessed at your name for a long 
 time before we found it was Mr. Humbug, unless you had kindly told us." 
 
660 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 This quite delighied the mother of the fine babe, and she said, — 
 
 " I hope you are going all the way to London with us, sir." 
 
 " Yes/' said I, and here I had got the requisite information that we were going 
 to London, which was a great relief to me, for I had got my thoughts that I might 
 be being whirled back to Bristol, for all I knew, and that would not have been very 
 pleasant. But London — magic, beautiful London ! To hear that I was travelling 
 along to London was a treat. 
 
 " Oh, coachman," said the woman, "coachman." 
 
 " Well, what now ?" said the coachman. 
 
 * I quite forgot to ask what you charged for children. My little Jenny is inside, 
 you know." 
 
 " Oh, we'll talk about that, marm," said the coachman, " arterards." 
 
 " Coachman," cried the old gentleman, " I forgot to ask you what you charged 
 for puppies. Ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 This was intended as a hit at me, and I at once trod bang upon his toes, which I 
 thought, by the look of them, were plentifully garnished with corns, and I was 
 convinced of the fact when he roared again with pain. 
 
 " Beg your pardon — never mind," said I. 
 
 " Curse you ! What do you mean by that? Beg my pardon, indeed. I believe 
 it was done on purpose. You confounded, impertinent scapegrace ! I'll get down 
 at the next stage — that I will. I have been annoyed by that nasty, fat, wheezing 
 child, for the last half-dozen miles, and now I am to bear your insolence." 
 
 I laughed; but the woman whose child was thus described, opened a volley of 
 abuse at the old gentleman, which did not end until he fairly got down at the next 
 stage, and would not go any further, preferring to lose his money. 
 
 I was, to tell the truth, neither sorry nor glad at his absence, and long before we 
 came within a dozen or two miles of London I was horribly sick of the woman 
 and her baby, and as I found her to be a mass of selfishness and fat vulgarity, 1 
 determined upon undeceiving her as to my admiration before we fairly separated. 
 
 The coach put up, as I saw, at the Saracen's Head, on Snow-hill, and as we 
 were travelling the last stage of ten miles, she said to me, — 
 
 " Do you live in London, sir?" 
 
 *' Sometimes," I replied ; " do you?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. My husbanfj is a pork-butcher, you must know, in the city ; but he 
 don't seem to depreciate his wife and family, as he ought, sir." 
 " Indeed ! : ' 
 
 " No, sir, he doesn't ; and it's what I often tells him." 
 " No doubt of that, madam." 
 
 tl I don't know how I came to make such a connexion — not 1 ; and all I can say, 
 sir, is, that if on a Friday evening, you are coming near No. 2, Barbican, and will take 
 a dish of tea, I shall be quite proud and happy to see you, sir." 
 
 " But why on Friday, charming woman," said I, in a whisper. 
 
 "Why — why, you see my husband goes to market on Friday, and he is such a 
 brute, if he was to see a hiligant gintleman like you a coming, there's no knowing 
 what he might go all for to say." 
 
 ei Oh ! I understand." 
 
 " I often say he's no better nor a pig hisself ; and he's been so brought up among 
 'em that he's just like 'em." 
 
 " What a distressing idea." 
 • " Oh, yes, sir, you don't know what I suffers, really. Now atween you and 
 me and the post, there was a carcase butcher in Newgate market as was hexpiring 
 for me, he was, and quite a hiligant man too." 
 Then how came you to marry the pig-man." 
 
 " Well, I often asks myself. It's one o' the wonders, you know, sir. But now 
 my brute of a husband, just because the carcase butcher came one day, promiscus, 
 gets up, and makes a vow, and says all sorts o' things, he does. Eugh ! the wretch 
 — I'm sick of him ; but when you comes on Friday, sir, we'll talk it over. Oh, dear, 
 I often think I could run away, like they do in romances, along with somebody." 
 
NEWGATE. 1 
 
 601 
 
 Then she gave me an abominable leer, as much as t© say, and that somebody is 
 you. How I hated the infernal woman. 
 
 We were rolling along Holborn just as this interesting dialogue caaie to an end, 
 and the lamps were being lit ; and in a few minutes we dived into the arehway of the 
 Saracen's Head Inn. 
 
 I dismounted first, and then the pork-man's wife got down with her baby. She 
 was going to say something to me — God knows what it was — when I stopped her. 
 
 " Bless me !" I cried. 
 
 *"Lor', sir, what's the matter?" 
 
 ** Why the air of London enables me to see clearer — much clearer." 
 (t What do you mean, sir ? Aint you well ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; only a little qualmish. Why, I now perceive that you are a fat, 
 dirty, frowsy woman, of about forty, and that your child is a nasty, gross, stinking 
 — faugh— go to the devil, or the carcase butcher— which you like. You are posi- 
 tively ugly enough to be an emetic to a strong stomach ! I shall write a note to your 
 husband, poor man." 
 
 She was so astounded that she fairly sat down with a plump upon the pavement, 
 
 and I walked away without waiting for a reply. 
 
 * * * ° * r ^ * * * 
 
 "Where shall I house myself?" I said. I had but eleven pounds left of my 
 money, and that would not last me long in London. But then I had thousands of 
 pounds in my wits, and I knew it would not be long before I turned those ingots 
 into gold. 
 
 After some consideration, I determined to do the thing decent while I could, 
 and go to a respectable hotel, so I started westward. 
 
 The reader may be sure I did not go to the hotel where I had met with an un- 
 comfortable adventure once before, but avoiding Oxford-street altogether, I found 
 a comfortable place in Oxendon-street, and there I located. 
 
 I was in London once again, and ripe and ready for any adventure that might 
 befal me. I was quite young enough to make a fortune yet — perhaps I might be a 
 justice of the peace before I died, who knows ? Gold does anything in this highly 
 civilised community of ours that we live in. Who will deny that proposition ? 
 
 Carried, nem. con. 
 
 Yes, London ! how I love thee ! In no other city, notwithstanding its churches, 
 chapels, and sanctimonious people, is there one half the amount of vies. I do not 
 mean to say but that the extent of the city may account for much, but this I do 
 and will say, that there is no city on the face of the earth in which there is such a 
 canting display of morality. The greater portion — aye, by far the greater portion 
 — of which is but the thin and flimsy covering of the very grossest of enormities 
 and social vices. 
 
 But, in fact, in London, morality is made as much a trade of as anything else ; 
 and those who preach it do not consider that they are bound to practise it any more 
 than a maker of sweetmeats is bound to cloy his own stomach with them. Divines, 
 editors of newspapers, great philanthropists, and such like, frequently exhibit in 
 their private life examples of the grossest description, while none but they can be 
 so eloquent in the cause of virtue — that lip virtue, to preach about which they find 
 to be so profitable an employmeut, while they, as individuals, are steeped to the lips 
 in vice. 
 
 CHAPTER CXII. 
 
 LONDON. — AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 My readers will perhaps feel a little surprised to hear me abusing London always, 
 considering that I fly to it as a place of refuge, when any other part of England or 
 the continent gets too hot to hold me. 
 
662 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 But still, although I confess the advantages of the metropolis, and that I feel that 
 there alone I can preserve that incognito and that secrecy which have been several 
 times so essential to my personal well-being, I am by no means blind to the fact, 
 that it is because London is the great overgrown iniquitous place it is, that it 
 becomes so advantageous to me. 
 
 And there I was, a gentleman at large, thrown once more very near Upon my 
 ancient patrimony — my wits, for a subsistance. 
 
 I sat ruminating in a coffee-house in the neighbourhood of the Haymarket, and 
 asking myself what line of life I should go into. 
 
 The question was much more easily asked than answered. I felt myself in a 
 worse position than the celebrated donkey between two bundles of hay, and the real 
 cause of my great hesitation to know what to be about might be resolved to the fact, 
 that I had such a multitude of resources, and that there were so many paths open to 
 my ingenuity in the great city. 
 
 Some mean and contemptible spirits, situated as I was now, and after all the 
 hairbreadth escapes that I had had, would have thought of settling down to some- 
 thing comfortable and industrious, but that was not my disposition. If ever I made 
 a fortune, it must be by some master stroke of policy, by which the thing could be done 
 at once. 
 
 There then I sat, sipping my coffee, and as I did so, it occurred to me all of a 
 sudden, that I had never yet fairly and properly tried matrimony as a means of 
 bettering my condition. 
 
 ,<? That deserves consideration," said I. 
 
 From the previous narrative of my adventures the reader know s that I am a 
 man of gallantry and bonnefortune with the sex, so that I had nothing to dread in 
 the way of defeat, through attempting such a proceeding. 
 
 I was not so foolish as to suppose that some young and lovely girl was to be 
 easily picked up by ar adventurer — as the very process of wooing and winning 
 such an one would involve a sacrifice of time, during which there would be too 
 much opportunity to make inquiry is to who and what I was. 
 
 " No," thought I, as I reached myself a book that Was upon a neighbouring 
 table, " if I could only get hold of some pious, rich, old fool of sixty or seventy 
 years of age — marry her, and then smother her, I might make something of the 
 affair." 
 
 I opened the book which I had reached, and certainly, at the first glance, it did 
 not seem one likely to interest me. 
 
 It was an account of the proceedings of some society for building six new 
 churches in a parish where there were three already that were never half full. 
 
 A long list of subscribers followed the report, and my eye quite accidentally 
 fell upon the name of a Miss Jobell, who had subscribed one hundred pounds to- 
 wards the project. 
 
 "Now," said I to myself, " I warrant this is some old fool, rolling m money, 
 who wants to lay up a snug little freehold in another world. I wonder if she 
 would answer my purpose." 
 
 The address was in rather a gloomy street of Marylebone, and after I had 
 sipped my coffee, I walked leisurely in that direction. 
 
 I found there was a public-house a very shoit distance from the house of the be- 
 nevolent lady, and while sipping a glass of brandy •and- water at the bar, I said to 
 the landlord, — 
 
 " Do you know a Miss Jobell about here?" 
 
 « Do i know her, sir," he said, " I wish I didn't, bother her, she is a wet 
 blanket. You wouldn't believe now, sir, what I'm going to tell you — all her ser- 
 vants are on the temp ranee rule ; and even to mention a public-house to her is 
 quite shocking— but, there's my distillers, Messrs. Simpkin and Pippin, where I 
 deal, a most respectable firm " 
 
 " But what have they to do with Miss Jobell V 
 
 <( You shall hear, sir*. When I was there the other day, to settle my account, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 663 
 
 what should I see, but a two-gallon bottle of the best gin, with a label on it, ad- 
 dressed to Miss Jobell." 
 
 "Hilloa!" said I, " here's some mistake. Miss Jobell don't drink anything, 
 I'm sure." 
 
 " I don't know anything about that," said the clerk, " somebody drinks it, 1 
 suppose, for it's a regular order, once a month." 
 
 " Now, what do you think of that, sir?" added the landlord. 
 
 " Why," s?id I, * I'm not at all surprised. I suppose she's very rich ?" 
 
 M Yes, sir, and all her money goes between parsons and doctors, so they tell me. 
 She fancies herself ill, and sometimes in one day she will have half-a-dozen dif- 
 ferent physicians — they tell me she has just quarrelled with one." 
 
 u A physician, or a parson?" 
 
 " A doctor, sir, a doctor. A Dr. Bell ; he lives somewhere at Pimlico." 
 " And how old may she be V 
 
 ''She looks somewhere about sixty, and she's got a rattle-brained fellow of a 
 nephew, who I dare say wishes her dead, that he may step into her money. Then 
 there's Miss Hook, her companion, whose red nose says gin, as legibly as it can 
 possibly do so." 
 
 "A lively family," said I. " Thank you — good evening." 
 
 Audacity is my forte; I do things so rapidly, and by seizing upon occasions, 
 achieve results which more sober-minded and cautious mortals would never 
 dream of. 
 
 The consequence is that my life is a lite of action, and by dint of downright 
 effrontery I deprive the most cautious persons of their safeguards. 
 
 If the reader were to guess for a month, he would hardly conceive the plan that 
 now entered my imagination with regard to this old sanctified, gin-drinking, Miss 
 Jabel. 
 
 I was not well off, but I was not without the means of trying an experiment, and 
 I was well disposed. I walked about two miles off, so as to be completely out of 
 the neighbourhood, and then I went into the largest and most respectable livery 
 stable I could see, and rung the ostler's bell. 
 
 That functionary soon made his gracious appearance, and to him I said, — 
 
 " You let out carriages and horses, I presume?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, certainly." 
 
 " Very well. I am a physician, but hare left my carriage out of town. I shal 
 want the use of one, probably, for an hour daily, for the next week or a fortnights 
 Can you accommodate me? 
 
 " Oh, yes sir, certainly." 
 
 "Very well. You can make your own charge. Here are a couple of guineas 
 to let you know that I am in earnest and serious, and I shall expect you to be 
 ready for me in a quarter of an hour from the present time." 
 
 The gold had a magical effect, and this was promised me. 
 
 I then went to a shop in the neighbourhood where they sold fancy stationery, 
 having purchased some blank cards, I wrote upon one, — 
 
 " Dr. Herbert Mortimer, recommended by the Bishop of London." 
 
 I felt myself now perfectly prepared to support the character I wished to assume, 
 and finding the carriage perfectly ready and that it was a very handsome one, 
 (most likely somebody's that was standing at livery) I jumped in, gave the address 
 of Miss Jabel, and off we started. 
 
 A very short time sufficed to bring me, with a dash and a clatter, to Miss Jabel 's 
 door, which the man who went with me thundered at as though he wished to break 
 it down. 
 
 A footman of extremely strait-laced appearance, and clad in the soberest grey, 
 opened the door, holding it with one hand, while he plastered the lank locks smooth 
 down his forehead with the other. 
 
 I handed him my prepared card, saying,— 
 
 " Take that to your mistress, and say that I am waiting." 
 I I was shown into rather a handsome reception-room, and in about five minutes 
 
064 NEWGATE. 
 
 there came into the room a miserable looking woman, amazingly thin, but with & 
 purplish, tip to her nose, which at once put me mind of the landlord's description. 
 
 I bowed very low, and she made a profound curtsey, but she looked very much 
 surprised when I said, — 
 
 " I have the honour of speaking to Miss Hook." 
 
 " Sir," she said, "my name is Hook, but I do not recollect " 
 
 " Seeing me before, madam, you would say ; but I have heard such honourable 
 mention of you, together with the description of your highly intellectual and inte- 
 resting appearance, that I could not mistake you." 
 
 « Oh, sir." 
 
 "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Miss Jobel." 
 
 u Certainly, sir ; the recommendation of the Bishop of London carries with it 
 that degree of weight that Miss Jobel cannot think of refusing to see you. She 
 is here, sir." 
 
 The door opened, and a waddling, asthmatical-looking, pampered old woman, 
 attired in silks and satins enough to make ample dresses for half-a-dozen sylphs, 
 made her appearance. 
 
 "Madam," I said, "allow me to present you a chair; your excellent friend, 
 the Bishop of London, has been so kind — " 
 
 " I am afraid, sir, there is some mistake," she said ; " I have not the honour of 
 personally knowing his grace, although, of course, any physician recommended 
 from such a quarter must be most welcome." 
 
 This gave me my cue, for I wished very much to ascertain in what way I was to 
 speak of the bishop so as not to commit myself, and, taking all things into con- 
 sideration, it was a great deal better that she did not know him than the contrary, 
 which I had, I consider, well-grounded and reasonable fears might be the case. 
 
 CHAPTER CXIII. 
 
 THE ADMIRABLE PRESCRIPTION.— I SUCCEED TO A MIRACLE. 
 
 I seated myself after the old lady herself had taken a chair, but I could not 
 help thinking that Miss Hook looked upon me with eyes of suspicion. 
 
 She retired to a window at some short distance off, and I certainly did not at all 
 like the curious twinkling sort of glances she bent upon me. 
 
 " Never mind, however, 0 I thought, " impudence is omnipotent, and I am not 
 going to be put down by Miss Hook." 
 
 " Madam," I said to Miss Jobel, " allow me to remark that I was just going to 
 state what the bishop said to me. ' My dear Dr. Mortimer,' he said, * I have not 
 the pleasure of being personally known to Miss Jobel, but I have, of course, fre- 
 quently heard of her munificence towards carrying out clerical purposes, and as I 
 am convinced, from what I heard from a friend, that a physician she has had at- 
 tending upon her does not at all understand her case, I think I may venture to ask 
 you to call upon her in my name.' " 
 "•'How very kind of the bishop !" 
 
 " Yes, my dear madam, he is all kindness and condescension." 
 
 " And he is quite right, too," said Miss Jobel, " for the physician who was lately 
 in attendance upon me . I think you know him, sir." 
 
 " Dr. Bell, I think, madam, was mentioned." 
 
 " The same, sir ; and all I can say is that he is an ignorant pretender, sir — a 
 most ignorant pretender." 
 «« Really, madam." 
 
 " Yes, sir, he quite mistook my case. I believe you are aware, Miss Hook, that 
 » e quite mistook my case." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 665 
 
 " Oh, quite, ma'am — quite. 1 ' 
 
 Miss Hook gave a sort of ominous cough, as much to say, " And you won't better 
 yourself with this one." 
 
 " Pray, madam," said I, 11 may I ask you what particular complaint you con- 
 sulted Dr. Bell about ?" r 
 
 " I don't know what to call it, sir, except a kind of sinking, and a general low- 
 ness — a sort of lassitude, sir, and a feverishness too, particularly at getting up in 
 the morning." 
 
 " And pray, madam, what did Dr. Bell think that was ?" 
 
 ** Why, sir, he actually had the impertinence, the ill manners, the ignorance, 
 the— the — what shall I call it ? — to say that — that — but really I can hardly tell you." 
 ** Nay, madam ; no concealments to a physieian." 
 
 No. 84, 
 
666 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Well then, sir, he said the sinking and the lowness in the morning was in 
 consequence of— of— tell the doctor, Miss Hook." ^ 
 
 "In consequence," said Miss Hook, " of a spiritual stimulant over night." 
 
 " Spirituous — spirituous, I'm sure he said spirituous," cried Miss Jobel. 
 
 " And worse than that," said Miss Hook. 
 Worse, madam ! is it possible? The ignorant quack." 
 
 "Yes, sir/' said Miss Jobel, "and he said, that from his experience in such 
 cases, he had no hesitation in saying that it was " 
 
 " What, madam ? ; ' 
 
 " Really it's too horrid — I can scarcely tell you ; but he said it was " 
 
 " The gin, if you please, ma'am, from Simpkin and Pippin," cried a footman, 
 suddenly opening the door and exhibiting the two-gallon bottle. 
 
 This was an awkward situation for everybody, but the most awkward of all for 
 me ; I nearly burst a blood-vessel to keep myself from laughing. 
 
 "You wretch!'' cried Miss Jobel, to the servant. "You odious heathen ! you'll 
 suffer in another world for this." 
 
 "Oh, you spifiicating monster!'' cried Miss Hook. "Give him a month's 
 notice, ma'am." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly — take a month's notice and be " 
 
 "Damned !" said Miss Hook, without mincing the matter in the least. 
 
 The footman looked aghast, and stammered out something about "not knowing 
 any one was there, and about Miss Jobel always wanting the gin the moment it 
 came, so as he had met Simpkin aud Pippin's man round the corner he had run in 
 with it as quickly as he could, because he knew " 
 
 At this juncture he was turned out of the room by Miss Hook, who showed a 
 disposition to fix her talons in his face. 
 
 I think, after preserving my gravity through such a scene as this, I may fairly 
 say that I had face enough for anything. Poor Miss Jobel looked quite [defeated i 
 and crest-fallen, and even Miss Hook looked at me rather curiously to know how 
 I took the whole affair. 
 
 "Madam," said I, " I have given particular attention to the kind of case you 
 describe, and I can safely say, from my vast experience in a great, number of 
 instances, that it arises from quite a different cause to the one prescribed by the 
 ignorant, shallow, stupid quack, Dr. Bell." 
 
 " What do you think, sir, then," said Miss Jobel, faintly, " is the cause V 
 
 " Of the sinking ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, and the lowness." 
 
 <l Certainly not the taking a small quantity of stimulant. The fact is, madam, 
 it is a particular description of case, affecting what we physicians call the parabolic 
 nerve, which is situated a little t» the north-west of the facial angle, and the only 
 real cure for it is " 
 
 « What, sir?" 
 
 " More stimulant — Simpkin and Pippin's gin, and plenty of it — 'cake a couple 
 of glasses, madam, whenever you feel the sinking, if it should be half a dozen times 
 a day, and then you will find that the sympathetic nerves that produce the 
 lowness will become conglomerated into a semicolon, and produce the most beneficial 
 results." 
 
 " You don't say so, sir," said Miss Hook. 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " I think I feel just a little lowness and sinking coming on now„ do you know T . 
 Suppose we were -to Lave in the bottle, and then Dr. Mortimer, as he happens to 
 be here, might be so good as to tell us the exact dose. Don't you feel a sort of 
 sinking, Miss Hook?" 
 
 " Certainly, ma'am, I always do — the bottle is outside the door-, I'll be bound." 
 
 Miss Hook did not wait for further instructions, but proceed ed at once to the 
 outside of the door, where, sure enough, she found the bottle, . aud brought it in 
 in triumph. 
 
 From a little cupboard a corkskrew was produced. I officia rted, and in a few 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 667 
 
 moments the vapour of juniper assaulted her nostrils. Miss Hook handed me a 
 wine glass. 
 
 " Pho, pho," said I, "you should always take medicine in one dose — a tumbler, 
 if you please, Miss Hook, or a good-sized rummer." 
 
 The latter was brought to me ; I filled it With the enticing and peculiarly 
 evangelical liquid, for I have always found that most female saints have a great 
 partiality for it — and handed it to Miss Jobel, saying as I did so,— 
 
 "Allow me, madam, to insist that you drink it off at a draught, whatever may 
 be your repugnance to do so, and remember that you are acting under the advice of 
 a physician." 
 
 There scarcely needed half so much incentive to! the swallowing of Simpkin 
 and Pippin's best as this, and the scientific manner in which Miss Jobel tossed off 
 the rummer of gin convinced me that I had by no means over-done the dose. I 
 gave the same amount to Miss Hook, who took it off without winking, and then 
 I said, — 
 
 " Now, Miss Jobel, allow me to recommend you to take such a glass as this 
 whenever you feel the sinking you complain of, and in a short time you will feel 
 the wonderful good effects arising from the system. I will de myself the pleasure 
 of calling again to-morrow." 
 
 The old Tady was wonderfully satisfied with the prescription, and handed me a 
 couple of guineas as a fee ; so that I was not badly paid for playing the physician. 
 I took leave of her, and Miss Hook followed me out of the room, but before I could 
 leave the house, she led me into another apartment, and after shutting the door 
 carefully, she said, — 
 
 '* You are a clever man, but you are an impostor." 
 
 <f Very true," said I, " and you're another. I know you, and all about you — 
 your secret history." 
 
 I threw out these words quite at random, for I knew nothing in the world of 
 Miss Hook, except that she was Miss Hook ; but the effect upon her was very 
 great — she trembled and turned pale, always excepting the tip of her nose. 
 
 " Hark you," I continued ; " betray me, and I tell all ; aid me in a plan that I 
 shall propose to you shortly, and you shall make your fortune." 
 
 " In spite of Totteridge," she said. 
 
 This rather posed me, for I could not think what Totteridge had to do with it ; 
 but I said, with great gravity, — 
 " Yes ; in spite of Totteridge." 
 
 "You know him, of course," she said, " and all his peculiarities." 
 
 This was what I wanted ; for it let me know that Totteridge was an individual, 
 and not the village of that name. But I was anxious to get out of the house, that 
 I might consider what was best to be done ; so I said to her, — 
 
 <' I will meet you when and where you like." 
 
 " At the door of Percy a Chapel, then," she said, " this evening, at half -past eight. 
 Be punctual, and I have no objection to act with you, for beyond trifles, I find it 
 very difficult to do any good by myself. I want some assistance, and have wanted 
 it long." 
 
 CHAPTER CXIV. 
 
 A BURGLARY SUGGESTED. — THE OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 
 
 I certainly liked Miss Hook's way of doing business. She was a woman of the 
 world, in the fullest acceptation of the term, and to have pretended to her that I was 
 what I was not, would just have been to expose me to all the consequences arising 
 from her vigorous opposition. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 " Madam," I said, " two persons can always act better in any emergency tban 
 one; I therefore embrace your proposition as candidly as it is made, and we will, if 
 you please, work together ; if we can make money enough out of Miss Jobel, it will 
 be a peculiar satisfaction to me to marry you." 
 
 '* But the best plan will be to marry her/' 
 
 " Yes ; but she is old, and will not live long." 
 
 '* Then, sir, we quite understand each other, but there is a nephew, who, if he 
 find out what we are about, will give us a deal of trouble." 
 
 " Never mind him. I intend to marry Miss Jobel, and marry her I will if all the 
 nephews in the world were arrayed in opposition to the match." 
 
 And so we parted, Miss Hook and I, with the understanding that we were to 
 meet again at the door of Percy Chapel, at half-past eight." 
 
 That meeting took place, and although I had to combat a great many suspicions 
 with respect to my good faith, which had arisen in the mind of the lady, we at 
 length made a compact that Miss Jobel was to be induced to enter into the 
 marriage state with me, and then, when I had become possessed of her property, it 
 was an understood thing that the sooner she shuffled off her mortal coil the 
 better. 
 
 And now a singular circumstance occurred to me, which, had I been of an 
 evangelical tarn of mind, I should perhaps have called a special interposition ; as 
 it was, however, I considered it a page out of the chapter of accidents which 
 might or might not have turned out favourably to me. 
 
 I was walking towards Oxford-street, after arranging matters so satisfactorily 
 with Miss Hook, when I felt some one touch me slightly on the shoulder. Now 
 «uch a mode of salutation to a gentleman who has been engaged in the adventures 
 which have from time to time interested me, is certainly very far from being the 
 most agreeable ; and, I must confess, I started a little upon the occasion. 
 
 Upon turning hastily round, I saw a fashionably-dressed man /who greeted me 
 with a familiar nod as he said — 
 
 '* I know you, don't you remember me?" 
 
 " Not exactly," was my reply. 
 
 "What!" he added, and he altered his tone, so that it came at once to my 
 recollection. " Have we not done work together?" 
 
 I now knew him at once to be an old comrade, with whom I had been associated 
 at a time when I did not think it at all beneath my dignity to crack a crib now 
 and then. 
 
 " My dear fellow," I said, " I heard you were hung long — long ago." 
 
 "Quite a mistake,'' he replied, " I never was hung in my life; but I glory 
 in^aving met you, for the fact is, I have two affairs in hand just now, in both 
 of which you can, if you like, be of the greatest assistance." 
 
 ''How?" 
 
 " Why, you are a fellow that has been blessed with education, and you have 
 the impudence of the very devil in facing out anything. One of the affairs is a 
 little bit of forgery, and the other one is cracking a crib in London, where we 
 know there is money to be had, and plate likewise." 
 
 "I don't like forgery/' I said. "It's dangerous, and it's that sort of quiet, 
 sneaking danger that don't agree quite with my stomach." 
 
 " But this is not — it's one of the easiest things in life, in fact, it's merely 
 putting the name of one of the ministers of state to a cheque, and presenting it 
 With a good face.'' 
 
 "Yes," I said; "merely, of course, putting somebody's name is generally, I 
 think, the essence of all such transactions ; but what about the crib that's t9 be 
 cracked V 
 
 Why,, there's a sanetitied old devil of the name of Jobel, who lives in a 
 house not far from here ; there's only one footman, and he is with us. I've 
 6een him about half-an-hour ago, and he is perfectly furious, for he says he has 
 had notice to quit on account of bringing in a gin-bottle while the doctor was 
 there.'' 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 6G9 
 
 " Indeed," I said, " and when is the affair to come off?" 
 
 ''Why, if you undertake it along with u«, and I only mention that fact to the 
 others, knowing you well, as they do, everything; will be made subservient to 
 your convenience." 
 
 " Very good," said I, " I will think of the forgery, but I promise you that I 
 will have a hand in the burglary. Give me an address where I can communicate 
 with you, and I will make the necessary inquiries, after which I will appoint a 
 night for the business — but I think it will be a week yet before I can enter into 
 any such affair, as I have something else on hand with which it might interfere." 
 
 He gave me an address at a public-house which I knew quite well, but in which 
 I had not set foot for a leng while, and then we parted, I being full of rumi- 
 nations as to how I could best turn the accidental meeting to account in the affairs 
 I myself projected. 
 
 Better than any description of what I meant to do will be an account of what I 
 did — so, putting reflection on one side, I shall just proceed with the action of my 
 story. 
 
 On the following day, I paid another visit to Miss Jobel, and trusting some- 
 thing to the advocate I had in the house in the shape of Miss Hook, but much 
 more to that active amount of romance with which I was myself gifted, I was re- 
 solved that the favourable opinion that Miss Jobel had of me should be turned 
 to as much advantage as possible, before it had time to cool down into a mere 
 every-da*/ feeling. 
 
 She received me with quite an air of satisfaction, and assured me of the benefit 
 she had derived from repeated doses of Simpkin and Pippin's best. 
 
 " Ah, madam," I said, " if I could have the satisfaction of feeling T that I had 
 restored you to health, '* it would seem to me as if I was in some manner re- 
 compensed by Providence for my loss.'* 
 
 " Your loss, sir V she said. " What loss ?" 
 
 " Are you not aware, madam, of my melancholy history V' 
 
 " No, Dr. Mortimer ; I really am not." 
 
 " Then, madam, [notwithstanding the severe trial r it is to my feelings, I will 
 strive to tell you — I had for a wife an amiable and attached woman ; not a flighty 
 inconsiderate girl, who thinks more of her ringlets than she does of her reputation, 
 and of her bustle than she does of her latter end, that is to come ; but a person, 
 madam, of staid and serious age, one who has got rid of the frivolities of youth, 
 and who might be thoroughly depended upon, and yet by no means an old person 
 — in fact, a lady in her prime, like yourself." 
 
 " Really, sir ?" & 
 
 *' Yes, madam, and I lost her— dreadfully lost her." 
 
 « Dreadfully ?• 
 
 " Yes, you shall hear — her father was one of the most eminent candle-makers in 
 the city, and one day she called upon him upon the occasion of a little iamily fes- 
 tival, and — oh, how shall I go on with the dreadful tale 2*' 
 
 " Pray proceed, sir, you have excited my curiosity." 
 
 " Madam, I will still my feelings, and tell you all— the love of the pleasant 
 sports and pursuits of her earlier life came over her, and she wandered about the 
 candle-factory, inhaling the delicious odours that were scattered around her — 
 she saw upon a shelf a relic of her girlhood in the shape ti some trivial toy 
 —she reached to get it, and— oh Heaven I" 
 
 •♦-Well, sir— well?" 
 
 " She fell into forty gallons of boiling fat." 
 "Dreadful. I suppose they got her out, sir?" 
 
 "No, madam; that would have been too harrowing for the feelings of my- 
 self and her father. We left her there, as the best possible thing we could do, 
 but you may judge of t my feelings, whenever the circumstance recurs to my 
 mnmory, and the horrible thought comes across me, that my Matilda has been 
 
 artially sold out in long sixes to a ruthless neighbourhood — but, if I could meet 
 
670 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 another — one as nearly resembling her as you are, who would share with me my 
 
 griefs and joys " 
 
 " Really, doctor!" 
 
 "Oh, madam, give me a hope; and let me, madam, now confess to you, that 
 the very reason I asked the Bishop of London for a recommendation to you 
 was that I had seen you and loved you." 
 
 I fancy the old woman had not had so much said to her in such a strain for 
 a very long while. She actually tried to get up a blush — but I need not pursue 
 the amorous scene. She consented, as soon as a special licence could be 
 procured for love or money, to be mine. I, of course, said not a word about 
 property, nor did she ; but at all events, I expected to feather my nest tolerably 
 well in the transaction. 
 
 I resolved upon letting her see when we were united that it would be tolerably 
 expensive to keep me, but it would be most intolerably expensive to get rid of me; 
 so I was far from shrinking from the affair, but got it all settled that it should take 
 place four days hence. 
 
 I soon made up my mind as to what share in the transaction my friend who 
 wished to rob the house was to have. I knew him to be a cowardly fellow, and 
 one of his principles of action was rather to murder than otherwise any one who 
 might have a chance of appearing as evidence against him. 
 
 I wrote to him appointing the burglary to come off on my wedding night — rather 
 a strange proceeding ; but then after all we live in a world of strange proceedings, 
 so that consideration had no effect upon rae, and I only felt a little curious as to 
 the amount of Miss Jobel's property. 
 
 I could get no accurate particulars upon that head from Miss Hook ; she dealt 
 entirely in generalities, but perhaps that was on account of her information not 
 being very perfect, so I resolved to risk it ; for let the friends and relatives of 
 Miss Jobel be whom they may, they would find a great difficulty in quieting the 
 claims of her husband. ■ 
 
 " I shall make a good thing of it," I said to myself,' " and probably with less 
 trouble to myself than I expect. I shall get rid of my blooming and fascinating 
 bride, with whose company I am certainly not at all enamoured, whatever she may 
 be with mine." 
 
 CHAPTER CXV. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE. — THE DEATH OF MISS JOBELL. 
 
 Some writers who have chosen to be rather great in matters of natural history, 
 have said that the most suspicious animal upon earth is an old woman, and perhaps 
 it may be so ; but inasmuch as woman altogether is a creature of contradiction, I 
 contend that an old woman is likewise the most credulous of human beings. 
 
 In proof of this proposition, I have surely no more to do than to point to Miss 
 Jobel, who had with a credulity almost unparalleled, swallowed the history of 
 the submersion of my late wife in the fat, at the same time that she had con- 
 sented to give her hand to one who, for all she knew to the contrary, was a penni- 
 less adventurer. 
 
 At all events she had not had the prudence to make the necessary inquiries. 
 
 I had several interviews with Miss Hook previous to t]je day fixed upon for our 
 marriage, and she took great credit to herself for the ready compliance of Miss 
 Jobel, insinuating that it was her praises of me that had induced that state of 
 mind in the old lady. 
 
 All that, of course, I pretended to believe ; and having arranged the hour at 
 which the burglary was to be committed, namely twelve o'clock at night, when the 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 671 
 
 footman of all the people in the world, was to open the door for the thieves, he 
 little imagining that the highly respectable Dr. Mortimer knew'of the affair. 
 
 Affairs, however, were not to go off quite so smoothly. Miss Hook had told 
 me that the nephew who had the expectations, seldom allowed a week to pass 
 without calling about his aunt ; and as Miss Jobel and I and Miss Hook were 
 seated together enjoying a little fragrant supper, on the evening preceding the day 
 of the projected union, there came a thundering knock at the street-door. 
 
 " Mr. Charles, madam," announced the servant. 
 
 " My ne phew," exclaimed Miss Jobel. " Not a word of the marriage ; I don't 
 want to be subjected to his violence." 
 
 " Aunt !" he exclaimed, ' is it possible that you are going to make such an old 
 fool of yourself, as to marry an adventurer ; at your time of life too — a pretty com- 
 panion that ugly piece of faded virginity, Miss Hook, has been to you, I always 
 told you that your servants were thieves, and that you were the prey of everybody." 
 
 Fury flashed from the eyes of Miss Hook — indignation showed itself in the coun- 
 tenance of Miss Jobel— the footman, who still lingered at the door, stamped with 
 rage ; and to use a popular phrase, Mr. Charles had certainly put his foot in it. 
 
 *' Sir/' said I, rising, " you will probably find me a very different person to what 
 you expected, and if Miss Jobel will authorise me to do so, as this is her house, I 
 shall put you upon the door-step in the course of a minute." 
 
 " Certainly," said Miss Jobel, " turn him out — my time cf life, indeed I" 
 
 i( Out with him,'' shouted Miss Hook ; « ugly virginity, forsooth !" 
 
 " I'll open the door, sir,' 7 said the footman. " We are all thieves, are we ?" 
 
 Truly, Charles was in a very doubtful minority of one, and profiting by the state 
 of contusion into which he was thrown, by these sudden attacks, I dashed at him, 
 and got him out of the house before he was aware of himself. 
 
 When I returned to the room, I was quite praised and petted by the ladies. The 
 two-gallon bottle was produced, and we indulged ourselves in some libations, con- 
 demnatory of Mr. Charles, and anticipatory of glorious days to come. 
 
 I did not leave the house till some hours afterwards, and when I did so, it was 
 with a perfect security that all would be right on the morrow, for the opposition of 
 the nephew was really a matter of but trivial importance, inasmuch as no one could 
 say Miss Jobel was not old enough to judge for herself. 
 
 The morning came, and as the ceremony was to take place at St. George's Chapel, 
 near Hyde Park, and at the early hour of eleven o'clock, I was ready, with my 
 hired carriage, at the appointed place, half an hour before that period. 
 
 I need not dwell upon the seven minutes ceremony which converted the real Miss 
 Jobel into the unreal Mrs. Mortimer — the clergyman was a perfectly we?.l-bred 
 man, and did not stare in the least at the antiquated bride, whose wrinkles and white 
 satin contrasted rather oddly together. 
 
 We proceeded to Miss Jobel's house, fo/I scouted the idea of going out of towa 
 merely because we had married, whether the weather was pleasant or not for such 
 an excursion ; and when wes at down at twelve o'clock to a dejouner a lafourchette 
 we all three, that is, Miss Hook, the bride, and I, really seemed to be quite jovial 
 company. 
 
 A select party, of about six persons, were invited to dinner, which was to be placed 
 upon the table at the aristocratic hour of seven o'clock in the evening ; and in order 
 not to be pestered until that time with the society of the bride, I pleaded some pro- 
 fessional engagements, and left the house resolved not to come back until I thought 
 dinner was on the table. 
 
 This I managed perfectly well, so that when I returned, I had just time to make 
 some little changes in my toilet, which I did in Miss Jobel's bed-room— what a 
 blessed privilege ! — when dinner was announced. 
 
 People may talk what they like about evangelical divines being strait-laced, and 
 all that sort of thing, but for my part, more jolly company than were tivo of the 
 ultra evangelical parsons present, I would not desire to meet with. 
 
 I managed to send a whisper round the table during the temporary absence of my 
 wife, that she expected the guests to leave at a quarter before twelve o'clock ; for I 
 had an eye to the burglary, which I hoped would bring matters to a speedy crisis. 
 
672 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 The dinner went off right pleasantly ; certainly, there was rather a long thanks- 
 giving at the termination of the meal, but all things must have an end, and so that had 
 in due time, and then we adjourned to the dancing room. 
 
 It was past nine before the dinner itself was over—therefore, what with coffee 
 and a little conversation, the evening ran on quickly, and I had the satisfaction, by a 
 quarter to twelve, of seeing the guests all depart. 
 
 The new Mrs. Mortimer was in the drawing room, and my great object was to 
 protract proceedings until the burglars were ad mitten- into the lower part of the 
 house. j 
 
 " My love," I said, " is not this a happy -occasion ?" 
 
 " Too happy," she replied ; " too happy— and do you really love me V 
 
 " Do I love thee ? When I love thee not, chaos is come again." 
 
 Clatter went something down stairs at this moment, upon the stone floor of the 
 hull. 
 
 " Thieves cried Miss Hook, in a loud shrill voice from the upper story. 
 
 " Nonsense," said I ; " nonsense— it is not likely that thieves have broken in at so 
 early an hour. If I were familiar with the house, I would run down though, and 
 satisfy myself." 
 
 My wife looked over the landing, and then suddenly exclaimed, — 
 
 " There's a man now trying to get out at the street-door, with my silver tea-urn in 
 
 his arms." 
 
 She made a rush down stairs. I followed her, and when about half way down, I 
 called out, — 
 
 " The old woman in white knows you, Bill Stevens." 
 
 The burglar had found some difficulty in escaping with his booty ; for it appeared 
 that the scream of Miss Hook, and my supposed absence — for I was to have met him 
 at the door — induced him to try and e et out of the house with what plate be could 
 conveniently lay his hands upon. Inrlamed, however, by the sight of the silver tea* 
 urn being carried off before her eyes, slie mvde a rush at the burglar, which he stop- 
 ped by suddenly turning round, and flinging the tea-urn, like a cannot shot, in her 
 face. 
 
 She dropped with a groan, and at that instant a chorus of most singular sounds 
 came upon my ears from the street. The door was flung open by Bill Stevens, 
 who made his escape, and then I saw, upon the door-step, the nephew, with half a 
 dozen scape-graces like himself, provided with a most discordant rout of horns and 
 trumpets, to give his aunt a serenade upon her wedding-day. 
 
 At sight of me he cried out, — 
 
 " This is the bridegroom — give it him." 
 
 And at the same moment a pailful of not very savoury fluid was flung into the 
 passage. It missed me fortunately, bur Miss Hook, who had just descended at the 
 moment, caught the whole of it, and stood gaping, while it poured down her bride, 
 maid's apparel. 
 
 " Now strike up, my boys," said the nephew; ''give them a concert. What 
 could induce the fellow to marry her, I can't think, when she hasn't a sixpence in 
 the world except a life annuity, and she is pretty well up to her ears in debt." 
 
 This was a much greater staggerer to me than the pail of equivocal water was to 
 Miss Hook. 
 
 "A light here— a light here," I cried ; u lights here." 
 
 The nephew and his companions began to suspect that something out of the 
 common way had happened, and they crowded into the passage, and some of the 
 servants from below brought up lights. I stooped down with one in my hand, and 
 looked the late Miss Jobel in the face. A glance was sufficient. 
 
 " She's dead," I said. 
 
 " Dead !" cried the nephew; "who killed her?" 
 
 " You," said I ; " you know it ; because she married in spite of you and your 
 unmanly threats. You caught up the silver tea-urn, and' Hung it in her face." 
 
673 
 
 THE POISONER; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 PERILS OF MATRIMONY. 
 
 The scene of confusion that ensued may be imagined, rather better than de 
 scribed; the fact is, $at I was so much shocked at the little piece of informatio- 
 
 * — i_ — , _ . , , ,. , .... . — — -- — - 
 
 No. 85. 
 
<574 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 given by the nephew, concerning the fortune of Miss Jobel, that I could think of 
 
 nothing else, and I would gladly have gone anywhere, or done anything, at that 
 
 moment, to satisfy myself tint vich was not the case. 
 
 While a crowd was collecting round the door, and I expected each moment the 
 
 police to interfere, I ran up stairs to Miss Hook, and addressing her said, — 
 " Tell me this instant, in what does Miss Jobel's property consist V 
 i( Why, I am sorry to say," she replied, " that 1 heard only yesterday, so you 
 
 see that it was too late to make any bother about it, that all she had was an 
 
 annuity." 
 
 u Confound you all," cried I, "have I been so duped V 
 
 "Duped; how are you duped? if she has £2,000 a year, surely you can get a 
 respectable portion of it from her.*' ■ 
 
 " Good God ! woman, you know what an annuity means, I suppose V* 
 " I suppose so; I aint such a fool as you take me for.'' 
 
 "Fool, be hasged; you are a fool, and of the first water; what's the use of an 
 annuity to a woman, who has just had her brains knocked out in the passage of her 
 own house?" 
 
 Miss Hook uttered a shriek, for although she had heard a disturbance below, she 
 was not perfectly aware of what had happened. 
 
 I, however, had no inclination to waste time with her, so I made my way with 
 what expedition I could into what might have been my bridal chamber, resolved to 
 begin there, and make a tour of the house, and secure to myself what valuables 
 I could lay my hands upon." 
 
 Fortunately I found Miss Jobel's gold repeater upon the dressing table — her 
 purse too was there — certainly it had not much in it, but there it was, I pocketed both. 
 
 I then rushed down stairs, and when 1 got there I found the passage fall of 
 people, and that the police had possession of the place. 
 
 " Somebody ought to run for a surgeon," cried a man, who had a constable's 
 staff in his hand. 
 
 "Certainly," added I, rt the family physician lives close at hand, I will go 
 for him." 
 
 I snatched my hat from a peg in the hall, and rushed into the street, having 
 fully made up my mind not to return again to the house — the affair was a failure 
 to all intents and purposes — of that there could be no manner of doubting ; and 
 as, during its progress I had committed myself in more ways than one, and 
 certainly without any commensurate advantages, I felt quite certain that my best 
 plan was to get out of the way as quickly as possible. 
 
 I have had some hesitation in communicating this adventure to my readers, 
 because it certainly was not attended with those satisfactory results that I should 
 have wished ; but the time hangs heavily on my hands here in Newgate, and now 
 that I have once commenced to put pejn to paper, I feel as if 1 could run rambling 
 throughout the whole of the episodes of my existence. I have been here a con- 
 siderable time, and they certainly have convicted me of a capital offence : but they 
 wont hang me — oh, no. I shall escape them yet — they wont hang me for various 
 good and especial reasons. 
 
 • * * ' * * * 
 
 The manuscript of this most notorious ruffian — a man who evidently set at 
 naught every principle of justice or feeling, here abruptly terminated, and H was 
 some little time before I found an explanation of such an abrupt termination. 
 Upon turning over the page, however, I found written at the back of it, — 
 ct This here fellow didn't expect all for to be hung, but he was, and sarved him 
 right." 
 
 And this was the only reaHermination to the career of the swindler, house- 
 breaker, forger, and murderer, who had sat duwn so deliberately in Newgate to 
 pen the record of his own atrocities. 
 
 I have been certainly amused by that record. There was a reckless abandonment 
 of all principle about the manner in whieh the fellow told his adventures. He 
 evidently cared for nothing, thought of nothing but the accomplishment' of his 
 
NEWGATE, 
 
 675 
 
 purposes, and if ever a human being gloried in his own rascalities, this fellow did 
 most assuredly. 
 
 ***** 
 As the evening was but yet young, and the next manuscript that lay before me 
 was evidently a short one, I trimmed my lamp and made up my mind to its 
 perusal, a determination which I did not regiet, for in stirring melodramatic 
 incident it transcended any that I had yet perused. 
 It began abruptly thus : — 
 
 In one of the loneliest and darkest cells of Newgate, nearly fifty years ago, there 
 lay a young woman condemned to death. She was not eighteen years of age at 
 that time, and she was transcendantly beautiful. There was a mildness and gen- 
 tleness, too, about her manner and demeanour which won upon all hearts, and yet 
 the crime of which she had been convicted was that of murder ; a murder, too, 
 brought home to her so circumstantially and so clearly, that those who most pitied 
 her could only regret that the stern course of justice rendered it absolutely 
 necessary she should be executed for the crime of taking a human life, which never 
 could be pardoned. 
 
 The following few pages will relate, not exactly in detail, but sufficiently 
 circumstantially, the particulars of her crime, and inducements to its commission. 
 
 Marianna Wilmot, for such was her name, resided in a cottage, a short distance 
 from town with her widowed mother. She was fondly attached to this her sole 
 remaining parent, and the only other warm affection she had in this world con- 
 sisted of her affection for her brother John, and her love lor her affianced lover 
 Edward Lancy. 
 
 These two young men, both of age nearly, were in the employment of an exten- 
 sive ship-owner named Barclay, who was a man of dissipated habits, and far from 
 clean integrity, although he was a memorable example that roguery does thrive 
 sometimes, for he had made money, and was always looked upon aa a wealthy 
 man. 
 
 How, or upon what occasion it was that Mr. Barclay had seen Marianna 
 never appeared, but certain it is he conceived an extravagant passion for her, 
 and he did not scruple to adopt any means that presented themselves to him of 
 gratifying it. 
 
 Both the young men to whom we have alluded, that is to say, the lover and the 
 brother, had gone to sea in one of Mr. Barclay's vessels, so that the field was clear 
 if the wealthy ship-owner had thought it at all prudent to make any advances to 
 Marianna ; such a course, however, he seemed to think would be injudicious, and 
 one evening he sat in his counting-house, ruminating- over the prospects of his 
 passion, in iather a despairing manner. e 
 
 U I love her," he said, £< and I will have her — the charming simplicity of her 
 manner, and the very admirable aspect of virtue that is upon her countenance 
 attracts me — she shall be mine — but how ? that is the question. A single /ake step 
 in the matter might involve me, and so commit me with her, that all future hopes 
 would be futile — and yet she shall be mine." 
 
 There was, at this moment, a tap at his counting-house door, and. starting from 
 his reverie, he called out in an imperious voice,— 
 
 " Who knocks V 
 
 A lad belonging to his office brought him a large sealed^ packet, which bore a 
 foreign post mark, and upon opening it he found it to contain some documents, 
 bills of lading, &c, from the captain of the very vessel in which the two young 
 men, we have mentioned, had sailed, 
 
 One of these documents was a letter from the captain himself, Which was as 
 follows — we give it entire, because it is characteristic of the man, and about as 
 short an account of the transaction to which it refers, as could very well be written 
 down :— * 
 
67G 
 
 " Havre de Grace, July 19, 
 
 <f Dear Sir, — I've got a misfortune to relate to you, but as matters might have 
 
 been worse you had better make up your mind to it as it is, without any fuss. 
 "We fell in with a storm, such a one as I had never seen in the latitude where 
 
 it took place; everything went to ribands, and all we could do was to try and 
 
 weather it out, like a bare hulk, with the sea making a dead breach over us for 
 
 twenty hours. 
 
 tl We have put in here to refit, and I must, of course, give a bill upon you for 
 the amount. The only casualty we have had was the loss of a young man, 
 named John Wilmot; he was washed overboard in the storm, and never more 
 heard of. *f I am, dear sir, yours, &c, 
 
 " Jacob Trench." 
 
 " So," said Mr. Barclay, when he had finished this letter, et fortune is begin- 
 ning to be spiteful to me ; some £100 expense, no doubt, in repairing the vessel, 
 and the only man lost is the brother instead of the lover of Marianna Wilmot. 
 I would give £500 freely to be perfectly assured that Edward Lancy was at the 
 bottom of the sea." 
 
 He sat thinking for some time until the dim shadows of the evening thickened 
 around him, but still he did not call for lights ; he was evidently deeply immersed 
 in his own reflections, and from the manner in which he occasionally uttered a few 
 words half aloud, it would appear that those reflections were rather of a plea- 
 surable character than otherwise. 
 
 " Why should it not be done V he said. " ^hat i s to hinder me ? A capital 
 scheme— for the vessel will not be home for three months, yet then, as far as 1 am 
 concerned, I can say it was but a mistake, and no mistake of mine, too, that is the 
 excellence of the affair." 
 
 He aow rose and called for lights, which having procured, he took from a small 
 cupboard in the room where he sat, a little case containing a number of small 
 bottles. 
 
 " Old friends," he said, as he looked at them, " you have occasionally cleared 
 my path of troublesome persons — my early chemical researches have many a 
 time stood me in good stead. There aire subtle poisons here sufficient, if judiciously 
 used, to make London a scene of desolation. But rest in peace, my brave spirits, 
 it is not your service that I require at present." 
 
 He selected a bottle from among the number, which contained a small quantity 
 of transparent fluid, spreading then the captain's letter before him, he with a 
 little hair pencil damped over the name of John Wilmot, and in a few moments it 
 entirely disappeared, leaving a blank where it had been. 
 
 His next operation was to write the name of Edward Lancy in the vacant 
 space, and so well did he imitate the handwriting of the captain that one might 
 well consider he was a practised hand in such matters. 
 
 He then wrote a note, of which the following is a copy, to Mrs. Wilmot. 
 
 " Madam, — I have some news of your son, and of Mr. Lancy, if you and your 
 daughter will be so good as to come to my office as early as possible to-morrow 
 morning. " I am madam, yours very truly, 
 
 ''Charles Barclay." 
 
 He despatched the letter by hand to the humble residence of the Wilmots, and 
 then calmly waited for the result of his villanous scheme. 
 
 CHAPTER CXVII. 
 
 THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. — THE SHOCK OF GRIEF. — THE FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 It would appear by the smiling countenance of Mr. Barclay on the following 
 morning, that reflection had by no means infused into his mind any doubt with 
 
NBWGATE. 
 
 677 
 
 regard to the possibility of his scheme ; as for its irorallty,— that was a subject 
 which gave him very little concern. J 
 
 He gave strict orders that the Wilmots, when they arrived, should be shown 
 into his private office. 
 
 He hardly expected Marianna to accompany her mother, although in his no-te 
 he had. thrown out a hint for her to do so, and if she came at all, he knew th <4 it 
 was the magic name of Edward Lancy, that would bring her. 
 
 He was, therefore, rather agreeably surprized, when one of his clerks brought 
 him word that the mother and daughter were both there, and putting on a look of 
 seriousness and condolence, he at once repaired to the apartment into which thev 
 had been ushered. ' 
 
 Expectation sat upon both their countenances, and when they saw the look of 
 mock sympathy which his face bo,e, they turned pale with the apprehension of 
 ill news. 
 
 " Pray be seated, ladies," he said, " I grieve to say that I have something to 
 communicate to you, which I have heard myself with great emotion, and which 
 nothing but a strong sense of duty would have induced me to go through the dis- 
 agreeeable task of tolling to you." 6 
 
 They could neither of them speak for emotion— the mother thought only of her 
 sen, and the daughter thought of both her lover and her brother. ° 
 
 Observing that they could not speak to him, he continued, 
 
 " In such a case as this, the greatest cruelty is suspense, and not to keep vou 
 any longer in such a state, allow me to tell you at once— and yet, no, I cannot utter 
 the words— take the same channel of information, through which I came to mv 
 disastrous knowledge — read that letter, madam." ^ 
 
 As the dissimulating villain uttered these words, he placed the letter of the 
 captain of the vessel—that letter which he had altered to suit his own purpose 
 in the hands of Mrs. vvUmot. r r » 
 
 She read it, and when she had concluded,' she cried. " Thank God'!" 
 
 for to her it was an exquisite relief to find that it was not her son that-'h^ 
 lost his life in the tempest— but then almost immediately recollecting W 
 
 f t arf ^ A Sl l° i fc , W01 S d bG J 0 hGr dau S hter > t0 fi "d that Edward Lancy, on whom 
 she had bestowed her best affections, was no more— she would have retained 
 session of the letter, but Marianna had taken it in her hand, and when sh/lT" 
 came cognisant of its contents, she uttered a shriek of despair, and letting- her W 
 drop upon her hands, she wept as though her heart were breaking 
 
 •'This is very sad,'' said Mr Barclay,-'' very sad, indeed. 1 'wish that this 
 young man's life could have been spared at any sacrifice— I would rathpr i 
 the ship and all the property that she contained had been W but wh 
 contend against the decrees of destiny ; he is gone, and we can but lament him ? ' 
 
 "Lament him !> cried Marianna, " who shall lament him as I WnThim- 
 whose grief shall be like my gnef-whose tears shall flow like my tears-my heart 
 is desolate-oh mo her, you must remember him well-so noble-so generous-so 
 full oi high and lofty impulses ; there cannot be his like in the wide world and I 
 am desolate. w ,u ' «* ua * 
 
 " This passion of grief will pass away," whispered Mr. Barclay, to the mntW • 
 « comfort her, madam, and tell her we are all mortal." Y> th<5r ' 
 
 The mother shook her head, and looked despairingly at her child 
 
 " Come home, mother, come home," said Marianna ; "take me home and W ™ 
 lie down in peace, to die in the little chamber, where first I saw the lfcht of dav 
 he whom I loved has gone from me, like a dream-let me die likewise, and be r7- 
 membered but as a dream/ ' u ue re 
 
 Suddenly that winged seraph, hope which never wholly deserts suffering hu- 
 manity, whispered in her ear its gentle councils. ng nu 
 
 She dashed the tears from her eyes, and looked earnestly at Mr Barclav 
 
 « Speak, sir she said, « speak to me-tell me that you are nol su fhe is no 
 more-they do not say that he was dead, they only speak of h s £g ast in the 
 fathomless waters-are there not a thousand chances by which the fife of a brave 
 
678 
 
 NEWGATE 
 
 and skilful man so situated ^iay be preserved — are there not a thousand instances 
 of wondrous escapes from many a worse extremity than that — a plank of wood 
 might buoy him up amid the world of waters — the fluttering sails of some 
 passing vessel might catch his eager eye — the loud shouts of despair will pass for 
 miles over the bosom of the deep — oh, sir, you understand these matters— tell me 
 that you think he might be saved." 
 -w I wish I had a hope," said Mr. Barclay. 
 
 Even as he spoke, rage swelled in his bosom, for he had hardly supposed that 
 the passion of the young girl was of so deeply rooted and enthusiastic a character. 
 
 " And you, mother — and you," she said, *' what think you ?" 
 
 " Alas, my dear ! what can I think — but that Edward is no more." 
 
 " Yes," interrupted Mr. Barclay, " there is no probability of hope." 
 
 " Then I will hope against all probability, until I die — I willhope that Edward 
 lives, and yet the fear that he lives not shall make me pray to die — take me home, 
 mother, oh, take me home." 
 
 Mr. Barclay did not oppose the departure of the Wilmots — he thought that 
 enough had been done at one interview, and that it would be now prudent to allow 
 time to step in with its remedial power to assuage Mai ianna's grief — he felt quite 
 conscious that any too early intimation of his own hopes and vishes would at once 
 place the young girl upon her guard, and, perhaps, induce an immediate doubt of 
 the very intelligence that had overwhelmed her. 
 
 With all due civility, therefore, he saw them off his premises, and left them to 
 go home with all their grief, fully intending, whenever reasonable time should have 
 elapsed, to pay them a visit, when he thought he should be able to come to a better 
 judgment with regard to his probabilities of success, and at all events he hoped to 
 win the mother over to his view of the question. 
 
 But instead of the grief of Marianna subsiding, it rather appeared to increase, 
 and after three days had elapsed, what with want of rest and want of food — for her 
 mother could scarcely prevail upon her to take any sustenance — she looked but 
 the shadow of her former self. 
 
 It was upon the evening of that third day Mr. Barclay made his self-promised 
 visit, and intended slightly to hint to Mrs. Wilmot, his hopes and expectations 
 concerning her daughter, now that the grand obstacle to their fulfilment v.as 
 removed. 
 
 As a matter of courtesy, the visit was not a very extraordinary one, but yet as 
 he had not been to their little home before, and as he was far from being reputed a 
 man of tender sensibilities, Mrs. Wilmot was rather surprised when he was 
 announced. 
 
 She received him in a lower apartment of the cottage, Marianna having as fast as 
 her fading strength would permit sought her own chamber, for she felt herself quite 
 unequal to the task of replying to what would sound to her like common place and 
 ordinary civilities. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot was officiously polite in handing her visitor to a chair, for he 
 was not only rather a great man in the old lady's eye, but he was likewise, to a 
 certain extent, she considered, the arbiter of the destiny other son, little supposing 
 the cruel trick that had been played upon her — a trick which would have changed 
 her own calm grief to unutterable woe, had she but known it, and the unuttefl»ble 
 woe of Marianna to the calmer grief for the loss of her brother. 
 
 " Madam/' said Mr. Barclay, " give me leave to hope that your daughter has 
 somewhat recovered from the shock she experienced upon hearing of the death of 
 Mr. Lancy." 
 
 te Alas, sir, I grieve to say that she has not." 
 
 " Indeed." 
 
 " No, sir, she still nourishes an affliction which I fear will bring her to the 
 grave, indeed that is what she seems to wish with a cruel perversity, for she has 
 her brother, and she has me yet to live for." 
 
 " Such a desponding feeling, madam, will pass away, it is not natural — one^ so 
 young, and I have not only called to-day for the purpose of inquiring concerning 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 679 
 
 your daughter's welfare, but -likewise to say that I will charge myself with the 
 well-being of your son ; his fortune shall be my special care, and if he be found 
 qualified upon his return from his present voyage, he shall have the command of 
 one of my vessels." 
 
 '« How can I thank you, sir V* 
 
 " Madam, there is a way by which you could thank me — & way which I would 
 at once suggest to you did I not fear, and I know not why I should think you 
 would be offended." 
 
 " Offended, Mr. Barclay?" 
 
 " Yes, madam, I am naturally diffident ; and it has long been a second nature 
 fo me to control my feelings and my passions. But yet I feel now so irresistibly 
 impelled to make a confident of you that the words of my confession actually 
 tremble on my tongue." 
 
 '* You alarm me, sir." 
 
 ** I would not for the world do so ; and before I speak, promise me that you 
 will not only give me credit for great sincerity in what I say, but that you will 
 so long as 1 please keep the affair a profound secret, locked up in your own 
 breast." % 
 
 Partly from curiosity, that fatal gift to all womankind, and partly from flurry, 
 Mrs. Wilmot consented to the terms proposed by Mr. Barclay ; and then, after an 
 affected pause he continued, — 
 
 •* Madam, your charming daughter is so faithful a reflex of the many virtues 
 that adorn yourself, that 1 cannot refrain from loving her. During the life time 
 of the young man, to whom I understood she was engaged, I never breathed my 
 passion ; but now I would fain hope that a pure and disinterested affection will 
 receive its just reward." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot was astounded ; and before she could reply, Mr. Barclay hastily 
 added, — 
 
 « I would marry her as soon as she pleased, and would make a handsome settle- 
 meat upon her ; and would grant you, madam, a handsome annuity, and your son, 
 no doubt, would in time become my partner." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot was dazzled. These were brilliant offers ; and the end of the 
 conference, which lasted some time longer, was that the mother partly for her own 
 sake, but more for her children's — for she had seen much of the world, and knew 
 what it was to struggle with penury— promised to aid the suit of Mr. Barclay by 
 any means in her power, and to stand his friend in all overtures he might make 
 to her child. 
 
 CHAPTER CXVIII. - 
 
 THE MARRIAGE.' — THE VISITOR OF THE NEXT MORNING. 
 
 Hugely did Mr. Barclay congratulate himself upon his success with the 
 mother of the beautiful girl, in whose meek society he thought his leisure moments 
 would fly so very agreeably. 
 
 " It is one half the business done," he toid himself. cs The mother fairly in my 
 favour, and she will have a thousand opportunities of advancing my suit, which I 
 myself should want." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot had, however, undertaken a task that v^as by no means so easy 
 as she had at first thought. It did not by any means follow that because Edward 
 Lancv was no more, the beautiful girl who had loved him school! be able , to 
 transfer her affections to one double his age, towards whom •■' ; ng 
 whatever. 
 
G80 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Indeed, for a whole fortnight after the events we have related, Marianna 
 remained in so precarious a state of health, that Mrs. Wilmot could not think of 
 saying a word to her upon the subject of the suit of the rich Mr. Barclay. 
 
 Physicians of eminence visited the sick girl daily, but they could not 
 
 " Minister to a mind diseased ;" 
 
 and, after all, the partial recovery that at length took place, was more a result of 
 the natural good sense of Marianna herself, which taught her at length to feel that 
 for her mother's sake, who without her would be very desolate indeed, she ought 
 to make an effort to live. 
 
 When once she got to this state of mind, a partial recovery was rapid, but there 
 it stopped. The roses did not again visit her cheekd, and she looked like one who 
 was ready and willing to die, although at times she would almost affect a cheer- 
 fulness ; but whej^ she smiled, it was that sad smile that any one might wear 
 who, with a strong resolution, was conquering a great amount of agony. 
 
 One would have thought that this sad state to which the fair girl was reduced, 
 would have gone for to quiet passion in the heart of Barclay. But it did not. 
 The more obstacles were cast in his way, the more obstinately Cid he adhere to his 
 determination to make her his ; and, in fact, poor Mrs. Wilmot was now com- 
 pletely in his power, for he had supplied her liberally with money to fee the physi- 
 cians, and likewise to live in a style of much greater comfort than her humble cir- 
 cumstances had been in the habit of enabling her to indulge in. She had accepted 
 of all these fatal gifts which made her the slave of the giver. 
 
 The solicitation, then, of Barclay almost assumed the shape of a command ; and it 
 was on a calm and sweet evening when Marianna was seated at the casement of 
 the little room which she was pleased to call her own, that the mother made up 
 her mind to broach the subject. 
 
 It was a serious thing for Mrs. Wilmot to ask ; but she had acquired by this 
 time such an absolute dread of Mr. Barclay, that she dared not meet him again 
 without the ability to tell him that at all events she had mooted the subject to her 
 daughter. 
 
 Had Marianna been observing her mother, she could not have failed to see the 
 amount of agitation that she was struggling with. The first tones of her voice 
 however, made the young girl start, although the only words she uttered were, — 
 
 " My dear." 
 
 M Mother — what, what is it?" 
 
 *} Why, how — you — you — frighten me. I was only going to say that I hoped 
 you had enjoyed all t^e comforts that had been about us for the last few weeks." 
 " Comforts. Oh,|fes. How strange." 
 '< What is strange, my dear ?" 
 
 "That I did not inquire before how such comforts came to be in such an 
 humble house as ours. I know, dear mother, that you would make any sacrifice 
 for me, but I know that there is not the means of allowing us to live as we are 
 now living. There is some mystery." 
 
 " No— no mystery. But a friend." 
 
 " A friend. Have the poor a friend?" 
 
 « Yes, Marianna ; Mr. Barclay has been generous enough to feel so much for 
 your sorrows, that he has made it his business that we should want for nothing. 
 He is very kind indeed. All the physicians have been paid by him ; and he 
 promises to give John the command of a vessel when he returns from his present 
 voyage. He, indeed, is most anxious that nothing should aggravate our distress." 
 
 Marianna was silent for a few moments, and then she said, — ■ 
 
 " It is just and good of Heaven to stir up such a friend for us, and God will 
 bless him. But — but,/mother — " 
 
 " What ! my child, you look anxious and distressed." 
 
 " I am anxiou^and distressed ; I cannot help asking how we are to hope to 
 repay Mr. Barclay for all that he has done for us. Oh, would it not have been 
 
NftWGATE. 681 
 
 better after all to have remained as we were ; I do not wish for one moment 
 to detract from Mr. Barclay's kindness; oh, no, no ! But yet obligation, and such 
 obligation, is a serious thing. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot recollected her own conversation in the first instance with Mr. 
 Barclay, when she had asked the same question of him that now Marianna asked 
 of her ; namely, how he, Mr. Barclay, was to be repaid for all he was bestowing 
 upon them, and the same answer he had given to her rose to her lips. 
 
982 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Marianna looked at her mother in silence for some time, and then clasping her 
 hands, she said, " Good, God, and Edward Lancy loved me." 
 " But — but, he is no more." 
 
 " And my heart is s o more — it is in the sea with Edward. Oh, mother, mother, 
 this is a new and mo t bitter distress. Tell Mr. Barclay that my affections are 
 widowed ; tell him that death is my expectant bridegroom. I — I — — ." 
 
 She could say no more. The effort was too great for her strength, and she> 
 as she. had done frequently of late, fainted in her mother's arms. 
 
 Need we further pursue the painful scenes that ensued between the mother and 
 daughter ? Need we picture the tears on one side, and the supplications on the 
 other ? The apparent generosity of Mr. Barclay, and the shrinking of the beautiful 
 girl who was to be sacrificed ? Alas, no !— it would be a painful task. Let it 
 suffice that three weeks' persecution — for it can go by no other name — wrung 
 from Marianna a most reluctant consent to be the wife of Barclay. 
 
 She told him that she could not love him; she assured him that her heart was 
 still with Edward ; but when she was told that by a sacrifice of herself she would 
 be procuring all the comforts of wealth for her mother in her ol4 age, and placing 
 the fortunes of her brother beyond all chance of danger, she did give a consent. 
 
 And was Barclay satisfied ? He was. The difficulty he had experienced in the 
 affair had greatly to him— as difficulty does to all human nature — enhanced the 
 value of what he sought, and he considered that Marianna was a prize worth hav- 
 ing at any sacrifice. 
 
 He was especially anxious to have the ceremony of marriage concluded before 
 any news could come from the vessel in which Edward Lancy was sailing, for 
 even at the eleventh hour he felt convinced that the arrival of Edward would at 
 once put an extinguisher upon his hopes, whether or no Marianna suspected him 
 of the act of substituting the news of the death of Lancy for that of her brother. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot was far from pleased at the whole affair, and yet if she had been 
 asked why she felt a degree of uneasiness and anxiety, which showed itself in all 
 her actions, she would probably have felt quite at a loss to explain ; but certainly 
 she was not happy. 
 
 Perhaps she began to feel keenly, too late, that Marianna was sacrificing 
 herself. 
 
 And now the day appoioted for the marriage was but a few hours off. At the 
 express desire of Marianna, in which for private and special motives of his own, 
 Mr. Barclay joined most warmly, the ceremony was to be conducted in as pri- 
 vate a manner as possible, and as the whole affair was kept secret, there really 
 were not Haifa dozen people who knew anything about it. 
 
 Poor Marianna went to the altar, looking like a ghost, or like some piece of 
 mechanism, made to imitate humanity, aad moved by springs. Even the clergy- 
 man looked a little alarmed as he saw the very pale face of the bride. 
 
 The ceremony, however, proceeded, and in a very few minutes indeed, Marianna 
 became the wife of Barclay. Previous to the wedding-day he had introduced both 
 Marianna and her mother to a country-house he had, within a few miles of the me- 
 tropolis, and among the amusements to pass away an evening or two there, he had 
 shown them some chemical experiments — for he was an expert chemist— and he had 
 pointed out some bottles in the library which contained deadly poison, stating 
 that they had been brought from South America, in one of his vessels, for 
 analysation. 
 
 All this had been listened to without much attention by Marianna, but there 
 came an occasion on which each word came freshly to her memory. 
 
 The arrangement of the wedding-day was, that immediately after the ceremony 
 Marianna and her mother were to go to this country villa, and when the busi- 
 ness of the day athis counting-house was over, Mr. Barclay was to follow them there. 
 
■ J"» f l " 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 683 
 
 CHAPTER CXIX. 
 
 THE EVENING AT THE VILLA. — THE VISITOR TO MARIANNA, 
 
 The look of fixed sadness that was upon the countenance of Marianna might 
 have alarmed any one but her mother, but of late Mrs. Wilmothad been so much 
 in the habit of seeing that depressed face, that she took no more than ordinary 
 notice of it now. N 
 
 " She consoled herself with the reflection that the temporary, and she thought 
 it would be only temporary now, sadness of her daughter would soon vanish be- 
 fore the various amusements which the ample means of Mr. Barclay enabled him 
 to place at her disposal. 
 
 Alas ! would that it had been so, and that Marianna had been one of those 
 common spirits which can find relief in such passing pleasures. But such was far, 
 very far from being the case as regarded her. When she and her mother arrived 
 at the villa after the ceremony that had given Mr. Barclay a legal right to call 
 her his, she did just contrive to keep her feelings in check, while exposed to the 
 observation of the domestics, but that was all. 
 
 Upon reaching the magnificent drawing-room, to which she and her mother 
 were shown, and feeling that [no prying eyes but her mother's were near her, 
 she burst into tears and wept very bitterly indeed, and with an agony of woe 
 that was quite alarming. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot was a little terrified at this, but experience had told her that to 
 check those tears would be a useless task, and probably be attended with bad 
 results if she succeeded, so she let her weep on for a time. 
 
 When, however, she saw that her tears no longer flowed, and that her agony of 
 grief was subsiding into sobs, she spoke to her. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " it will be a dreadful thing to make' Mr. Barclay believe 
 after all, that you cannot be happy with him." 
 
 u It is a dreadful thing. Oh, mother, mother !" ™ 
 
 " What would you say ?" 
 
 " Do you remember the poisons he has shown to us ?" ~ 
 •* You terrify me. Why do you speak of poisons?" 
 
 "How very kini he would be to me to give me one of them, as the first cup in 
 which to pledge him in this costly home. Oh, I could die blessing him, but I 
 cannot live to love him. Mother, mother, I am nearly mad." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot trembled, in spite of all the efforts she made to conceal her emotions. 
 Things had gone too far to drawback, or probably if she had thought such a 
 d eadful state of mind would ev^r ens ie with her daughter, she*would have 
 hesitated much before she urged her to marry a man for whom che bad no sort c f 
 attachment. 
 
 " My dear Marianna," she said, imploringly, " for my sake, let me beg of you to 
 make the endeavour, at least, an effort to be calm. .Remember, too, that your 
 brother's fortunes all depend upon you. Oh, Marianna — if I had but known — if I 
 could but have guessed -" 
 
 " Known and guessed what, mother V 
 
 " That— -that this man was so very distasteful to you." 
 
 " Oh, mother, do not say that to me now. You knew all without the guessing." 
 
 This was but too tru?/and Mrs. Wilmot felt that she dared not contradict it. 
 No wonder that the dinner — a sumptuous one, that was served up to the bride — • 
 was untasted, and that the servants told each other in wondering whispers, how 
 melancholy a wedding that was, and that they had never seen a bride wear such an 
 aspect as the one now in that handsome home. 
 
684 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Since Marianna had spoken of poisons, poor Mrs. Wilmot, who after all was only 
 one of that class of people who do many foolish things, under a fancy that they 
 are all for the best, had been in a perfect fever of apprehension, lest Marianna, 
 in some sudden access of despair, should get some of those deadly drugs into her 
 possession. 
 
 She watched her with the closest attention, and how painful a watch that was 
 may be well imagined by those who peruse this melancholy history. 
 
 It was in this manner that this weary — weary day wore on, untH, nightfall, which 
 was at an early hour at that season of the year ; and then the arrival of Mr. 
 Barclay was expected each moment, and Marianna's agitation visibly increased, 
 and Mrs. Wilmot's alarm, to tell the truth, kept full pace with it. 
 
 A clock struck six, and Marianna was sitting pensively by a wiadow when a 
 servant came into the room, and said, respectfully, — 
 
 " I don't know if I am right, madam, in disturbing you, but there's a man who 
 wishes to speak to you, madam.* 
 
 -.. This was addressed to Marianna, and she sprang to her feet instantly. 
 •* To— speak — to me — who — who I" 
 u - I don't know, madam." 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Wilmot, "you really won't think of going. Some 
 insolent beggar, perhaps — you really will not think of going. Indeed, you must 
 not go — you really shall not. Tell the man to go away, and that Mrs, Barclay 
 declines to see him." 
 
 This was the first time that Marianna had heard herself called Mrs. Barclay by 
 her mother, and at the sound there seemed at once to be shaken off all the old 
 allegiance of a daughter. She spoke to the servant in a voice of authority. 
 
 " Stop," she said, " I am — if I am Mrs. Barclay, this shculd be my house, and 
 you should be my servant to obey me." 
 
 " I have that honour, madam," said the footman, who knew how to behave 
 himself. 
 
 "Tell the man, then, that I will see him. Show him into some apartment, and 
 then come to me, and conduct me to him. Why should I not see him ? Who 
 knows, hut he may bring some news that I may wish to hear ? 'Tis useless to 
 oppose me, mother. You have made me what I am, and I will have its privileges." 
 
 CHAPTER CXX. 
 
 THE DREADFUL NEWS. THE CALMNESS OF MARIANNA. 
 
 Mas. Wilmot was surprised, and well she might be, for never before had 
 she exhibited herself, as it were, in so independent a character. There was a dignity 
 and a calmness, too, about the youBg girl, as she uttered the words we have 
 recorded, that would have won her the respect of all ; and had the fates but pre- 
 ordained that she was to continue the mistress of that house, her position fiom that 
 moment would have been quite conclusive. 
 
 Oh, what a change had the last few hours even effected in the mind and dispo- 
 sition of Marianna. She had been a timid, shrinking girl, the painful characteristic 
 of whose disposition was an ovcr-weening fondness of those who were kindly 
 disposed towards her, and a trustfulness in their judgment in preference to 
 her own. 
 
 Now — now, she was changed, indeed. Her heart was nearly broken, and she 
 felt that she ought and coul 1 command. 
 
 In the course of a few minutes the servant came again, to say that the stranger 
 who wished to sreak to her had been shown into the dining-room. Marianna did 
 
NEWGATE. wmam* 685 
 
 not give another glance at her wondering mother, but with a slow and steady step, 
 a step, too, that had a something of stateliness about it, she left the room. 
 
 But who shall tell — what pen shall describe the agony that really sat brooding 
 at her heart ? She looked calm, but it was the hideous, and much to-be-feared 
 calmness of despair — the temporary and strange lull that will take place before a 
 storm of feeling. 
 
 She paused a moment, a brief moment, at the door of the dining-room, 
 and she held the lock in her hand, as in a strange, hoarse whisper she spoke to 
 herself, — 
 
 " What have I to fear ? "Why does my spirit shake thus ? jWhy does the warm 
 blood rush in strange eddying circles round my heart? He is (lead; Edward is 
 dead ; and is there any other man that can move me now ? O God no, no." 
 
 It was an effort, a great effort, to turn the handle of the lock, but she did do so ; 
 and, when the door creaked upon its hinges, she recolleced that some one was there 
 to observe her, and again she strove to be very calm. 
 
 She did not look at the stranger for a moment or so, but "when she heard his 
 voice, it seemed a relief to her to feel that he was a stranger to her, and she was 
 better able to look at him. She drew herself up with rather a look of pride than 
 otherwise, as she said faintly, for she could not command her voice, — 
 
 " You — you wished to speak to me." V,, 
 
 "I did, madam, but " 
 
 <s You pause, sir ; I am listening." 
 
 '* I was going to add that perhaps now the subject might be an ungracious one. 
 You will probably see by my appearance that I belong to the naval profession/' 
 *' Well, sir, go on." 
 
 "It was my fortune to be despatched from my own vessel, a ship of war, in a 
 boat, to watch a suspicious craft on the African coast. A storm arose ; the boat 
 was swamped, and I, with only an oar in my grasp, was left to struggle with the 
 waves. I gave myself up for lost — I thought of all whom I loved, and my heart 
 was desolate." 
 
 " I— hear you. Oh, God ! one whom I loved may have so perished ; nay, he 
 did so perish." 
 
 " I was saved by a merchant vessel, the look-out of which saw me as my 
 
 strength was fast failing. That vessel was the Neptune." 
 
 " Ah ! the Neptune, belonging to Mr. Barclay, in which, in which " 
 
 " Sailed Edward Lancy, and your brother John, madam, else I should not have 
 
 intruded myself upon you now, as a messenger from Bristol, where the ship 
 
 now is." 
 
 »At—at— Bristol. The ship " 
 
 She could say no more, but sunk upon a seat, and covered her face with her 
 hands. A full tide of recollections had come upon her regarding Edward Lancy ; 
 and although she still fully believed, and had not the shadow of a reason for 
 thinking otherwise, that he was no more, the very arrival of the ship in which he 
 had had his home, and of her brother, as she expected, had revived in her 
 bosom all the feelings of grief, that for a brief period had been smothered, 
 for the loss of him wko alone had ever possessed her heart. 
 
 And perhaps—nay, she thought it was more than probable, that this gentleman, 
 for such he was, both in manners and appearance, brought her some painful re- 
 membrance of her lover. 
 
 " I regret, madam, to find you so deeply affected," said the stranger ; " the 
 whole affair has given me pain, but I had hoped to find you other than what you are." 
 
 This speech was inexplicable to Marianna, Iwt she had not the spirit to ask for 
 a» explanation ; all she could find heart to say, wag,— 
 
 " I can guess that you would not have sought me, but to be the bearer of some 
 fond remembrance from-— from Edward Lancy." 
 
 " You are riqht, madam. It grieves me much that I cannot address you as 
 Miss Wilmot." 
 
686 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Go 0D,.sir, I can stand any reproach." 
 
 " Heaven forbid, madam, that I should presume to reproach you ; I hare no 
 right to do so. You have broken your faith ; but, as I have no knowledge at all 
 of what special reasons may have moved yo*, I can say nothing to it further than 
 to express this, that, for the sake of one whom I much respect, it has given me 
 a pang." 
 
 " Go en— go on— I deserve all this." 
 
 Madam, let me complete my errand. This locket — " 
 " Ah, 'twas Edward's — he sends it to me ?" 
 
 " He did — I hand it to you as he handed it to me. 1 Seek her,' he said, ' and say 
 that my heart is, as it ever was, hers, and hers only, and that this shall be the 
 proof of the truth of your mission ; for well she knows that under no other cir- 
 cumstances, and for no other objeet than to convince her that I am unchanged, 
 would I take it from its resting place upon my heart.* " 
 
 * Then it shall rest upon mine. Oh, God ! he knew not, when he gave you this, 
 what would happen." 
 
 " Doubtless not, madam. I have performed my mission, and perhaps too well ; 
 for I am not sure that I ought, in your altered state, to have given you the 
 locket." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes." 
 
 " Nay, I have my serious doubts." 
 
 *' It would, sir, have been a poor triumph over a widowed heart, if you had 
 kept it from me, and a poor possession to you. It contains a lock of my hair ; 
 you would not have valued that" 
 
 Not I, but I shoald have returned it to him again." 
 
 "To— to— him?" 
 
 * Yes, to Edward Lancy." 
 
 * Would — would you have sought him at the bottom of the sea ? Would you 
 have plunged into the surging main, to place in the cold hand of death, or around 
 the lifeless neck, this once trifling gift ? Would you, to give me a pang, seek him 
 whom I loved — God knows how I loved him— in the caverns of the vast ocean ? 
 Oh, Edward, Edward, would that I were now sleeping the long sleep of death wita 
 you r 
 
 " Sleep— of— death V* 
 
 * Oh, wretched, wretched heart, be still. Sir, if you would be merciful and kind, 
 you would kill me; or, if \ on will not, dare not, do that deed, keep — keep my 
 brother Jehn from my sight. Tell him I am unworthy of his love — that he shall 
 thrive and prosper. 'Oh, no, no ; tell him nothing. He would reject the good that 
 sprung from a sister's perjury ; for have I not sworn to love one whom I love 
 not— love not — love not V 
 
 A fit of trembling seized her, that was most painful to look upon. 
 " Your brother John J Keep him from you '." 
 
 "Oh, ves, ves: and— and tell him— that— that u 
 
 "Tell'him?" 
 
 " You will drive me mad. Why do you repeat my words, and look upon me 
 with those horror-stricken and strange bewildered eyes ? Do not, do not — what 
 mean you ? I am not mad yet." 
 
 •'Alas, poor thing ?" 
 
 "You pity me." 
 
 "Ay, from my heart. Edward could, perhaps, have called the pride of man- 
 hood to bis aid", and borne your loss ; but that you should have been so preyed 
 upon by anguish as to be in" a world of disjointed images, thinking the dead the 
 livin?, and the living the inhabitants of the grave, will be torture to him." 
 
 " to him— to him— to who ?" 
 
 « To Edward Lancy." 
 
 Marianna rose, and" sprang towards him. Her features were absolutely con- 
 vulsed with excess of feeling. She seized him by the arm and looked imploringly 
 in his face. If she had been begging for her life, her face could not have worn 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 687 
 
 an expression of more horrified hopelessness. For a moment or two she could 
 not give expression to what she wished to ask — she could only cling to his arm, 
 plucking, with a strange convulsive movement, at his breast, as if from his heart 
 she would have by force extracted the answer she wanted to the demand she had 
 not yet made. 
 
 At length she did speak. 
 
 " What — what — mean you ? Is — oh— God ! — is he alive. 
 " Who? Who? Ask me what you will, I swear to answer you, on the 
 honour of an officer and a gentleman." 
 t\ Is — is— -is Edward " 
 
 She could say no more, but clung to him, or she would, she must have fallen. 
 
 lt Edward Lancy lives, if that is your question. He only stays at Bristol for a 
 few days, until the ship is placed in better repair. He lives, most certainly, and 
 is well. He sent me as I was not bound to stay by the vessel— although 
 bound to do him any service, for he saved me — to tell you that he would soon 
 be with you.- I called at the cottage where you had lived, and was told you had 
 married Mr. Barclay, and was here ; I came at once, for I wished to be quite sure. 
 By what strange circumstance could a belief in the death of Mr. Edward Lancy 
 hare been induced ? Your brother, I grieve to say, was lost in a storm, but your 
 affianced lover lives, and is quite well ana full of hopes — all to be crushed." 
 
 CHAPTER CXXI. 
 
 THE FRIGHTFUL RESOLVE. — THE HUSBAND AND THE VICTIM. 
 
 We camiot hope— we dare scarcely attempt — to describe the feelings which came 
 over Marianna, as she heard these words. 
 
 Her visitor was alarmed, as well he might be, by the expression almost of in- 
 sanity which came across her face ; it was one of those expressions frightful to see 
 upon any human countenance, because it indicated a total absence of what no 
 human face should be without — namely, hope. 
 
 Yes, even that last possession of the unhappy had flown from Marianna. She 
 had no hope— no hope of happiness ; the past was a frightful retrospection— the 
 future a blank ! 
 
 " Let me implore you," said the stranger, who had brought her this frightful 
 intelligence, " jet me implore you to calm yourself. Surely you will find, even in 
 yGur present situation, some consolation, from the conviction that you have acted 
 innocently in this affair; you thought him dead- — 
 
 "And he lives," said Marianna, with a shudder. 
 
 " Most assuredly, does he. If your grief for the loss of a human life is to flow 
 at all, let it be for your brother— he certainly fell a victim to the fury of the ele- 
 ments, in the storm which attacked the ship. Let me pray you— let me implore 
 you to summon to your aid, what strength of mind you can, and not allow yourself 
 to be thoroughly crushed, even by such a misfortune as this." 
 
 " Crushed," said Marianna. 
 
 "Nay, nay— rouse yourself, rouse yourself. I came to this house with very 
 different feelings towards you, to those which now actuate me. I thought vou one 
 of those fickle beings to whom the absence of a beloved object is the death of love ; 
 but now I feel towards you the warmest sympathy, for I can well perceive how 
 much you suffer." 
 
 T Y e j" i_ she Said ' with a stran & e air of abstractedness, "how much I suffer." 
 'And what will you do ? What would you have me say to Edward Lancy?" 
 " Are you going back to him ? You see how calm I am." 
 " Alas ! I mistrust this calmness— it is the calmness of despair." 
 
688 NEWGATE. 
 
 . — , — ■ * 
 
 "No, you're wrong, it is the calmness of resolutiom — of fixed, unalterable 
 resolution. Answer me truly, do you go back to Edward Lancy V 
 
 ** I do not — he will be here in the course of a few days. I did but promise to 
 see you, in order that, before he reached London, himself being detained by the 
 causes I have mentioned, you should know of his safety, and that — and that " 
 
 " I know what you would say— and that he loves me stilL Oh, horror ! but I 
 am calm — I will be calm. You need, sir, take no notice of having seen me — 
 understand me, I will write to him myself, it will be better so." 
 
 " If you can bring your mind to inform him yourself of what has occurred, I 
 make no question but that it is the better plan, and I shall not communicate with 
 him myself until you have had ample time to do so. I now bid you farewell, 
 madam, and can only wish'you all the happiness it is possible for you to feel." 
 
 He left the room, and Marianna was alone. 
 
 She stood for some moments silent, and still as the marble statue of some beau- 
 tiful divinity. She spoke, at length , but when she did so, those who knew her 
 best would have failed to recognise her in her strangely altered tones of voice. 
 
 " He wishes me happiness," she said. " Happiness to me — oh, wretched, 
 wretched Life — where ami to seek even for serenity? Where am- 1 even to look for 
 that 'peace which has flown from my breast altogether? A frightful answer rises 
 to my lips — frightful, for that I am young, and that the world should be, as yet, 
 but dawning upon me — the grave — yes, the grave is the only refuge for those, 
 who, like myself, are wrecked amid all their wordly hopes. The cold obstruction of 
 death would wrap me up in an eternal sleep ; but then, and not till then, will this 
 poor, saddened heart know peace." 
 
 Suddenly it seemed as if her limbs refused to support her, for she sank upon the 
 floor, and there lay crouched up in a strange position, as though every faculty, 
 mental and bodily, had deserted her ; then a half shriek came from her lips, and she 
 removed her hands from before her face — that face which was so ghastly pale. 
 
 41 What is this?" she cried ; *' what is this ? Surely some fiend whispers evil 
 counsels to my heart, and yet they ome in the blessed guise of hope— oh, no — no 
 — hence, horrible suggestion — this must be madness." 
 
 It was evident that some fearful thought was growing each moment more and 
 more into the semblance of rational suggestion to the mind of that sadly afflicted 
 one — some chord had been struck in her heart which did not cease to vibrate, and 
 although her imagination depicted a something to her, whichshe, herself, was tempted 
 to think was the commencement of the vague fancies of insanity, yet she could 
 not fihase the idea from her soul, but each moment became more deeply interested 
 in tin formation of a plot, which, if carried out, with even partial succesj, could 
 not but eventually be frightfully destructive to her. 
 
 " Can I," she said, — "ought I to dream of such horrors? Oh, no — no. Save 
 me, Heavdn, from myself, and yet to avoid him who claims me as a bride — to 
 escape the hateful caresses of a man I never loved, and now with my whole heart 
 loathe. Oh, surely — surety, that is much; and than again, the dim joy of feeling, 
 even if it be for a moment, Edward's kiss upon my cheek, of resting upon his heart 
 — oh, glorious recompense — and yet the means, the awful, frightful means. It may 
 be done ; for les* objects, long ere this, have human beings been sent to their long 
 and last account— for less objects blood has flown in torrents, and those who in all 
 the pride and strength of manhood have schemed and calculated upon many a long 
 day of life, have been laid low — it surely may be done. What noise is that ? I 
 hear the sound of horses' feet." 
 
 Upon the hard gravel pathway that surrounded the house she could distinctly 
 hear the tread of a horse, and her fears told her it was Mr. Barclay returning. 
 
 Another moment aud those fears were confirmed : a ponderous gate-bell awaked 
 the echoes of the silent garden. 
 
 " He comes," she said, " he comes — I do not think that I am mad— 'tis surely 
 be, and I am expected to be wreathed in smiles. I am the bride — the bride of to- 
 day. What shall I be to-morrow?" 
 
NEWGATE. 689 
 
 The bell rang again. Mr. Barclay was impatient. 
 
 Gliding along like a spectre, then, in the dim twilight, Marianna left the room, 
 and proceeded at once to the library, which was on the same floor. 
 
 The apartment was lighted by three long windows, which opened upon a kind of 
 terrace, and the aspect was towards the west, so that, although the evening wag 
 creeping on, there was still sufficient light for her to see the different objects in the 
 
 room. Her hand did not falter, and her step was slow and stately. She approached 
 a bureau, which was at the farthest extremity of the apartment ; a touch convinced 
 her it was open ; and then a slight excitement shook her frame, as she felt that a 
 great difficulty was removed from between her and the accomplishment of her object. 
 
 Within the bureau there was a small door of about eight inches in height and 
 width, and within the recess so inclosed, she knew were kept some of the chemicals 
 
 N°. 87. 
 
690 
 
 NEWGATE 
 
 and poisons which had been shown to her at various times with all the pride of, 
 perhaps, after all, but a shallow scientific ability, by Mr. Barclay. 
 
 She laid her hand upon one, and caried it to the window. There was one 
 word written upon it, in clear and distinct characters. She could just see to 
 read it. 
 
 " Warouli." Yes, that was the name, and well she reeollecte l the pedantic 
 eagerness with which Mr. Barclay had described the fatal properties of that 
 deadly decoction. He had stated that it was used by the South American Indians 
 as a poison in which to dip the ends of their arrows, and that it was always fatal 
 — it had been brought over in one of his own vessels, partly for curiosity and 
 partly for the more legitimate purpose of chemical analysation. 
 
 She heard a footstep, in another moment the bottle was hidden in her breast — 
 a light flashed in her eyes. « Hush," she said, as if speaking to another, but it was 
 her own heart she wished to still, and then she saw Mr. Barclay advancing up the 
 room. 
 
 She thought he never looked so hideous. 
 
 "Why, Marianna," he asked, " I've been hunting for you all over the house — • 
 did you not hear me arrive i" 
 « I did." 
 
 " Then you showed me but a small amount of courtesy ; you will please to re- 
 member, Marianna, that you are now my wife, and it looks so like a bit of way- 
 ward caprice, to find you, upon my return, in a dark room by yourself, that I 
 cannot but feel a little hurt." 
 
 ** Yes, you're a little hurt; but what am I ?" 
 
 " Oh, that is all stuff — it mhht do in a girl who had it in her power to say 'yes' 
 or •no/ to her lover, but you should remember that you have said 'yes' — you should 
 recollect that this is our wedding-day, and that the ceremony has been performed. 
 Marianna you have sworn to love, to honour, to obey." 
 
 " I have." 
 
 "Itiswell, then, that we should understand one another at the first ; and as 
 regards the last stipulation, I will take care that you carry it out to the full ; I 
 will keep the promise 1 have made, but I am master here — master of you — now 
 follow me to the drawing room." 
 
 " Yes," said Marianna, "you are all that. It is well— quite well — you are master 
 here, as the worm is master in the grave." As she uttered these words, she followed 
 him from the room, and he with hasty steps led the way to the drawing-room 
 Ires have mentioned. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXII. 
 
 THE HORRORS OF A NIGHT. 
 
 Mr. Barclay must have been perfectly aware that his possession of the hand 
 of Marianna Wilmot was but as a barter ; he must have felt that she could never 
 love him, and indeed, he had a full and perfect knowledge that her heart was 
 already another's. It spoke volumes for the unfeeling brutality of his disposit-on, 
 that he could feel any gratification in calling that fair girl his" own, when there 
 was a certainty that very shortly the despicable cheat would be discovered by 
 which she had been induced to believe that Edward Lancy was 
 " In the deep bosom of the ocean buried." 
 
 Probably it was with a feeling that there must be eventually a scene between 
 him and Marianna, of no very pleasant character upon that very subject, that he 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 691 
 
 commenced so harshly to make known to her the manner in which he meant to 
 rule. 
 
 There being no tenderness, made a less necessity for anything in the shape of 
 excuses, and as his only attraction had been the beauty of Marianna, so that he 
 called her his, he cared not what a wreck he made of her happiness. 
 
 She followed him to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Wilmot sat, very ill at ease, 
 indeed, and if she dared to have owned the feeling, most bitterly repenting the 
 part she had taken in promoting those mort ill-omened nuptials. 
 
 But when she saw Marianna's countenance she almost shrieked, it was so deathly 
 pale. 
 
 "Oh, Marianna, Marianna," she cried, "what is this, my child — my child, 
 you are ill ; oh, speak to me, but do not look with that stony and horrible glare 
 upon me." 
 
 "Ill," said Marianna, "ill, mother!" 
 
 " Yes. Oh, look at her, Mr. Barclay ; oh, look at her." 
 
 " I was never better — am I not a bride — ought I not to be happy—have I not 
 been to the altar's foot with one whom I have told the great God of heaven that 
 I love — have I not sworn to the truth of that asseveration ? Ill 1 how can I be 
 ill— how can I be unhappy ? I must be wonderfully well and wonderfully happy." 
 
 " Come, come," cried Mr. Barclay, with something like passion in his tone, 
 " come, come, this rapture is not of the right sort ; I'll have none of it. Marianna, 
 you are my wife, prepare to receive my guests." 
 
 *' Guests ?" 
 
 " Guests V echoed Mrs. Wilmot. 
 Yes, since I am married, J have no intention of letting my wedding day pass 
 coldly ; I have invited a few jovial spirits to spend the yet young evening with 
 us. We will be gay, for why should we be otherwise ; am I not in possession of 
 the one grand essential which is all honour — all excellence — all virtue— > and all 
 goodness in this world ; money— have I not money — and will not all bow down to 
 worship that — we will be merry I say — we will be merry." 
 
 " Yes," said Marianna. " why should we not be gay V 
 
 "1 — I— can't say that I feel very gay," said Mrs. Wilmot. 
 
 At this moment there was a long ring at the bell at the garden gate, and then 
 a trampling of horses' feet, and the grinding of carriage wheels upon the gravel 
 paths, announced the arrival of some of Mr. Barclay's guests. 
 
 " Come," he said, " cheer up, we'll have a night of it — one don't get married 
 every day — and when one does, it should be made something of. I mean to pet 
 myself —let us have wine — we must have it of the best." 
 
 On| of Mr. Barclay's fooimen, who was attired with more splendour than taste, 
 announced several of his visitors. Marianna pressed her hands upon her heart 
 as if she could still the beating of that tumultuous organ, and then with a calm 
 face, although it wore the same death-like marble paleness that had been so 
 remarked by her mother, she allowed the introduction to take place of herself to 
 the visitors, as Mrs. Barclay. 
 
 Even as she was she wore a look of marvellous beauty. She had an appear- 
 ance as if she scarcely belonged to this world, and if anything could have marred 
 any feelings of festivity, and enjoyment, it would have been that countenance, 
 which, although more beautiful than death, was just as sad to look upon. 
 
 Mr. Barclay's guests were evidently awed by the expression- of her face, but 
 they were not men of acute sensibilities ; and he quickly restored them to their 
 equanimity, by — what? by some coarse remarks to her who was as much his 
 superior in intellect as she was in every endowment that could make one human 
 being the superior of another. 
 
 Mr. Barclay had not invited above half a dozen people, and they were what he 
 called his 1 own set — men who were not at all likely to have their feelings hurt by 
 any vulgarity that their host could be guilty of — men who altogether esteemed 
 him, just because he was the rich Mr. Barclay— men who would not have sub- 
 
692 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 scribed five pounds to save him from being hung, had ruin suddenly lighted upon 
 his fortunes. 
 
 And these were what he called his friends, but he knew them as well as they 
 knew him ; and the hollow compact between them did just as well as if it had 
 been based upon purer and better feelings. 
 
 A supper, which must have dipped deeply into a considerable sum of money, was 
 ordered to be laid in the dining room, and at this the unhappy Marianna was ex- 
 pected to preside. In vain her mother strove with a faint pleasantry to point out 
 to her how generous was Mr. Barclay, and what a profusion there was upon the 
 board ; all she got in reply was one of those faint death-like smiles which a fierce 
 and valiant heart might have taught a countenance to wear upon the eve of exe- 
 cution. 
 
 Surely never did human being, with so many attributes that ought to have con- 
 duced to her happiness, suffer so much as did Marianna, on that most eventful 
 evening — an evening fraught with such an accumulation of horrors that it could 
 not have been matched in the pages of the wildest romance that was ever 
 imagined. 
 
 There was scarcely a sensibility — scarcely a portion of her previous thoughts, 
 habits, and education, that was not frightfully outraged. 
 
 The wine circulated freely — rough toasts of an equivocal tendency were drunk, 
 and then as a convivial song was being shouted rather than sung, Marianna con- 
 trived to slip unobserved from the room, and to make her way in peace to that 
 library which we may be sure was not formed by Mr. Barclay, but merely pur- 
 chased along with the house and grounds. 
 
 Oh, what a scene of calmness and of peace there piesented itself, in comparison 
 with the riot of the dining-room. 
 
 The moon had risen, and streamed in at one of the long windows in a flood of 
 exquisite beauty ; and there stood Marianna like some presiding divinity of the 
 place, with her hands clasped, and the pale yet brilliant beams falling upon her 
 face, and imparting to it that spiritual expression which it now wore. 
 
 There was light enough for any occupation, and drawing writing materials 
 towards her, she by the aid of that clear moonlight produced the following 
 letter, addressed to Edward Lancy, at Bristol, where she had been told he was 
 staying,— 
 
 *f Edward, I am yours. I have been ever yours, and yours only ; ask me 
 nothing, but receive me to your arms — listen to nothing you may hear but my 
 voice — think of nothing but the dear love that has made us one in heart and soul ; 
 and now. Edward, I have a strange request to make. 
 
 " I know you love me, and I think it is with a love that so transcends all ordi- 
 nary passion, "that it will perform whatever is asked of it, and that without a 
 question or a comment further than to the effect that there is great joy in such 
 deep confidence. Edward, I will come to you at Bristol, and then I wish to leave 
 England at once and for ever — take me with you — far — far away hence on some 
 desolate island, where the foot of man never yet trod. 1 could be happy — we 
 must he each a vnrld to the other — but we must — we must leave England at once 
 and for ever. 
 
 " You will not have received this many hours, perhaps minutes, when I shall be 
 with you, and then, Edward, you must ask me nothing, and you must kill me, or 
 take me far away. 
 
 *' This is from your own Marianna, written by the light of the same moon which 
 may be lighting up your face with its floods of silvery beauty. 
 
 '* Marianna." 
 
 She finished this epistle hurriedly, and then having properly addressed it, she 
 glided gently from the room and sought that portion of the mansion which was 
 devoted to the use of the servants. 
 
 There, however, she was disappointed in finding any one to proceed with her 
 letter ; but if her mind was diseased, we might almost say disordered, in some 
 respects, it was in others fixed and clear. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 693 
 
 In an instant her resolution was made, and she walked hurriedly across the lawn 
 to the lodge-gates, and there she found a man belonging to the establishment, to 
 whom she said in a voice of authority that carried weight with it, — 
 
 " You know me ?" 
 
 " Yes, madam, Mrs. Barclay." 
 
 " You are to take this letter, then, as quickly as may be, to the nearest post- 
 office — mir.d it is your duty — a principal part of your duty, that this shoUd be 
 done at once, and properly. Come to me when you return, and you shall be Lmply 
 rewarded." 
 
 The man received the letter respectfully, and Marianna had the pleasure of 
 seeing him at once proceed from the lodge with it; she watched his receding form 
 until he was lost to her sight, and then she said,— 
 
 " It is done— it is done." 
 
 CHAPTER CXXIII. 
 
 THE NIGHT OF HORRORS CONTINUED. 
 
 He, who with pain to himself, inasmuch as these memoirs are penned by him 
 in affliction of spirit — an affliction arising from his deep and earnest, sympathy with 
 Marianna, almost shrinks now aghast from what he has to tell* 
 
 The night of horrors he would fain have concluded in fewer words has grown 
 upon his hands as circumstance after circumstance has risen up to his memory, 
 and he feels now that, however his heart may be wrung, he must go on with his 
 task. 
 
 Marianna had written her letter— she had despatched it, and left it to work out 
 its purpose — that purpose which was growing gigantic in her mind, and which, if 
 the reader had not from other affairs had a tolerably defined notion of, would have 
 shown itself distinctly enough even in that very epistle. 
 
 It was a prospect red with blood, metaphorically speaking, that her eyes rested 
 on, when she looked forward to the time that was coming. 
 
 Alas, alas ! poor Marianna ! 
 
 But we need not anticipate or attempt to get up any specious sympathy — amply 
 — more than amply sufficient for that night, were the real horrors thereof. 
 
 We left Marianna — Marianna, the beautiful, the devoted, and the young, in the 
 library, from where she had despatched the letter that she fondly hoped would 
 produce the effect she wished upon the mind of her lover. 
 
 She remained there some time longer, for she considered that every minute she 
 could keep away from the supper-room was a minute of agony spared to her. 
 
 The moonbeams, too, looked so very calm and tranquil, and the shivering 
 leaves of some tall trees 1 hat grew just outside her window, that is to say, the 
 window by which she stood, seemed by their gentle rustling to be whispering 
 counsel to her. 
 
 A dreadful thought that there was yet another way of escaping all her evils 
 came with redoubled force across her mind. • 
 That thought had- before obtruded. 
 
 She shuddered now, as it began to shape itself more clearly and^distinctly to her. 
 It was the thought of suicide. 
 
 " Oh, no — no," she murmured, " not yet. Why should I die yet, while 
 Heaven permits me the frailest hope to cling to ?" 
 
 Thus she t eld off that spectre of death, from the feeling that it was a refuge 
 
694 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 that could be always, at any time, appealed to, and that she in common with all 
 human nature possessed the glorious privilege of 
 
 " Shuffling off her mortal coil," 
 
 when it should become too burdensome to her. 
 
 With a false reasoning that we cannot, under her distressing circumstances, be 
 surprised at finding her indulging in, she considered that she should, if the plan 
 she had conceived failed, be quite justified in rushing upon death. 
 
 " Heaven," she said, " made us what we are. Tax the machine too much, and 
 it fails— the over-burdened heart will bre k, and its Creator, who endowed it, 
 with no great power of resistence, will look with gentle eyes upon the shivering 
 spirit." 
 
 Thus, then, she considered herself as armed at all points for what was about to 
 occur ; but she lingered in the dining-room until she heard a loud voice call upon 
 her by name. It was the voice of her husband. 
 
 " Marianna, Marianna ! What, the devil ! am 1 to hunt for you every half 
 hour all over the house ? Marianna, I say." 
 
 '* I am here." 
 
 " Oh, you are there, are you ? This won't do, I can tell you." 
 " No ; this won't do," she said. 
 
 " You will find it won't," he added. " This is a state of things that shall soon 
 come to an end." 
 u Very soon." 
 " What do you say ?" 
 
 " I "say what you say — I am of your opinion. What more would you have — I 
 am your very humble slave." 
 
 " Are you though ? It's all very well, but I shall have some trouble with you, 
 I see, to learn you who is master here." 
 
 " Oh, no — no — no. You have but to command." 
 
 " Come back to the supper-room, then, at once, and put on something like a 
 pleasant look. My friends will soon be gone, but while they are here, 1 expect that 
 you will help to. entertain them. Don't let them go away with an idea that I have 
 married a lump of stupidity. Come on." 
 
 He had a light in his hand, and now he preceded her again to the supper. room, 
 and as she neared it she could hear by the uproarious voices, and the loud laughter, 
 that the wine had already made some havoc in their brains. 
 
 The manner of Barclay, too, was quite sufficient to show any one that he was 
 in anything but a state of absolute sobriety. 
 
 " Here she is," he cried. " Here she is. Ha, ha, ha ! We like a petticoat to 
 grace the board. Come on. Come — drink away.'' 
 
 Marianna was* received with all the mock politeness of drunken men, and with 
 all her sensibilities, and all her kindly feelings, all her delicate and acute percep- 
 tions, she was compelled to sit and listen to such language that the only mercy was 
 did not understand one half of it. 
 
 But this scene was soon to have an end. A clock in the room struck twelve. 
 
 Mr. Barclay glanced up at the dial. 
 
 "Ha," he cried. "Midnight, Well, we will have one more glass round, and 
 then good night." 
 
 This was a dismissal to his guests, which they would have required to have 
 been much more stultified with wane than they really were, not to take, and the 
 one more glass was accordingly poured out and swallowed, after which they rose 
 to go. 
 
 Marianna had no idea, until they did get up, what ravages the wine had made 
 upon their sober "senses, but then she saw that they could scarcely stand, and yet, 
 in that plight they were sent off to London by Mr. Barclay, at the risk of any 
 accidents they might meet with on the way. 
 
 In a quarter of an hour the house was clear. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 695 
 
 " Marianna," cried Barclay, " you look tired. Damnation ! how I hate any- 
 body to sit moping about in the way you do. To bed — to bed. Follow me." 
 " I will follow you." 
 
 16 You had better. Remember who and what you are. Egad ! I am halt in the 
 mind to tell you how " 
 
 He paused. Half intoxicated as he was, he thought little of what he was going 
 to say, which was a declaration that he had in the letter from the captain ef the 
 ship substituted the name of Edward Lancy for that of John Wilmot. 
 
 " Come on — come on. I will tell you what I was going to say, perhaps, to- 
 morrow, and you will be so delighted when you hear it— so very delighted. Ha, 
 ha ! Follow me, I say, and be quick about it. Ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 She heard his laugh die away as he ascended the staircase. For a moment 
 she clasped her head with her hands as though her brain were bursting, and then 
 on suddenly recovering mem, she said, in a strange unnatural tone, — 
 
 " All is well." 
 
 In another moment her mother, who had crept silently into the room fell upon 
 her neck, weeping. * . 
 
 j " Oh, Marianna — Marianna — my child, can you forgive me ?" 
 " Forgive you, mother V 
 
 u Yes ! Oh, yes — tell me that you can forgive me, for this is all my work, and 
 I now repent. Oh, God knows how bitterly I repent — I forced you into this 
 horrible marriage, Marianna. Marianna* I am nearly distracted." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! mother. — It is too late — think no more on such a theme — 
 I know you love me, mother — I — I know you do." , 
 
 " As my heart's best treasure. Oh, God, and I have sacrificed you." 
 
 " No more — no more. Whoknow's what happiness Heaven in its great mercy 
 has yet in store for us, Do not weep, mother, — do not weep — all is well." 
 
 " Marianna/' shouted Mr. Barclay. 
 
 " There — yes — he — he — he cafts me." 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot wrung her hands and wept. 
 
 " Marianna — Marianna — the devil — are you coming V* 
 
 t% Mother, farewell.- May God take you soon to his holy keeping. The world 
 is a sad one. Mother, farewell — for ever, perhaps."- 
 
 CHAPTER CXXIV. 
 
 THE NUPTIAL CHAMBER.-, ^ * 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot ran after her daughter still, and caught her by the arm. She 
 had a presentiment that something dreadful was about to take place. 
 " Marianna, she cried, " promise me — • — " 
 " What, mother ?" 
 
 " Nay, I know not what I would say, but your looks alarm me. Let me go and 
 speak to Mr. Barclay." 
 
 " No — no.olt is my duty to go and speak to him. Is he not my husband ? 
 Once more, mther, I bid you farewell." 
 
 " Oh, why use that word?'* 
 
 "Good-bye, then, or adieu, or any word you please, dear mother, so that you 
 stay me not.' 
 
 So saying, with a strange calmness and a wonderful command of nerve consider- 
 ing what she was about to do, Marianna released herself from her mother's 
 grasp, and walked on. She paused a moment on the landing of the staircase, and 
 as she did so, she saw a female servant descending. 
 
696 NEWGATE. 
 
 "Get me a glass of wine from the diniag-room table," said Marianna, "and 
 bring it to Mr. Barclay's bed-room." 
 
 " Yes, madam. What can she want with wine up there, I wonder?" thought the 
 servant, and she proceeded to obey the order she had received. 
 
 " Yes," said Marianna, as she as she ascended the stairs to the chamber ; * ! yes 
 that will do — it shall do.'' 
 
 As she walked up the remainder of the stairs, any one would have thought her 
 engaged in one of the calmest occupations, and would never have guessed that 
 she was really intent upon the commission of an offence that was to mar all her 
 hopes of happiness here and hereafter. 
 
 She was apparently counting up, upon her fingers, some real or imaginary 
 wrongs. 
 
 "My mother deceived," she said; "myself deceived; my brother, perhaps, 
 murdered ; Edward Lancy made the frightful victim of a horrible deception ! — 
 He must die." 
 
 She reached the landing, close to the door of the chamber. The door was open, 
 and the gleam of a light came through. 
 " Marianna," shouted Mr. Barclay ; *' Marianna, I say." 
 "I am here." 
 
 " Oh, you are there, are you? Upon my life, I believe everybody in the house 
 has taken too much wine but myself. And so you have really come at last; 
 where's the old cat, your mother — eh?" 
 
 " My mother is below." 
 
 "Oh, very well. Now, be so good as shut the door, and let's have no infernal 
 
 nor sense — do you hear? 1 ' 
 
 She shut the door, but scarcely had she done so when there came a tap at it. 
 *- Who the devil's there ?" said Mr. Barclay. 
 
 Marianna went to the door, and there, as she expected, was the servant, whom 
 she had desired to bring the wine. 
 " The wine, madam, you ordered." 
 " Oh, thank you." 
 
 Marianna lingered for a moment outside the door. That was an awful moment, 
 for it just sufficed to allow her to pour some of the poison into the wine. In her 
 eagerness there she dropped the small vial, but it was very small, and it made no 
 noise upon the thick carpet that covered the landing-place of the stairs. 
 
 Barclay uttered a frightful oath, and rushed to the door just as Marianna was 
 coming in, and the gonsequence was that he upset about half the wine. 
 
 " What !" he cried ; " can't you do without wine up here? I don't know what 
 you took down stairs, but you might have had enough, and you shan't have this ; 
 I'm getting a trifle thirsty myself again. Ha, ha — it's my rhoice old port too, I 
 declare — ha, ha! There — that's gone, and done for, I rather think." 
 
 He drunk off the wine in a moment, and then the glass dropped from his hand, 
 and he turned completely round before he staggered into a chair. 
 
 " What — what's this? I — I feel faint and sick and weak. I — I want air. 
 Help! God, how ill I am! Help— Marianna — I — what is this? Is it death — 
 sudden death ? What else? A — a cold dew is on my limbs. I — faint — faint — 
 fai " 
 
 An unusual tremor shook him so that he could no longer keep his seat upon 
 the chair ; in an instant he fell heavily to the floor. The power of speech was 
 gone from him, and he plucked at his throat with his hands, as if to, get rid of 
 some obstruction. He rolled over on to his back, there was a gurgling sound in 
 his throat, and then all was still. The eyes were fixed and glazed — the deadly 
 poison had done its work — Mr. Barclay was a corpse in his chamber ! 
 
 This frightful scene had not lasted altogether above three minutes, and during 
 that time Marianna Jiad stood like a statue, looking on, and apparently as unmoved 
 &s a piece of marble, at the sufferings she had inflicted. 
 
 A strange and horrible alteration must indeed have taken place in the mind of 
 that young girl, who had been all tenderness and sensibility, to enable her to loo k 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 697 
 
 so unmoved upon such a frightful exhibition. We cannot but think that Marianna 
 was, to all intents and purposes, insane at that dreadful period. 
 
 Indeed, from' the moment that the fatal news had been communicated to her 
 that Edward Lancy lived, and that she had been made the dupe of so crue land 
 heartless an imposition, her mind had given way, leaving her but the power of 
 acting upon some strange impulses, quite foreign to her ordinary nature* 
 
 Alas guilty as she no* is, who can help pitying her? 
 
 She looked about her like one awakening from a dream, or newly roused from a 
 state of syncope and then she placed her hands across her eyes, I if he would 
 ha e awakened herself more effectually to what was passing. * ' 
 Is it a dream?" she said. / 5 
 
698 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Her voice was but a whisper, but ths sound of it startled her, and she moved 
 from the position she had occupied, and her eyes fell upon the corpse. 
 
 " He sleeps," she said ; "gently— he sleeps, and I shall be Edward's bride — 
 not his. Yes, he sleeps calmly. No more harsh words now — no more ferocious 
 commands. What a calm is over all things! Sleep on, sleep on j I am going to 
 Edward, who i3 not dead." 
 
 There was a sweet and sorrowful pathos in her tones that would have melted 
 any one to hear, who could have heard them, except that man who, by his cruel 
 persecution, for it could be called nothing else, had made her what she was. 
 
 But we need say nothing more of him ; he has gone to his God — may he find 
 that pity and merciful consideration he never gave to any human being in this 
 world. Our business is with the living, and not with the dead. 
 
 The house appeared to be uncommonly still. The fact was that the hurry of 
 the whole evening, and the exactions of Mr. Barclay and his guests, had kept the 
 servants so on the move, that they were quite tired out, and had gladly enough 
 availed themselves of the very earliest opportunity of retiring to rest. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot was weeping in the drawing-room. 
 
 Little did they, any of them, suspect what a catastrophe had occurred in the 
 bridal chamber, and that murder was in the house. 
 
 " All still — so very still," said Marianna. " My heart beats calmly now ; a 
 new world seems to be dawning upon me. This is not madness." 
 
 She suspected herself that her reason was gone, or going; but yet she strove to 
 convince herself that she was not mad ; and, indeed, there was quite sufficient of 
 method in all her proceedings tw make it a discussable point ; aud yet, to all pur- 
 poses, mad she was, only that she exhibited iheby-no-means-uucommon phenome- 
 non in that awful malady, of being able to preserve a sort of consistency in all her 
 actions. 
 
 Nothing, of course, but insanity could have made her think for a moment that 
 by poisonmg Mr. Barclay she should remove the only obstacle that prevented 
 her from reposing in the arms of him whom she really loved, and yet after that 
 Diece of insanity it was wonderful how calmly and coolly all the various acces- 
 sor ies of the crime were arranged, so that no person in perfect possession of all 
 their faculties could have done it better. Mr. Barclay too drank the wine him- 
 self. He was not solicited to do so. 
 
 « Done done !" she said, "oh, yes, it is done. How still — how calm— I 
 
 ou^ht to be haopy now. Oh, so very happy, for the spirit of death has been here, 
 and the shadow of the grave is about me. But I will live for you, Edward- 
 all for love and you." . 
 
 The dead had no terrors for her. Again she glanced a calm, inquiring glance 
 at the face of Barclay. How altered it was— the ruddy hue that wine and fierce 
 passion had so short a time before given to it had passed away, and a sickly 
 greenish hue sat upon it. 
 
 It was a horrible sight, but she did not shudder. 
 
 " A sound repose,'* she cried, " a sound repose." 
 
 There was a cloak hanging in the room, and she took it down with wonderful 
 calmness, and placed it round him — anybody, to have seen her, would really have 
 thought that she was defending herself against the weather, for the rain was how 
 coming down quickly, and pelting against the window incessantly. 
 
 She moved like an animated statue— there was no speculation in those eyes. She 
 did not seem to look at anything where she was going, and yet she went exactly and 
 correctly from the chamber, with something of the aspect of that strange and won- 
 derful precision, that marks the progress of a person walking in his sleep. 
 
NEWGATE. 699 
 
 (Kmir cxxv. 
 
 THE ESCAPE OF MARIANNA. — THE RAIN. 
 
 How the rain came down. In what absolute torrents it fell. It seemed as if 
 all the evaporation of previous weeks had been collected in the few clouds that 
 hung over that special neighbourhood and that it was to be deluged. 
 
 Nothing could stand out against the pelting of that most pitiless storm, and now 
 and then too, as if to aggravate all its evils, there would come, just to keep the 
 rain good company, a dashing portion of hail, which demolished windows, and 
 dashed down plants, and cut off small boughs of trees with frightful rapidity. 
 
 And such was the night, or rather the early morning, for one o'clock had struck, 
 upon which the beautiful Marianna was to leave her home, half maddened by the 
 deed that she had done, to make an endeavour to reap its fruits. 
 
 The muttering of very distant thunder just kept up the impression that it was 
 a storm that was raging, and that was all, for without that indication it seemed 
 merely a deliberate settled rain that was pouring down from heaven to earth. 
 
 Drains soon became choked, rivulets ran in the gardens, and where there 
 had been flower beds, presenting a gorgeous show, there was now, as if by the 
 operation of some magic power, large pools of water, some of which, from their 
 extent of surface, might be called minute lakes. 
 
 Yes, this was the night of Marianna's horriMe crime. But what to her was 
 wind or weather ? What matter was it to her if the elements had called up their 
 most furious capabilities ? The storm that wps in her own heart far exceeded all 
 that they could do. 
 
 What a stunning terrible Viight of wretchedness at times came over her, 
 causing her to stagger actually, and with a faint shriek to press her hands upon 
 her heart. Her dreadful sin against God and man was darkeningher soul. 
 
 "It is done — it is done," was all she said. " h is done." 
 
 She knew nothing of the rain— the fair sun might have been shining for all 
 she knew, or all nature might have been lit up by the chaste beams of the silvery 
 moon, as but a shoit time before had been the case. 
 
 She knew nothiug — felt nothing — but that she had done a deed too frightful 
 to contemplate — a deed the consequences of which were still to come, and which 
 she vainly hoped would bring her happiness. Oh, most fallacious hope, to think 
 for one moment that the way to peace can ever be the path of crime. 
 
 "It is done — it is done," she said again. 
 
 Folded in a loose cloak, and but very ii, efficiently clad, considering the great 
 change that had taken place in the weather, she crossed the lawn, dabbling her feet 
 in the pools of water that were then iormed, and in a few moments more she 
 reached the lodge. 
 
 There she had hoped to pass out by the gate, without observation, but in that 
 hope she was disappointed. The lodge -keeper was up, cleaning a drain, for the 
 water was some inches deep already on the floor of his little habitation. 
 
 He heard her footsteps. 
 
 " Hilloa !" he cried, not of course expecting his master, or his new mistress 
 at such a time. *' Hilloa, who's that, eh ?" 
 
 Marianna made no answer, but she attempted to force 'he gate and so gain the 
 high road, but it was locked and she could not do so. The lodge-keeper, it would 
 appear, had heard the attempt that was made by some one to pass without 
 speaking to him, and he at once made his appearance w'th a light. 
 
 The rain, however, extinguished that in a moment, but not before he had 
 just caught sight of a female figuie. 
 
700 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " Who is it," he said, in a tone of voice a little more mollified. «« Who 
 is it?" 
 
 " Open the gate," said Marianna. 
 
 u Is it you, Nancy ? Come now, none of your jokes — what do von want to 
 be going out at this time of night for, I should like to know. Eh'?'' 
 
 Marianna felt certain that she should not be permitted to pass the gate, until 
 she had made herself known, accordingly advancing, she said in a tone of 
 command, — 
 
 " It is your mistress who commands that the gate be opened." 
 « My — my- mistress — what — are, are you ? — I beg your pardon, madam, but. 
 such a night and such weather too. Really, you don't — you can't mean, madam." 
 " Open the gate !" 
 
 " Oh, of course, madam, if you wish it — I — I only thought that — that you 
 would not — on such a night, you see, madam, and such an hour." 
 " Open the gate !" 
 
 There was no such thing as resisting the demand so urged, and he now, without 
 saying any more about it, at once opened the gate, and Marianna, without taking 
 further notice of him or his scruples, passed on through it. 
 
 " Well," said the man, as he looked after the dim retreating figure of Marianna, 
 ** well, this is about the oddest start that ever I heard of in all my life. What on 
 earth can she be going to do? What can have happened ? It's rather early times 
 for her and old Barclay to begin quarrelling already. However, it's no business of 
 mine. Hang the rain ; I'm flooded here every time there comes any of it. — 
 Bother it V 
 
 There was certainly a great deal of collection and method now about the proceed- 
 ings of Marianna, for she ascertained before she went much further how much 
 money she had with her, and was pleased to find that it was a sum amply sufficient 
 for all her requisites in a journey to Bristol. 
 
 " I must get to London," she said, " and from thence find some ready conveyance 
 to Edward. Yes, from London I shall quickly reach him." 
 
 We have mentioned that the building of Mr. Barclay was but in the suburbs, but 
 it was a desperate night in which to walk even that short distance from where it 
 was situated to the metropolis. 
 
 A man would have felt on that inclement night that it was something of a 
 journey of magnitude to go to London, exposed to all the pelting of the storm, 
 and all the disagreeables which it had produced ; we may well fancy, then, that 
 elegantly attired as was Marianna, she was likely to suffer most acutely from 
 those causes. 
 
 And had it not been that her mind was so wrapt up in her adventure, and that 
 she was so strongly intent upon carrying it out to the best of her ability, she 
 doubtless would have shrunk aghast from encountering all the terrors of the 
 journey alone on such an occasion. 
 
 But we must remember what she had already gone through, and the state of mind 
 she must have been in was one that must have lifted her far above a consideration 
 of all small external considerations. If she suffered at all, it was that mental 
 affliction which absorbed all minor thoughts and feelings and afflictions, scarcely 
 knowing any bounds, but yet mingled with a sternness of resolution that became 
 from that moment indelibly stamped upon her features. 
 
 She did not note herself what she had got to suffer — she only told herself what 
 she had to do, and so she went on to the great city. 
 
 To expect anything in the shape of public conveyance at that time of night, or 
 rather early in the morning, would have been absurd, and accordingly she 
 looked for none, but pursued her way along the high road with amazing 
 swiftness. " 
 
 She had all the advantage of starting freshly, and even if such had not been the 
 case, her men al excitement would have overcome all feelings of bodily fatigue, 
 and she would hare been triumphantly carried through the task she had set 
 herself; she saw that red glare which hangs over the metropolis, particularly in 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 701 
 
 wet weather, and then upon a turn in the road she heard the roar and the hum of ■ 
 life which pervades the great city, and she paused to ask herself what would be 
 the best plan of procedure. i 
 She knew that Bristol was far distant from London, but she had only a vague ' 
 and indistinct idea of how far distant — still at that time of night there was no > 
 means of starting on such a journey, and to excite any suspicion that all was not 
 right by showing any undue amount of hurry or excitement, she felt might be 
 fatal to her plans. 
 
 Perhaps we may consider it another instance of the cunning of (hat species of 
 insanity, which surely must have come over the mind of Marianna, that she was j 
 acting as she did. ! 
 
 She walked on until she got into a neighbourhood where she could avail herself 
 of the services of a hackney coach, and she told the driver to go to some respecta- 
 ble hotel— asking him to name one to her. 
 
 This he did, and then getting into the vehicle, she desired to be there driven, 
 and knowing there might be some difficulty in inducing the landlord of the hotel 
 to accept an mmate of whom he knew nothing — and that too a lady — rather 
 suspiciously alone — she got up a little plot which answered the purpose. 
 
 It would almost seem impossible to conceive that any one who had just been 
 engaged in affairs of such vast moment could so suddenly descend to trifles, but 
 she did so ; and when the coach stopped at the door of the hotel, she alighted, 
 and spoke, to the first person she met, saying, — 
 
 " Is Mr. Lancy here ?" 1 
 
 " Lancy, madam," said the waiter, 41 nb — no such gentleman here." i 
 
 <* Then I'm to wait till the morning, and then follow him to Bristol ; provide 
 me with your best accommodation." 
 
 This seemed so natural a proceeding that the waiter had no suspicion, and 
 without consulting his master admitted Marianna to the hotel for the night, where , 
 under other circumstances she would have been refused accommodation. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXVI. 
 
 A SCENE AT MR. BARCLAY'S VILLA. 
 
 Our readers may well imagine that there was something to do at Mr. Barclay's 
 villa after the frightful circumstance that had taken place, unknown to any one 
 but Marianna and that wretched man himself, at the last few moments of his 
 existence. 
 
 The house remained as still as death for nearly an hour after Marinna had left 
 it. Mrs. Wilmot was still in the drawing-room weeping, for she couid not divest 
 her.elf of the idea that she had completely destroyed the happiness of her child ; 
 and her feelings upon the occasion were those of great grief and affliction ; to such 
 an extent, indeed, did she feel a sort of moral culpability, that she coulJ not prevail 
 upon herself to retire to rest, but sat there in a posture indicative of great agony 
 of mind. 
 
 Had Marianna succeeded in getting clear of the lodge without the porter know- 
 ing anything of her proceedings, doubtless the house might have remained until 
 the following morning in that state of wrapt repose ; but this was not to be. 
 
 After permitting his new mistress to pass through the gate in the manner we 
 have related, he waited at first with patience, and at last with both surprise and 
 impatience for her return. 
 
702 NEWGATE. 
 
 His next movement was to rouse his wife and state to her what »m<? happene , 
 asking her advice as to what was to be done in such an emergency. 
 
 The good woman listened to the affair with undissembled apprehension, and, 
 of course, jumped at once to the conclusion that there must have been some very 
 serious misunderstanding between Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, which had occasioned 
 the latter to leave the house at so singular and unseasonable aa hour. 
 
 "John," she said ; " that's always the way with your great folks, there's always 
 a something a going wrong, and I thought as much when I saw the young lady 
 come home with her pale face, that Mr. Barclay and she would not have a very 
 happy time of it." 
 
 " But what's to be done, wife ?— ^it's no matter what you think, — what's to be 
 done ?" 
 
 The good woman considered for a time, and then propounded the opinion that 
 as they were Mr. Barclay's servants before he married, and more bound to him, 
 who to tell the truth was not an illiberal master, than to hk wife, they ought to 
 inform him of what had oeeurred. And as John was in the habit of deferring to 
 t o his spouse upon many occasions, he could find out no good reasons why he should 
 notupon this one. So he accordingly trudged up through the still falling rain to the 
 house. 
 
 The servants, as we are aware, had all retired to rest, as would indeed have been 
 the case with John himself, but for that unexpecttd flood of rain penetrating his 
 domicile. He had great difficulty; consequently, in awakening any one, for Mrs. 
 Wilmot who was up, although she heard him ringing at the door, still did not 
 consider that she was called upon to take any notice of it. 
 
 A footman at length, of the name of Vincent, and who was considered to be 
 a great favourite with his master got up, and opened the door to the lodge-keeper, 
 when to his astonishment he heard the story of the flight of Mrs. Barclay from 
 the house. 
 
 " Why, you don't mean that," said the footman ; "you've been dreaming — do 
 you mean to tell me that on the first night after her marriage, master's new wife 
 has run away — stuff, man, stuff— don't come here with such a cock and a bull 
 story/' 
 
 " You may say what you like about it, Master Vincent, but it's true. I tell 
 you I opened the gate for her myself and let her out, she looked as pale as death, 
 and had on a large cloak over her silk dress. I ceuld not mistake her — and she 
 spoke to me and ordered the gate to be opened." 
 
 " The more fool you for opening of it." 
 
 " But what could I do ?" 
 
 " Do, why kick up a disturbance, to be sure ; yon might have known there was 
 something amiss, and it's likely enough she would have been very much obliged to 
 you to have stopped her." 
 
 M Really ! you don't think that, do you?'' 
 
 *' Yes, i do though, and now you've put your foot in it nicely — that's to say 
 if you've not been dreaming. I still stick to that." 
 
 " Well, but Mr. Vincent, what's to be done ? as I said to my wife a little 
 while ago, don't you think somebody ought to tell Mr. Barclay, and let him 
 know V 
 
 *' Perhaps so. But it's a very awkward thing if you've only been dreaming all 
 this while ; a wise joke to go and disturb Mr. Barclay by telling him that his wife 
 has just left the place bv the lodge gate, when all the while she is at his 
 side.'"' 
 
 " Now, Mr. Vincent," said the gate-porter ; '•' you may think what you like, and 
 say what you like, you won't alter ray opinion ; I saw her go, and opened the gate 
 for her, and if you won't go and tell Mr. Barclay, T suppose 1 must." 
 
 " Well if it comes to that," said Vincent, "I'll go, for I don't think you 
 would be so positive if you'd any doubt about it." v 
 
 (With this, Vincent walked up stairs to the bed-room of his master, at which he 
 tapped, and as he did so, he found to his no small surprise that the door was not 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 703 
 
 shut — a circumstance which surprised him not a little, for from his knowledge of 
 Mr. Barclay's habits, he knew that he was rather a suspicious man, and accustomed 
 to sleep environed with every possible precaution that could hem him in against 
 danger. 
 
 lie listened attentively, and then, he scarcely knew why, a sort of panic came 
 over him— he felt rather faint and unwell, and for a few moments he remained 
 quiescent at the door in a state of great doubt and perplexity what to do. 
 
 " I hear nothing," he said, " I surely hear nothing; what can be the meaning 
 of it — is it really true that master's wife has left in such a strange way ? I'll 
 call to him at all events." 
 
 " Sir, sir — Mr. Barclay, sir, if you please, sir." 
 
 There was no reply, and although the door was about two inches open, Vincent 
 dreaded to touch it, and each moment a strange superstitious fear crept over him. 
 
 Twice he stretched out his hand to push it open, and twice he drew it back 
 with a shuddering dread, and he thought to himself that it would have been a 
 good ihing if he had brought the gate-porter with him, for that if anything strange 
 was to be seen, there would be two of them to look at it, and they could support 
 each other. 
 
 He thought he would go to fetch him, and then he grew ashamed of the weak- 
 ness which induced the idea, and he gently pushed the door open. 
 
 The candle was still burning upon the chimney-piece, but the long wick with 
 a tremendous top to it, sufficiently showed That it had not been attended to for 
 some hours, and this rather alarmed Vincent, for he could not imagine what on 
 earth his master was about. 
 
 As he crept into the room, however, his eyes became riveted upon one object 
 in particular, and from which he could not remove them — it was a large bundle of 
 something lying in the centre of the floor, and there stood Vincent looking at it, 
 for about five minutes, before a horrible conjecture came across his mind as to 
 what it was. 
 
 Then he spoke with terror-choked accents, saying,-—* 
 " Good God, it looks like somebody.'* 
 
 All the strength which he possessed was completely prostrated in a moment, 
 and if the whole world had Jbeen offered to him as a recompense, he could not for 
 some moments have stirred from where he was ; luckily then, as he thought it, 
 his eye fell upon the bell-pull which was very close at hand, and there was a 
 hope of procuring some assistance ; he laid hold of it, and commenced ringing 
 furiously. 
 
 There Was something reviving and like company to him in the very sound ; so 
 that he did not abandon the alarm, by taking care not to pull with sufficient force 
 to destroy his object, he kept up such an incessant ringing that a few minutes was 
 quite sufficient to alarm every one in the house, and to prevent the possibility of 
 the soundest sleeper pretending that he knew nothing of the disturbance. 
 
 " 1'il make them all come up," he said, " It's a dead body- — it's a dead body — 
 help — help — help — it's a dead body — help — murder — murder!" 
 
 Light flashed in various directions — doors were banged — female servants 
 screamed, and male ones swore. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot, who was up and heard the disturbance, fearing that all her 
 fears had suddenly become translated into some frightful fact, fainted in the 
 drawing-room, and then several of the servants rushed up the stairs and reached 
 the door of Mr. Barclay 's room. 
 
 " What is it? — what is it?" they cried in a, breath. 
 
 Vincent, when he found that assistance was at hand, left go of the bell-rope, but 
 not liking to turn his back upon the dead body that lay in the room, he staggered 
 out, facing it as he went, and fell with a deep groan into the arms of his companions. 
 
 The dead bundle," he said, " the dead bundle — there's a body lying in the 
 middle of the floor, and I've found out it's a dead bundle." 
 This was a sufficiently terrifying speech, if it was not a sufficiently explanatory 
 
704 NEWGATE. 1 
 
 one, and his hearers set him down upon the stair head, and rushed into the room 
 in a body. 
 
 It was but a moment that they so rushed, for they recoiled in a moment to the 
 door, as by the aid of the lights they carried they saw fully and clearly the horrible 
 spectacle that was before them. 
 
 There lay the livid corpse of Mr, Barclay, drawn up into the smallest possible 
 compass, with an expression of frightful anguish upon the countenance, indicative 
 of the fearful pangs which had consumed him at the moment of his dissolution. 
 
 No wonder that, strong men as they were, and not blessed or cursed, as the case 
 may be, with very powerful sensibilities, they looked aghast at so wretched and 
 frightful a remnant of humanity, and even when they succeeded in taking their 
 eyes from off the dead, and looking in each other's faces, the consternation each 
 saw depicted upon his fellow's countenance, was far from calculated to reassure 
 them or to render them capable of adopting the proper steps called for upon that 
 horrible occasion. 
 
 It was indeed a sight calculated to appal the stoutest heart, and take the fancy 
 prisoner with an army of horrors. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXVII. 
 
 HE OFFICERS ON THE ROAD. — MARIANNA's DANGER AND TEMPORARY ESCAPE. 
 
 After this , it will need no very great stretch of the imagination to think of 
 all that took place in the rich merchant's villa ; how the alarm spread all over 
 the house; and how from this it spread to the neighbourhood, and from thence to 
 London itself, in a space of time that one would hardly have thought possible. 
 
 By about nine o'clock in the evening some thousands of persons knew some 
 strange tragedy had occurred, but what it really was, probably not a tithe of that 
 number ever had a very good idea — that is to say, free from exaggeration. 
 
 One result, however, followed, which Marianna had been very far from antici- 
 pating, and that was, the arrest of her mother. 
 
 It could not be said that there were exactly any grounds of suspicion 
 against Mrs. Wilmot. The only circumstance that was at all against her, 
 consisted in the fact that she was up and dressed when all the rest of the house- 
 hold had retired to rest, and that conjoined to the fact of the elopement of 
 Marianna, her own daughter, made the police — who always like to have somebody 
 — think it necessary to take her into custody. 
 
 Judicial proceedings of course were arranged to commence early, and the whole 
 district was in a state of the greatest commotion. But all that it is now essential 
 for us to know respecting the proceedings of the police is, that there was a private 
 interview between one of the principal magistrates of London and two of the 
 officers, to whom he said, — 
 
 *' You will, of course, spare no pains in discovering the retreat of Mrs. Barclay. 
 With the evidence that we have already procured, that she left the room in a state 
 of great perturbation, and looking as if she had done, or had witnessed, some 
 dreadful deed, it is tolerably clear that she, and she only, can throw much light 
 upon the mystery. You will therefore consider yourselves as specially upon the 
 duty of finding her, and you will go to all reasonable and necessary charges." 
 
 This was sufficient to put the officers, who were experienced men, completely 
 upon their mettle, and from that moment poor Marianna's danger much increased. 
 
 Unconsciously, however, she had adopted the very best plan she possibly could, 
 to break the trail of her proceedings; for hy walking, as ?he did, to London, she 
 had left no clue as to her whereabouts, after getting out of sight of Mr. Barclay's 
 villa. 
 
NEWGATE 
 
 705 
 
 It will be recollected she had taken a hackney coach, nd that too at a time of 
 night, or in the early morning, when it was not likely any very particular notice 
 would be taken of her, so that the officers had really no direct clue as yet to her 
 proceedings. 
 
 Vigilant inquiry, however, such as they were in a position to make, was sure 
 to accomplish something, and as no person in a cloak or a silk dress had been 
 
 seen about the country, they came to the conclusion that London was her hiding 
 place. 
 
 At the very moment that Marianna was about to start for Bristol in the mail, on 
 the day following the murder of her husband, the walls of the metropolis were 
 diligently plastered with the following handbills : — 
 
 " One hundred pounds reward ! 
 
 No. 89. 
 
706 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 11 Whoever will give information which shall lead to the discovery of Mrs. 
 Marianna Barclay, who fled from her husband's house after midnight on the 4th 
 iustant, and who is supposed to be hiding in London or its vicinity, shall receive 
 the before mentioned reward upon applying at Bow-street Police-office. 
 
 " The said Mrs. Marianna Barclay is of rather stout stature, a pleasing expres- 
 sive countenance, dark auburn hair ; had on, when she left, a light grey silk dress 
 and cloak." 
 
 The people of the hotel had been civil enough to Marianna. Her manners and 
 apparel were so entirely those of a lady that they could not be otherwise, and the 
 landlord himself accompanied her to the mail for Bristol. 
 
 " I am much obliged to your kindness, sir," said Marianna, when she was seated 
 in the vehicle. 
 
 " Don't mention it, madam," said the landlord, politely, u it is our duty to 
 oblige. I hope you are comfortable, madam V 
 " Quite so, thank you." 
 
 tf A very charming woman/' thought the landlord, as he lingered about the 
 inn yard, until the mail started. The coachman finally came out of the house 
 enveloped in all his coats, and at that time before rail-roads had deformed the 
 land, a mail coachman was a very important personage indeed, and not to be 
 trifled with. 
 
 He mounted and took his whip ; the horse-cloths were dragged off the superb 
 cattle, and away rolled the Bristol mail. 
 
 " A very nice woman, indeed," again thought the landlord of the hotel, as he 
 quietly sauntered to the entrance of the inn yard ; " and such a lady-like crenture 
 too ; I don't recollect her name before, though, Mrs. Lancy she calls herself, but I 
 purpose we have had some of her folks at the hotel." 
 
 A man at this moment made his appearance, with a bundle of bills, a paste-can 
 hanging round his neck, and those mysterious|looking poles and sticks, that belong 
 to the occupation of a bill-sticker. 
 
 He was a very nonchalant looking personage, and having merely warned the 
 landlord, by a " Now sir," that he was going to stick a bill where he was standing 
 with his back to the wall, he commenced operations. 
 
 Why he, the landlord, lingered and felt a great curiosity to know why that 
 bill, was being stuck up there, and what it was all about, he would himself have 
 found it difficult to say, but certain it is that he did linger, and that too with a 
 very great feeling of interest and curiosity. 
 
 The operation was completed, and then before his face was one of the placards 
 of which we have given a copy to the reader. 
 
 The landlord perused it to the end, and then a perspiration broke out upon his 
 face, and taking off his hat he gave his handkerchief a flourish, as totally heed- 
 less of grammar, he cried, — 
 
 "It's her 1" 
 
 After then wiping his face and remarking again that it was "her," he felt so 
 faint and ill? that he was obliged to go into the inn, and get a glass of brandy, 
 and then he asked himself the very pertinent question of " What shall I do ?" 
 
 That his temporary lodger whom he had so comfortably and with so much 
 consideration stowed away in the Bristol mail was the person described intlje hand- 
 bill he had no doubt in the world, and he knew that at a good ten miles an hour, 
 she was now leaving the metropolis. Every moment was mosL precious if he meant 
 to do anything at all, and yet he lingered, for somehow his heart yearned towards 
 Marianna, and he felt all that compassion which a man is so very apt to feel for a 
 young and beautiful girl, let her criminality be what it might. 
 
 Torn by conflicting emotions, and feeling that his duty and his inclination tugged 
 in such opposite ways, he took another glass of brandy to enable him to come to 
 some little conclusion. He was not altogether unheedful!of the fact, that he might 
 bring himself into some little difficulty by not at once informing the police of 
 what he knew, but yet, how could he, she was so beautiful. 
 
 To the credit of the landlord's heart too, we will say that he never once con- 
 
— . — — 709 
 
 NEWGATE 
 
 sidered the hundereil pound as an inducement to betray his guest that had 
 been. 
 
 In this state of mind he went home. 
 
 Now if he had not taken these two glasses of neat brandy, and upon rather an 
 empty stomach top, all might have been well, and he could have kept his own 
 counsel, but as fate would have it he told his wife. 
 
 That settled the business. The beauty of Marianna had not been an agreeable 
 subject of reflection to the landlady before hand and now that she found her husband 
 so evidently leaning to the side of mercy,fshe at once attributed it to certain kind 
 looks who knows, perhaps ! oh, good gracious, a kiss that might have passed 
 between the young lady and her own liege lord. 
 
 The lady was ferocious. 
 
 " I see it all, I see it all," she cried. ° Oh, Johnson, you are a wretch, I see 
 it all." 
 
 " See what my dear." 
 
 " Don't come to me with any of your hypocrisy, I see it all— the lady in silk— I 
 see it all." 
 
 " It's more than I do then," said the landlord. 
 
 u . Will you deny that she is an old acquaintance of yours, and that you. know her 
 a great deal too Well — will you deny that? " 
 "Of course I will." 
 
 "Then. you perceive at once the effect that it has upon me, I hope." 
 
 With these words Mrs. Johnson executed an attack of hysterics most admirably, 
 so that in the short space of two minutes the whole house was in a state of com- 
 motion and alarm. The particular direction that the hysterical mania took, was 
 in calling for the police, and as the police sometimes do '•' come when you do call 
 them" she had the satisfaction of giving the information regarding MarianUa's escape 
 which her husband would not have given. 
 
 Oh woman, virtuous Or vicious— innocent or guilty— fit subject compassion 
 or of reprehensionif ever or can you had an enemy in this world it is — a woman ! 
 
 In less than hour from the time that the mail-coach had stajted for Bristol, 
 the two officers who were commissioned so urgently by the magistrate to ap- 
 prehend Marianna were aware of the fact, and no longer wanted the clue to her 
 retreat. 
 
 An hour's start in a mail-coach though was no joke. A stern chase is a long 
 chase, and although Marianna was by the time the officers had got horses and were 
 mounted and on the road, eighteen miles only a head of the pursuers, that was a 
 serious distance to oYercome take on a high road, and many a hard gallop for many 
 a mile must those officers before they near the Bristol mail. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXNIII. 
 
 THE VERDICT. — THE OFFICER OUTWITTED. 
 
 As there is a little delay-— just a slight breathing time before the officers, we 
 may take advantage to state that with all due celerity an inquest was held upon 
 the remains of Mr. Barclay, at which it was satisfactorily proved that he had died 
 from the effects of a poison which owed much of its deadly properties to prussio 
 acid. 
 
 The servants were rigidly examined, and they of course could not avoid giving 
 such an avowal of the proceedings of Mrs: Barclay, as fixed a terrible load of 
 suspicion upon her. 
 
 The interview she had had with a stranger late in the evening was mentioned too. 
 and it awakened a good amount of suspicion that the stranger was an accomplice 
 
NBWOATE. 
 
 I f7«"» " ' ~~ 
 
 *n the deed. We of couise know to the contrary, but still the affair was sus- 
 picious, for all that. The poor mother|too, Mrs. Wilmot, came in for so large a 
 share of suspicion that she was not examined as a witness, and the only knotty 
 point the jury seemed to have to decide, was whether they should include her in a 
 verdict. 
 
 The coroner's opinion was decidedly against Marianna, so that a verdict of wilful 
 murder against her seemed to be inevitable, and when he saw that it was concern- 
 ing the mother that the jury hesitated, he said,— , 
 
 " Gentlemen, 1 think we ought to proceed only upo r> \cd 
 not upon anything in the shape of mere suspicion ; I suggest to you, therefore, that 
 you return a verdict of wilful murder against Mrs. Barclay, and leave the mother 
 to he dealt with by the police. 
 
 This was agreed to, and a warrant was made out for Marianna's apprehension 
 by the coroner, as well as the one with which the two officers were armed, wh» 
 were far more likely to succeed in taking her into custody. 
 
 Mrs. Wilmot was already suffering all the horrors of imprisonment, and it was 
 remarked by those who had charge of her that a great and serious change was 
 taking place hourly in her manner and appearance — a change indicative of the 
 approach of insanity. 
 
 Alas, poor mistaken, yet, after all, well-meaning Mrs. Wilmot, what a dreadful 
 fate is thine ! Like many before thee, and like many who will follow thee, thou hast 
 played with human hearts, and knew not the smothered fires they contained. 
 
 And now let us return again to Marianna. 
 
 The mail-coach rattled on through the city at tolerable speed, but it was not until 
 it changed horses for the firsc time that that dashing pace commenced, which mail- 
 coaches used to be so famous for, and which could be kept up without any fear of 
 the numerous interruptions that were likely to occur in the streets of London, or 
 even in the suburbs of the great city. 
 
 Houses, trees, and tracts of country, flitted by as if by magic, and Marianna 
 breathed a little more freely, as she felt that each moment she was getting nearer 
 to Edward Lancy. 
 
 It was astonishing, but no less true, that not yet had she awakened to anything 
 like a just sense or appreciation of the crime she had committed. 
 
 Until she does, we shall still cling to our opinion that the beautiful equili- 
 brium of her pure spirit had been destroyed. 
 
 We could almost hope that she never would awaken to such a sense of her 
 condition, for we tremble to think of what would be the consequences of such an 
 awakening. 
 
 There were but two other persons in the coach besides herself ; one of them 
 was a woman, and the other was a man, the staid and sober cut of whose garments 
 proclaimed him to be a real or a sham Simon Pure. 
 
 Of course, in her state of mind, poor Marianna was far from being inclined to 
 
 I be at all conversational ; and, although the woman and the quaker-looking indi- 
 vidual both spoke to her before she had got far, she returned but those short kind 
 of answers, which might be supposed to have a tendency to check any further ad- 
 Tances. 
 
 And so the coach rattled on, until the next stage was arrived at, and another 
 change of horses took place. 
 
 After this, the road ascended considerably ; and, as there was no conversation 
 going on in the interior of the coach, Marianna heard distinctly some that engaged 
 the coachman and one of his passengers on the outside. 
 
 U Coachman," said a voice. 
 Yes, sir — come up, will ye ? Yes, sir ; what was you a saying of?" 
 
 " Why, I don't know whether it concerns us or not, coachman, but there are 
 two men on horseback, some few miles behind, galloping away as if their lives 
 depended upou the 3peed they made." 
 
 '* Perhaps, they do, sir." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 709 
 
 " Well, but, coachman,— I say, coachman, one of 'em keeps waving a hand- 
 kerchief?" 
 
 " Very likely." 
 
 " But, wouldn't ye like to stop, to see what they want?" 
 " Like to what V 
 " Stop." 
 
 " What ! stop the mail ? Well, I've been on this here road and drove this hens 
 mail many a year, but I never heard anybody say such a thing as that before. 
 Stop the mail ! Well, that is a good 'un. What next shall we hear, I wonder. 
 Stop the mail ! I've heard as there was nothing new under the sun, but that is, 
 I'll be bound. Stop the mail ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! Well, I never !" 
 
 « I only thought, " 
 
 " You only thought, — come up, will ye. So they think to catch the mail, do 
 they. Oh ! oh ! we shall see — we shall soon see that." 
 
 The idea of stopping such an important equipage as the mail, on any pretence 
 whatever, seemed to have so angered the coachman, that he revenged himself upon 
 his horses. The consequence was, that instead of, as the passenger supposed he 
 might feel inclined to do, drawing up for the purpose of affording those on horse, 
 back time to come up, and say what they wanted, if they wanted anything at all, 
 he got on at a much greater speed than before, and was evidently distancing his 
 pursuers, who were forced to allow their horses to take it easy up the hills. 
 
 Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Marianna ; and being impressed 
 with the conviction that she might be pursued, she came at once to the conclusion 
 that she was followed, and that these two horesemen, if they did come up, would 
 proclaim their business to be with her. 
 
 But what could she do? She was helpless, except so far as the horses of the 
 mail coach might, by being put upon their mettle, still succeed in getting over the 
 ground with sufficient swiftness to keep their pursuers at a distance. 
 
 This was her only hope. 
 
 One may imagine, then, something of the feelings which must have found a 
 place in her bosom during the next half hour ; and those feelings of pain and 
 anxiety were certainly not at all counteracted by the outside passenger keeping 
 up a running commentary upon the progress that the horsemen were making as 
 he caught glimpses of them at different turnings and windings of the road. 
 
 Such a commentary, however, had an effect in her favour, although she did not 
 know it, for it induced the coachman to make more speed. 
 
 Never had a stage been performed so quickly as that, and when the coach, at 
 length, drew up to where it was to change horses, the cattle that were in it were 
 covered with foam. 
 
 The coachman was out of temper, and when the postmaster said, — 
 
 «' Why, coachee, you have driven bard," he only requested to know what that 
 was to him, the postmaster. 
 
 But Marianna felt quite certain, that if the two horsemen were really so near as 
 the outside passenger had said, they would not fail, now that the mail-coach was 
 stopping to change horses, to make some effort to reach it. She was thinking what 
 to do, when the quaker said to the coachman, — 
 
 " Friend, how long dost thou stop here ?" 
 
 " Three minutes more," said the coachman. " There's time to get out." 
 " Friend, I thank thee," 
 
 The quaker got out of the coach, and so did Marianna. They both entered 
 the inn, and when they reached a little sanded parlour, he said to her, — ; 
 " Wilt thou take anything, miss ?" 
 " Yes," she said ; ** my leave of you ; I live here." 
 
 " Oh !" said the quaker, and he walked into the bar, and had what he wanted, 
 while Marianna, who had observed a flight of stairs, leading from one corner of the 
 parlour to the upper part of the house, at once ascended them, although she 
 had not the remotest idea of whether they would conduct her to any place of 
 safety. 
 
710 
 
 CHAPTER CXXIX. 
 
 THE ARRIVAL OF THE OFFICERS MARIANNA's REFUGE. 
 
 Almost at the moment that she ascended that little winding, and particularly 
 dark staircase, the guard of the mail-coach blew his horn, as a signal to the pas- 
 sengers to take their places again, as the vehicle was about to start. 
 
 ** Hilloa ! hilloa ! Mail-coach ! hilloa !" cried a loud voice. 
 
 ". What novv !" said the coachman, deliberately adjusting his reins before mount- 
 ing his box i and then, covered with foam, the two officers dashed up to the inn 
 door. 
 
 " Thank the fates," cried one. %i Here we are at last." 
 "Stop, stop, coachman," cried the other. 
 "What for?" 
 
 " We only want to relieve you of one of your passengers, that's all. We are 
 Bow-street officers, and here is cur warrant/' 
 
 The coachman of the Bristol mail was an angry man, but he had sense enough 
 to know that it was not just the thing to resist a warrant from the London magis- 
 tracy, so with rather a sulky acquiescence, he said, — • 
 
 " Be quick about it, then, for I have got my work to do to time." 
 
 One of the officers advanced, and opened the coach door. 
 
 "Now, madam," he said. "Now if you please, madam. You have given us 
 rather a longer ride than we wanted ; but we will now trouble you to alight." 
 
 " What for ?" said the woman, who had not yet stirred from her seat. " What 
 you mean by talking to me in that kind of way, I'll pretty soon let you know 
 that, although I am a lone woman, I'm not to be insulted." 
 
 " Stuff — stuff. Come out, ma'am." 
 
 {< Now," cried the coachman, " I am not going to wait here all the evening. 
 Be quick about it." 
 
 One of the officers sprang into the coach, and laid hold of the lady by the arms, 
 to which she responded by scratching his face and crying, murder ! The officer, 
 however, would not be foiled, but with some assistance from his comrade, who 
 made a very ungallant grasp at the lady's ankles, got her out of the coach. 
 
 " Now are you satisfied,'* said the coachman. 
 
 " Yes, that'll do ; you can go on, 1 ' 
 
 ''Murder — murder — fire!" cried the lady. "Am I to put up with this? 
 Murder ! Fire ! Thieves ! I shall have my throat cut, but I won't die quietly, 
 not I— oh ! you red-whiskered villain!" 
 
 As she uttered these last words, the mail-coach drove off, and. being perfectly 
 infuriated at that circumstance, she seized upon the officer who had assisted her 
 out of the vehicle by her ankles, and dealt him two or three such hearty cuffs on 
 the face, that for a moment or two, he was quite bewildered, and had not his 
 comrade come to his asisstance, he would have suffered still more maltreatment 
 from the enraged lady. 
 
 " Now, ma'am, we shall have to clap a pair of handcuffs upon you, if you aint a 
 little quiet," said the other officer. 
 
 " Have to do so," exclaimed he who had already suffered. f< I'll do it in a 
 minute." 
 
 He accordingly soon put on the iron ruffks,which effectually prevented the lady 
 from doing any further mischief, although they could not stop her tongue. 
 
 It was so dark by this time outside the house that they could not see her very 
 distinctly, so after loudly ordering a post-chaise, they took her into the passage of 
 the inn, and then upon looking at her, they saw that she was decidedly on what 
 is considered the undesirable side of forty years of age ; and had a countenance 
 the less that's said about which is decidedly the better. 
 
* 
 
 NEWGATE. 711 
 
 The officers looked at each other with dismay. 
 
 " Why, Bill," said one, " this — here — isn't 
 
 " Rather the rewerse," said the other. 
 <( Where's the blessed description ?" 
 " Here you is." 
 
 He took from his pocket a slip of paper, and read, — 
 
 " Mrs. Barclay is not yet twenty years of age. She is of slight figure and re- 
 markably handsome. Her hair is of a dark auburn — she is 
 
 " Oh, that'll do," cried the other. " Here's a horrid go. We have took this 
 here elephant instead o' the right article. Oh, Lord! On, Lord ! here's a go !" 
 
 All the people of the inn had by this time crowded round them ; the two officers 
 looked about as blank and as stupid as any two men could very well look. Not 
 only had they missed the prisoner they ought to have made, but they had exposed 
 themselves to all the consequences of making a wrong capture — consequences 
 which very properly are rather onerous than otherwise in this country. 
 
 " You wretches," screamed the lady. 
 
 One of the officers took upon himself the task of apologising. 
 . " Mum," he said, " if you please, mum, it's all a mistake. We have come from 
 London as hard as hosses could bring us, to apprehend a lady as was in the Bristol 
 mail; and you see, mum, we took you by mistake. She is young and handsome, 
 aud now that we see you, a glance is sufficient to conwince us, and we hopes 
 you'll excuse us, mum." 
 
 This was certainly adding insult to injury, and the lady gave a loud scream, and 
 so unprepared was any one for it, that those close to her nearly fell down with the 
 suddenness of the shock. Then she thought it would be desirable to faint away, 
 which she did accordingly ; and as our story has more important proceedings to 
 follow, we will leave her to recover as best she may, and proceed to matters of 
 more account. 
 
 The officers found themselves terriblv at fault. That there was but one female 
 within the coach they were quite certain, and that there was no female at all out- 
 side they had seen. What, then, had become of Mrs. Barclay ? 
 
 " She must have left the mail coach, Bill," said one of the officers despondingly, 
 " at some other stage."' 
 
 " Yes, I expects as that is somewhere about it." 
 
 " But," said the landlady, " there was a young lady in the coach." 
 
 " Was there ? Oh, don't tell us !" 
 
 " Yes ; and she got out and went into the parlour. Maria, Maria !" 
 " Yes, missus."' 
 
 " Didn't a quaker gentleman and a young lady come into the parlour when the 
 Bristol mail changed horses just now ?" 
 
 " Yes, missus ; a young lady with auburn ringlets and a silk dress." 
 
 The officers were on the alert in a moment. One of them ran to the outer door 
 to keep guard, and the other approached the parlour, where he fully expected to 
 find his real prisoner, for he felt confident she had not been carried away in the 
 mail coach. 
 
 He had a light m his hand, which he had snatched up from the table in the bar 
 arlour, and opening the door of the room in which he expected to find Marianna, 
 e said, — 
 
 " You are my prisoner." 
 
 A great black cat made a rush between his legs and escaped ; but there was no 
 other living creature in the room. 
 
 " Holloa !" he cried, " missus what's your name — she aint here, unless there's 
 some hiding place in your parlour that we don't know of. Come here — lights, more 
 lights ; she must be in the nouse I should say, somewhere or another." 
 
 The landlady had been upon her route to the room, and she now appeared, de- 
 claring that there were no hiding places that she knew of ; and indeed, the most 
 cursory examination of the apartment was sufficient to prove so much. It was a 
 
712 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 large room, but the bare walls presented no means of any person concealing 
 himself. 
 
 But there was the staircase in the corner, staring them all in the faee ; almos 
 obviously pointing out the route by which the delinquent had effected her exit from 
 the room. 
 
 "That'll do," said the officer, pointing to the staircase " of course, she has gone 
 up there, and by virtue of a warrant, mum, we must go up too. Sorry to intrude, 
 but it can't possibly be helped, and that's the long and short of it." 
 
 " What has she done, poor thing ?" said the landlady. 
 
 "Murder!" ' 
 
 " Murder ! You — you don't mean actually murder." 
 
 " Yes, we do. That's what she is accused of. To say that she has done it, per- 
 haps, isn't quite fair, as she aint yet convicted; but she stands a pretty good 
 chance of being so. It's a thousand pities of course, as she is so young and good- 
 looking, as they say, but we can't help that, so now, mum, if you please to go with 
 us and carry the light, of course we will be very much obliged to you indeed, but 
 we don't ask you to do so, unless you like, you know." 
 
 CHAPTER CXXX. 
 
 THE SEARCH IN THE DEATH CHAMBER. 
 
 Let us now follow Marianna up that staircase whither she went without having 
 any clearly defined notion of whether it would lead her to danger or to safety. 
 
 The inn had at one time been an old farm-house of considerable extent, but 
 converted rather roughly to its present purpose, and this staircase up which Marianna 
 went, had been a means of reaching some of the servants' chambers, and was not 
 the principal ascent to the rooms above the basement story. 
 
 It was narrow and winding, that staircase, and but very inefficiently lighted, in- 
 deed, so that Marianna had to cling to the balustrades in order to guide her on her 
 way. 
 
 She went oh until she came to a landing of rather large extent, and then she 
 paused to listen, and heard the confusion below, as the coach was impeded in its 
 starting by the officers in the way we have described. 
 
 She could well guess the mistake that had been made by the capture of her fel- 
 low passenger, and she felt that she had been correct in her supposition that the 
 two mounted men were upon an errand that would effectually have stopped her 
 journey to Bristol. 
 
 She trembled as there flashed across her mind all the awful consequences of 
 capture ; and for a moment the strange resolution that had hitherto supported her 
 through so much appeared as if it was upon the point of leaving her. 
 
 It was only for a few moments, however, that this effect was produced, and 
 then there arose again in her heart that strange, wild, almost insane hope — we 
 may call it— which taught her to think that if she could ever get to Edward Lancy 
 all would yet be well. 
 
 We must bear in mind that she had not yet awakened to any of those feelings of 
 remorse which sooner or later her crime was certain to produce. 
 
 That frightful time to come had not yet dawned upon her soul. Would to 
 Heaven it never should do so. 
 
 She heard the struggle going on below between the woman who had been her 
 fellow traveller and the officer, and its final termination in the scream with which 
 the lady had thought proper to preface her fainting away. 
 
 Then there was something to her mind suspicious about the stillness that was 
 below, and she began to think of attaining some better place of refuge than a 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 713 
 
 mere corridor at the head of a staircase, where, in case of any one ascending, she 
 must have been seen in a moment. 
 
 There were numerous doors on all sides of her, and from one of them she saw 
 a very faint streak of light streaming, although she could hear no sound within indi- 
 cative of any one being there ; so she approached the door to listen more closely. 
 
 By so doing, she heard a faint voice from within—it was a female voice—and 
 
 lav uZn ' n T5 ^ ? f paln and debiii ^> as if corain 2 from the ]i P* of one who 
 vexed \ Z\ of life &lckness > and vvho would S ladJ 7 ^ve been relieved from the 
 
 snarld , U^ Id 7» if n H ?ff n 1 W0uld in its ^ reat ^ercy take me now, I might be 
 TtlfZt °'^ od! . look 1 down upon me, and spare me the pain of life!" 
 Mariana ,Zi a d ^ lm P ulse "- she c ™ ]d scarcely tell why or wherefore-but 
 Mananna gently opened the door, and glided into the room. 
 
 No. 90. 
 
714 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 It was a bed-chamber, and but faintly illuminated by a rushlight, which was 
 burning upon the hob of the grate. On the bed lay the pale, wan, wasted form of 
 a young girl, upon whom fell consumption had set its fatal seal. 
 
 She was no more for this world, but, like an overburdened spirit, was just wan- 
 dering upon the confines of immortality. She was past being alarmed by anything 
 trivial ; and if such had not been the case, there was nothing in the sad, pale face 
 of Mariauna to be alarmed at, as she glided to the side of the sick girPs bed and 
 gazed upon her. 
 
 It was evidently the belief of the latter that some spirit had visited her, and 
 she said, — 
 
 " Hare you come to comfort me ?" 
 
 "I would that I could," said Marianna. " Are you very ill V 
 
 The girl shook her head, and answered, faintly,—- 
 
 "They tell me I am dying." 
 
 " And do they leave you thus alone ?" 
 
 " Alas, kind spirit, there is no one here to love me. They do not neglect me, 
 but they do not love me. Oh no ; they do not love me. But you have come, 
 have you not, to speak to me of that world which is beyond the stars." 
 
 No," said Mananna, " do not think so ; I am, like yourself, an inhabitant of 
 this world, and like yourself, although in a different way, a suffering one. I am a 
 fugitive. Theie are here in this house men who seek my life." 
 
 ,s And you would preserve it/' 
 
 " There is still one who loves me." 
 
 " Then, you are right. There is no one who loves me. Oh, if they would take 
 my life and spare yours, I would gladly let them ; for 1 am desolate." 
 
 Marianna heard footsteps upon the staircase ; she clasped her hands, and knelt 
 by the bed-side of the dying girl. 
 "Hear me," she said, in imploring accents, — <c hear me, and have mercy upon 
 
 not. I have yet a something to live for. Hark, they eome nearer still. I am a 
 stranger here, and know not where to hide myself. Tell me — I implore you to tell 
 me where I can find refuge. Hark. Hark — they come, the bloodhounds track 
 my footsteps. Oh, be quick, and good and merciful to me. Save me — save me." 
 " Hark V* said the girl. " Hark ! Are you innocent?" 
 Marianna bowed her head down upon the bed, and made no reply. 
 M I understand your silence," said the girl. "But I will judge not, lest I too 
 should be judged. Hush ! what is that V 
 
 " This way," said the landlady. " This way. If yon find her in my house, of 
 course you can take her. I don't want to harbour anybody ; I'm sure I have 
 quite enough to do already with one sort of encumbrance and another, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, God, they come," said Marianna. 
 The dying girl lifted up her head. 
 
 " I air! the encumbrance," she said. " Alas, poor thing, they shall not have you, 
 if I have the power to save you. Let me think." 
 "Quick— quick. Hark! They come." 
 
 " Hush — you tremble — he calm — come here — get into the bed with me ; you 
 will be safe, I think, and they will not force one with the shadow of death already 
 on her features to rise. Oh no, they will not be so cruel as that. The bed — 
 quick— quick." 
 
 This was a happy thought ; and, in another moment, Marianna was completely 
 covered by the bed-clothes, and her slight form hidden from observation. 
 u Blessings on you," she murmured. 
 " Hush — hush. They come." 
 
 "Well, I don't know,'' said the landlady, "where she can be got to. Jhis 
 room is a bed-room, where a step-daughter of mine is very ill ; of course you can 
 look in, but it isn't likely she's there." 
 
NEWGATE. 715 
 
 " Sorry to intrude," said the officer, "into a sick room, but somewhere she 
 must be ; and she is just as likely to have gone in here as anywhere else." 
 *' Oh, very well — very well." 
 
 4< Perhaps, ma'am, if you go first, and tell the young lady -what we come Sbout, 
 she won't be so alarmed as she may be " 
 
 • 4 Oh, it's of no consequence ; it's only my s'ep-daughler — that's all." 
 
 A broad gleam of light flashed into the room, and the officer entered, accom- 
 panied by the landlady. He glanced towards the bed, and even his rough nature 
 was moved by the look of the beautiful girl, who truly, as she had herself said, 
 had the shadow of death upon her face. 
 
 " Sorry to intrude, miss," he said, " very sorry ; but we must search the house." 
 
 The young girl only sighed, and turned her head away ; then she laid one of her 
 arms across her eyes. 
 
 " She seems very bad, ma'am," said the officer to the landlady. 
 
 " Well, I don't know; it's consumption, you see, and people with her complaint 
 linger so, they wear anybody quite out, you see — she is only my step -daughter." 
 
 The officer made as short work as he could of searching* the room, and then, 
 when he had concluded, he said to the girl, — 
 
 " God bless you, my little lass ; I hope you'll get better. Good night !" 
 
 She made him no answer. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXI. 
 
 THE PERILOUS ADVENTURE CONTINUED. 
 
 Oh, what a relief it was to Marianna to hear the retreating footsteps of the 
 officer and the landlady. To be sure, she was half-smothered among the bed- 
 clothes ; but still she was, for the time being, saved from the horror of an arrest, 
 which must have led to the most disastrous consequences. 
 
 " Yes," she thought, ft I am saved, and I may yet reach Edward Lancy in 
 safety ; I am for this time preserved, and all may yet be well. Thank Heaven, I 
 am saved." 
 
 It was yet not for some minutes that she ventured to say anything aloud, for she 
 thought that, so soon as it was quite safe and prudent to do so, the young girl 
 would most assuredly speak to her ; so she controlled her impatience for a time. 
 
 At length, feeling convinced that to remain any longer in her confined situation 
 was really useless, as the room was perfectly still, she spoke. 
 
 " They are gone," she said. " Are they not gone ?" 
 
 The young girl made no answer, and Marianna, releasing her head from among 
 the bed-clothes, locked up. Tne rusn-Ugnt still burnt, with its faint and sickly 
 glare, upon the hob of the fire-piace, and the room was perfectly still. The young 
 girl had her arm still across her eyes, as she had placed it when the officer spoke * 
 to her. 
 
 " Are you sleeping ?" said Marianna ; " speak— awake. Tell me what I'm 
 to do for my safety's sake. Give me an answer, I implore you. You know the 
 house, probably, and can tell the safest time, as well as the safest mode of leav- 
 ing it.'' 
 
 The young g ; rl never moved nor spoke. 
 
 " What is this horrible silence," thought Marianna, f* and this wore than 
 natural repose ? What do they mean ? — I — 1 ! tremble to seek a solution of 
 the mystery." 
 
 With a hesitating hand, she removed from before the face of the young creature 
 the arm she had caston it, and then one glance was sufficient— the glaze of death was 
 
716 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 upon the eyes — that pure sweet soul had taken its homeward flight, and Marianna 
 was in bed with a corpse! 
 
 Horror at first froze up all her faculties, but in a few minutes the necessity for 
 some immediate action roused her, and she glided gently off the bed, keeping her 
 eyes fixed upon the still countenance of the dead. 
 
 Oh, Marianna, if you had lain as cold and still in the calm embrace of 
 death, how much happier would it have been for you, than that you should yet 
 have to go through what awaited you thus." 
 
 With a strange kind of fascination, Marianna found that she was, as it were, 
 constrained to keep her eyes fixed upon the countenance of the dead, and so she 
 slowly went towards the door of the chamber and opened it. 
 
 All were quiet in the house, and she stood for some few minutes much revived by 
 the grateful cool air which came from the staircase. It was very dark indeed, and 
 she guessed that, the evening must have deepened into night. But how was she 
 to leave that house unobserved ? That was now the momentous question. 
 
 "While this most auxious and important question was agitating her bosom, 
 she heard some one coming rather hastily up the staircase. 
 
 Thinking, then, that whoever it was would be likely to be coming to the 
 chamber of the invalid, whose death in the house was, of course, unknown, she 
 considered it would be a false step to go into that room, again,' so she at hazard 
 just made her way into a chamber opposite to it. 
 
 All was dark here, but when her eyes in a few moments got more accustomed 
 to that darkness, she could find out the different objects in the room, and that 
 there was a bed in it, and a window that looked into a garden, and immediately 
 outside of which was a sort of balcony, depending very low, indeed. 
 
 A hope sprung up in her mind that, by running some little risk, she' might proba- 
 bly descend from the window, and so succeed in getting clear of the premises. 
 
 She was only in hope, however, and it was rather a desperate thing*© try, for not 
 only was the descent dangerous, but her utter ignorance of the premises of course 
 prevented her from knowing whether, when she did descend, she should be able to 
 find any means of escaping from the garden, which after all might be too well en- 
 closed for her purpose. 
 
 While she was thus considering, she heard a loud scream, and then a voice from 
 the head of the staircase, crying — 
 
 " Oh, missus, missus, missus! Jane is dead. Oh, come up — Jane is dead, mis- 
 sus, missus, missus ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear. I shall go into histories — Jane is 
 dead. Oh, come up, missus. Oh, dear — oh, ob, oh ! I'm a-goinV 
 
 Marianna of course, as well as the reader, understood the cause of this outqpry, 
 and she congratulated herself that she had not gone back again to the chamber of 
 death. 
 
 There was a great scampering up the staircase, and a flashing of light, and in 
 a few minutes it seemed as if everybody in the house had assembled in the room 
 with the corpse. If ever there was a favourable opportunity for Marianna to at- 
 tempt to escape from the inn, surely that was it. So she thought, and she opened 
 the window as gently as possible, and stepped out upon the balcony that was imme- 
 diately below it. 
 
 There was just a faint light enough in the night air to enable her to see that the 
 garden was not near so great a depth from the window as she had thought it must 
 surely be from the height of the staircase she had ascended, and so she concluded 
 she dare to make the attempt of a descent, and risk the consequences. 
 
 She hung by her hands as low down as she could, and then suffered herself -to 
 drop. The shock was rather a severe one, but still not sufficient to disable her, 
 inasmuch as it was upon the soft mould of a flower-bed that she fell, and in an 
 instant she recovered her feet. 
 
 She ran on in a straight line from the window, and found that the garden was 
 only separated from ihe fields by a hedge, through which she had no difficulty in 
 scrambling, and in another moment she was certainly far from the premises of the 
 inn, although she was far, very far indeed, from her place of destiaation. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 717 
 
 What was worse, too, consisted in the fact that she was not acquainted with the 
 road to Bristol, and her only chance of not going much astray would consist in 
 keeping the high road, and in continually asking her way, circumstances which 
 militated- much against her safety. 
 
 Still the first object was to get clear of the inn. where there were the two 
 officers, who, if they had suspected she wa3 so close at hand, would most gladly 
 have given chase. 
 
 Accordingly she ran across the meadows, and getting with some difficulty through 
 another hedge, she traversed another meadow, and then as she reached the brow 
 of a hill, she came upon a glare of light, and heard the sound of voices and loud 
 laughter. 
 
 ' At some little distance before her was a hollow not large enough to be called a 
 valley, and in that were some persons who were evidently making merry. 
 
 A fire was lighted, and dark figures were flitting to and fro, while ever and anon 
 there arose a wild uncouth shout of merriment. Marianna hesitated for a few 
 moments, and then walked slowly and cautiously forward. 
 
 Before she had gone many paces, a boy, who was hidden among the tall grass 
 suddenly sprung up in the pathway, saying — 
 
 " Who are you ? speak, before you go any further, and say if you are a friend 
 or foe." . 
 
 "Iam no one's foe," said Marianna. 
 
 " Are you coming to the gipsies' camp?" 
 
 " I scarce know how to answer you. If that be a gipsies' camp before me, I cer- 
 tainly was coming in that direction. Should I be welcome ?" 
 " Yes, if you cross my mother's hand with silver." 
 
 f* I will cross it with gold, boy, if she will assist me. I am friendless here, and 
 have got much need of friends ; I have heard much of your people and of their 
 singular habits— habits at variance with refined society, but still not such as may 
 be wholly condemned." 
 
 U If you follow me," said the boy, " I will lead you to the camp. I am here as an 
 escor^, in case any one should want their fortunes told, and perhaps that's what 
 you mean after all. Come on this way ; it's all safe, the ground's as even as a 
 bowling green, and there's nothing to fear." 
 
 Marianna was not in a mood to be critical about her associates, and moreover 
 she had a floating* idea that these gipsies might assist her most materially in 
 reaching the place of her destination. Gold she had, and she knew what a great 
 enchanter that was, from experience. 
 
 J' I must trust some one," she said, " at least partially, and these lawless people, 
 living, as it were upon the verge of civilisation, may not be too curious in attempts 
 to discover that which I wouid not willingly reveal." 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXII. 
 
 ANOTHER ADVENTURE. — THE DISGUISE. — THE OFFICERS AGAIN, 
 
 The distance to the gipsies' encampment was much greater than Marianna 
 thought it to be, because she stood upon the brow of a hill, and to the eye the 
 long declivity she had to descend was lost. 
 
 Her guide,, however, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, led the way with 
 all that facility for tact with which his race is so distinguished, and she followed 
 him with a free footstep, so that in as short a time as possible they both stood 
 upon the verge of the gipsies' encampment. 
 
 A man immediately confronted them, but to him the boy uttered some words 
 m a language unknown to Marianna, and he at once suffered them to pass on 
 without molestation. Every object in the encampment was now tolerably well to 
 
718 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 be observed, for the wood fire was blazing, and cast its ruddy glow for many 
 yards around the place of its actual presence. 
 
 Picturesque groups of women,|children, and men were lying about, but they none 
 of them offered any impediment to Marianna and her juvenile guide ; probably 
 having passed the sturdy sentinel who had confronted them at the confines of the 
 camp, it was considered that all the precaution to be taken had been taken ; and 
 now in a few minutes the boy paused at what appeared to be a rude heap of old 
 canvass and blankets put together in a form very roughly resembling a tent, and 
 from numerous holes in the exterior covering there gleamed forth long pencils of 
 light, and by the sound that met her ears Marianna thought that some musical 
 instrument was being twanged within the enclosure. 
 
 " Stay awhile," said the boy, u I will speak to my mother first; it isn't always 
 safe to go to her when she is engaged, as she is at present." 
 
 The boy went into the tent, but he returned to Marianna in a few moments, and 
 motioned to her to follow him, holding aside a portion of the blackened canvass to 
 allow her to see him. She had gone too far now to retreat, were she ever so much 
 inclined, and accordingly she stepped across the threshold of the gipsy's tent, and 
 found herself in the presence of a most picturesque amount of litter, in the centre 
 of which was seated a woman, who, from the little that Marianna could see of her 
 face and hands, appeared to be much too aged to be the mother of the boy; but 
 probably he only called her by that title because it was an appellation befitting her 
 age and general seniority over the members of the tribe. 
 
 The boy retired with a light .noiseless step, and before Marianna*" could open 
 her lips to speak, the ol d woman commenced a conversation. 
 
 " Fugitive," she said, " what do you expect from us, — go to your own people, 
 and let them mete oiat to you what justice they shall think fit. What want you 
 here?' 
 
 "Accident only has brought me to the camp ; but if you will assist me in what 
 I shall propose, I have the means of amply recompensing you." 
 "With you T 
 <f Yes, with me." 
 
 " That is an imprudent speech ; you are now in the presence of people who 
 care little for what is called moral restraints. What is to hinder us possessing 
 ourselves of the reward of the service you require of us, and yet not do the 
 service V 
 
 " There is nothing to hinder you possessing my life, were you so inclined ; but 
 the service you can render me is so easy, that it is better far to do it and so earn 
 the gold that I will hand to you, than by violence wrest it from me. fou have 
 spoken shrewdly, and with something like a knowledge that the world is against me ; 
 you might gain something by betraying me ; I think that you will gain more by 
 befriending me." 
 
 " Hark ye, maiden," said the woman, " for you are a maiden, notwithstanding 
 your wearing that golden hoop which encircles your finger." 
 
 " Ah I" cried Marianna, for the first time recollecting that she kept her wedding 
 ring upon her hand. " Ah ! this fatal ring I have it yet. I cling to it, and brought 
 it with me so far s after rending every other tie connected with if— off — off, em- 
 blem of an ill-assorted union — mute remembr; nee of a world of horror !" 
 
 She tore the ring from her finger and cast it upon the floor of the gipsy's tent. 
 
 *' Indeed," said the old woman, " rjad is it so; \ ou are, then, indeed a fugitive 
 wife. Your people are not our people — you may make war upon and enslave each 
 other — you. may commit what you may consider among yourselves an act of crimi- 
 nality, which begets no sympathy from us. The victim or the oppressor may come 
 to us alike s and let them but show to us the bright red gold, and we will do the 
 service. Speak, what is it you would have?" 
 
 " You have called me a fugitive ; and in so calling, you have called me rightly. 
 I have fur to go, but I wish not to go in my present appearance." 
 
 "I understand you — a change of dress that shall be complete — you are small 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 719 
 
 and slight — a boy's apparel would suit you well, and carry you scatheless to your 
 journey's end." 
 
 "Anything— anything — so that it will enable me to reach him." 
 
 "Him!" cried the old woman, with energy. "Then there is a lover in the 
 case ; you fly from a husband to a lover." 
 
 " Make what suppositions — think what you please — say what you please — only 
 assist me for the gold that I can hand to you. I cannot give you all, for I must 
 have wherewith to prosecute a long and tedious journey ; but you shall have all that 
 I dare give you." 
 
 *{ Ha ! ha !" laughed the old woman, in a strange hysterical manner, " It shall 
 suffice, were it half what it may be ; more mischief — more mischief— she flies from 
 a husband to a lover, and she shall be helped. Maiden, you have given me reason 
 to help you ; more mischief — more mischief— and perchance, even bloodshed." 
 
 She clapped her hands, and in obedience to the oriental signal, a young girl 
 appeared. 
 
 "Zarah," she said, "you and Acnab drag hither the chest — the chest of rare 
 agparel— let me see if I can fashion this young maiden a suit — ha, ha, ha ! — more 
 mischief — more mischief." 
 
 The girl disappeared without a word ; and, presently, with the assistance of the 
 boy, who had acted as Marianna'a guide to the tent of the old woman, a large 
 chest was dragged into the middle of the floor ; from the multitudinous contents 
 of which the old woman selected with clear and singular judgment, as to size, a 
 suit of youth's apparel. 
 
 "Dress," she said, to Marianna, "and you might pass your own kindred un- 
 known." 
 
 Aided by the young girl, Marianna soon effected the transformation ; but she 
 had previously taken from her bosom the purse which contained all her worldly 
 treasure, and placed it before the old woman, saying, — 
 
 "I have no wish to conceal from you what I have; take what seems to you 
 sufficient, but leave me what you can, for I have far — very far to go." 
 
 "Half,'' said the hag, " half, at once — ere I know the amount ; I will take half, 
 and you shall speed you on your way. Come hither, and let me arrange those 
 tresses which else would betray your sex ; wear this cap close upon your brow, 
 and take it off in the presence of no one ; adapt your walk with what skill you may 
 to your new attire ; and now begone to do more mischief. Acnab — Acnab — I 
 say." 
 
 The boy immediately re-appeared. 
 
 " See her from our tent, she has lingered long enough with us ; away — away — 
 or perhaps I may repent even yet, and think that still worse may hap to those 
 who are not of our people, by surrendering you to your pursuers— away, I say- 
 away.'' 
 
 Such a threat was the most likely mode of ensuring the immediate absence of 
 Marianna, and with a word she left the gypsey's tent, preceded by the boy. who 
 inquired of her in which direction she wished to go ; but she, fearful of ultimate 
 treachery, merely replied to him that if he placed her in the high road, it would 
 suffice — and he accordingly led her along a couple of meadows, which terminated 
 in the road, about half a mile further iu the direction she wished to go, than was 
 the posting house from which she had made so hazardous an escape. 
 
 " And where am I," she said, " provided I walk on ? To what village or town 
 shall T arrive the soonest V 
 
 " You are not far from the village of Fielden." 
 
 " And if the high road he pursued from there 1" 
 
 " Why if you go right on, you will get to Bristol — but the way is long." " Very 
 long. 1 thank you. Good night." 
 
 The idea of walking the distance of country that she would now have to traverse 
 certainly did not enter into the imagination of Marianna, but she thought that if 
 she persevered in proceeding along the high road, some conveyances to different 
 
720 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 parts on- her journey, if not all the way, would be sure to overtake her. She, 
 therefore, walked on willingly, although more than ©nee she anxiously paused to 
 listen if there were any signs of pursuit, but hearing nothing, her heart grew more 
 elate again with hope, and she repeated again to herself, — 
 
 " Yes, ye3, all will be safe when once I look on Edward's face again— so safe— 
 so very safe." 
 
 Just as she had come to this conclusion, and was comforting herself that as yet, 
 although there had been chance accidents to delay her on her journey, she had 
 succeeded to a miracle in getting so far, she heard the noise of carriage wheels 
 behind her, and at once, with fear and beating at her heart, she darted to the side 
 of the wood to conceal herself. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXIII. 
 
 THE PURSUIT CONTINUED. i 
 
 '" '■' N i! ' ' ' 
 
 Although the first impulse of Marianna, under the circumstances, was to 
 conceal herself from the observation of the approaching vehicle, a moment's con- 
 sideration told her that it could not be the mail-coach from which she had alighted, 
 inasmuch as that had passed, and wbs now very many miles farther advanced 
 than she was upon her journey. Reflection then induced her to retrace her steps, 
 and as this approaching vehicle seemed, by its sound, to be a stage-coach, evi- 
 dently proceeding in the direction which she wished to travel, there seemed to be 
 no substantial reason why she should rot avail herself of it as a mode of con- 
 veyance. 
 
 Imparting as much roughness to her voice as she could, so as to conceal 
 its feminine sweetness, she hailed the coach, which instantly drew up. 
 
 The light from the lamps flashed upon her, and the coachman seeing, as he 
 thought, a male figure, respectably attired, cried out, — 
 
 " Where to, sir. Can we give, you a lift. We are going to Reading." 
 
 Marianna knew just sufficient of her route to be aware that town lay in it, 
 and she replied, — 
 
 *' Yes, I'll go if you'll open the coach-door. ,, 
 
 " Very sorry, sir, we haven't an inside place ; but here's a capital seat behind 
 me.'' 
 
 Thns urged, there was no resource, and Marianna, with a good deal more tact 
 than could have been expected, mounted the root of the stage-coach, and sat down 
 in a seat capable of holding about four persons, and which was immediately behind 
 the coachman. 
 
 Two men were seated beside her ; but as no portion of the rays from the coach- 
 lamps reached that elevated position, she had no means of knowing who or what 
 they were, but she heard them conversing together in low tones, none of which 
 she would have caught had she not sat so very close to them. 
 
 " It's quite clear," said one, " that for what we are about this is our best plan. 
 Let us go to Reading, and then, while you go on to Bristol and put the police 
 there upon the alert, I'll come quickly back again down the London road, and 
 perhaps catch her." 
 
 " Agreed," said the other. « But that affair at the posting house bothers me 
 more than anything else. It's quite clear she got out of the mail, and went into 
 the inn ; but what became of her is enough to puzzle the very devil himself." 
 
 The mental shock to Marianna at finding that these were the very two officers 
 in pursuit of her for the moment almost deprived her of power to keep her seat. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 721 
 
 Every object seemed to swim before her, and had it not been that she fell aside 
 instead of towards the road, nothing would have saved her. ~ 
 
 " Now young gentleman," said the officer, " don't make a leaning stock of me if 
 you please." 
 
 The sudden faintness passed away, and Marianna breathed again, while the 
 officers resumed their discourse — a discourse so fearfully interesting to her. 
 
 u Mind now, Bill," said one, " let's have no mistake ; we're to share the reward 
 whoever catches her — a hundred to you and a hundred to me — and then there's 
 the forty pounds blood money, for swing she will." •• j 
 
 "You really think she did it?" 
 
 " Did it— to be sure she did — who else was to do it, that's what I ask is a 
 
 man likely to marry a nice-looking young girl — quite a slap-up piece as she is 
 represented to be — a dainty nice morsel — pass the wedding day in all sorts of 
 jollity and. fun — go up to his bed room and poison himself — I think I see him at it." 
 
 '« Well, it ain't very likely." 
 
 " No, to be sure ; the thing's clear enough, the girl married him for his money, 
 
 No, 9i, ^ ; ~" 
 
 32b 
 
722 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 and I dare say got hold of a pretty tidy take of it — then you see, at the last 
 moment she gives him something too strong for his constitution — it turns out that 
 there were all manner of poisons in the house, and she knew where they were." 
 
 " Well, I suppose that's ahout it ; but its an awkward thing running after a girl 
 in this way; what are you to do? you might send a pistol bullet into a man." 
 
 <s Oh, the sight of fire-arms will frighten her, if we do but come up with her ; 
 I've got my bull-dogs in my pocket, and I suppose you have yours." 
 
 " Of course, never travel without them ; besides who knows, of course there's 
 some fancy fellow at the bottom of it all, and he may make his appearar;«e and 
 want a dose of cold lead for anything we know ?" 
 
 "This," said the coachman,. interrupting the conversation that was going on 
 behind him, and of which he only "heard detached fragments, " this is the worstest 
 bit of the road atween Reading and London ; here you is, in a kind of walley, five 
 miles from a public house and four from a private un, as dark as the very devil, 
 a bad road, a ditch on the offside, and what they calls a precipice on the near 
 side; I always tells my paasengers that if anything was to happen just here, it 
 would be a regular out and out smasher." 
 
 " Hilloa," said the guard from the back of the coach. 
 
 "What now, Tommy!" 
 
 " Don't you hear a squeaking V 
 
 "Yes, you've just said something, ha! ha! ha! he! he! he! ho! ho! ho! 
 murder r* 
 
 Off came one ef the wheels, and away went the coach upon the side, luckily, 
 where the ditch was. 
 
 Shrieks, cries, oaths, and groans were the order of the night for a few moments, 
 and there lay the Reading coach and its passengers in most admired disorder. 
 The overturn had been so very gradual, for the coachman in laughing at his own 
 wit in regard to Tommy, had slackened his speed considerably, that although every- 
 body was horribly frightened, not a soul was a penny the worse. 
 
 Marianna was just gently tilted over the hedge, perfectly clear of the diteh, and 
 received no inj ury whatever, a horrible howl, however, was kept up by some per- 
 sons inside, who were probably very muchjncommoding each other. 
 
 By the aid of one of the coach lamps, to shed alight upon, the scene, the guard and 
 coachman speedily extricated these persons from their uncomfortable situation; 
 to be sure there was some little confusion induced by the necessity of getting out 
 one lady feet foremost, but that was all, and nothing at all, as the coachman said, 
 " when you're used to it, for if so be as people can't get hold of one end of yoa to 
 pull you out of a coach when its upset, they must get hold of the other." 
 
 The worst calamity, however, of the whole, seemed to be that the wheel was 
 nowhere to be found, and whether it had got into the stagnant ditch, and sunk to 
 the bottom, or rolled along the road for its own amusement, and gone over the 
 precipice, nobody could tell, but certain it is that it could not be found. 
 
 It appeared, however, that they had got further along the bad piece of road than 
 the coachman supposed, and the guard declared that there was a roadside public- 
 house at a mile and a half in advance. 
 
 Thither then, in rather a melancholy-looking procession, the passengers pro- 
 ceeded, and Marianna, who had been repeatedly spoken to by the officers during 
 the search for the wheel, felt such a confidence in her disguise, that she no longer 
 hesitated, although she had done so at first, to proceed with the party. 
 
 What might be the resultof a more accurate look at her by a better light, remained 
 to be seen, but she thought it was safer to adventure that part of the business than 
 to create suspicion by hanging back, and so perhaps court the very enquiry most 
 inimical to her interest. 
 
 " The place that we're going to come to certainly is a public- house, but that's about 
 all you can say for it; for of all the strange, old rumbling broke-down places you 
 can imagine, it's about the worst." 
 
 " It's a very awkward thing for us," said one of the officers, we're after t 
 prisoner, apd we don't know but what an hour may be of the greatest consequence." 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 723 
 
 " Well/' said the coachman, " wheels of coaches will come off, and you can't 
 expect the Reading Highflyer to incommodate the coming out of its linchpins to 
 other people's convenience. I hope you aint hurt, my little man V' 
 
 The last remark was addressed to Marianna, who, being off her guard at the 
 moment, answered in her natural tone, and she felt from that moment she had 
 excited suspicion ; she was not sure, but the impression upon her mind was to 
 that effect, and a very fearful impression it was, when suspicion in her case was 
 almost certain to beget that species of inquiry which must have terminated in the 
 assurance that she was not what she seemed. 
 
 To have hung back after this would have been to have afforded convincing 
 proof that she dreaded further observation, so she accompanied the party to the 
 old inn, which was called the Stag, where certainly, as regarded space, there was 
 plenty of accommodation, although, concerning the comforts placed within the 
 reach of individuals to whom the space was allotted, the less that is said will be 
 the better. 
 
 A bright, cheerful fire blazed in an ample chimney, and the people at the Stag 
 seemed not a little pleased to see so many customers. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXX. 
 
 SUSPICIONS AND THE ESCAPE. 
 
 Marianna, as might well be expected, kept as much in the gloom as possible 
 at the large room of the Stag, where all the guests were congregated ; but still the 
 necessity for keeping on her cap, in case her feminine hair should betray her, was 
 a serious evil, and she was glad to find that the night w&s so far advanced that 
 she could without any degree of particularity desire to retire. 
 
 This she did, and was shown from the room at once, but not before she had seen 
 such a significant glance pass between the two officers as made her think that if 
 she were not suspected of being the fugitive Mrs. Barclay, she was at all events 
 suspected of being something different from what her appeal ance purported. 
 
 The bed -room, into which she was ushered by rather a smirking chambermaid, 
 who looked grievously disappointed at not receiving a kiss for her pains, was large, 
 antiquated,, and uncommonly bare of accommodation, but Marianna's thoughts 
 were all inward ; external circumstances passed before her totally unheeded, unless 
 fhey bore in some way perceptibly upon her own position. The moment she was 
 alone she strove to think, but with so excited an imagination, and so bewildered a 
 brain, that anything like sober practical thought was impossible, what would be 
 the best course she could adopt to avoid those enemies who were so close at 
 hand ? 
 
 " And am I to be thus lost," she said, " is the great struggle for all the heart's 
 best affections to be thus crushed and ended. Oh, Edward ! am I never more to 
 meet thee ; never more to look upon thy face ; are those words, c take me to 
 yourself and fly with me,' never more to pass my lips." 
 
 She heard a sound of approaching footsteps, or she fancied she heard it ; she 
 in a moment extinguished the light that was burning in her chamber, and then 
 stood by the half-open door, pressing her hands upon her heart in a vain effort 
 to still its wild tumultuous beating. 
 
 " They come," she said, " they come to take me, to drag me to a scaffold, to 
 make me perish for him who loved me not. No, no ; any death but that — Edward, 
 Edward, it would be sweet to die by thy hand — hush ! they come,— they 
 come !" 
 
 The officers had been accommodated with a double bedded room, and whisper- 
 
724 
 
 NBWOATE. 
 
 ing together as they came, while the light they carried cast their shadows in 
 grotesque shapes upon the walls, they ascended the staircase. 
 
 " Hush, hush," said one, " speak low, it may or it may not he so, but however, 
 in the morning we shall know all about it : I must confess I am fagged out." 
 
 ** And I've no objection to a quiet sleep," said the other; " it's a girl in boy's 
 clothes, clear enough, but whether it's the girl we want or not, that's another 
 thing." 
 
 Bv this time they reached their chamber door, and she heard no more, and all 
 was then darkness arouud her, save a slight glimmering light that came through 
 a crevice, for the doors in that house seemed hardly one of them to have been 
 made for the places they occupied. 
 
 Marianna clasped her hands and uttered a moan of anguish ; her fate now 
 seemed to be certain ; what could save her ? Anything in the shape of enquiry 
 was fatal, and an attempt now to leave that house might be discovered, and termi- 
 nate in her confusion. 
 
 She heard the guests below, who were not so disposed to rest, owing to not 
 having undergone the fatigue the officers had, talking and laughing, and how 
 sadly that mirth grated upon her feelings. When would she ever laugh again? 
 — never — never — had she not done a deed that spoilt the edge of all her mirth? 
 — dared she laugh with the sound conjuring up the phantom of the murdered. 
 No— no — if ever e'en those lips once again wore the semblance of a smile, it 
 must be the production of" some lurid gleam of insanity, and not that mirth 
 which makes the heart rejoice, and takes the fancy prisoner. 
 
 She knelt by her chamber door and kept a lonely vigil, until at length all was 
 still, and every living thing, save herself, slept, — she alone with all her hopes, 
 her aspirations, her guilt, her gleams cf despair, was awake and listening to the 
 wild throbbing of her own heart. 
 
 She gently rose and approached the door of the chamber occupied by the two 
 officers ; she saw that the light was still burning, and so very still was the house 
 that she heard or fancied she heard their deep breathing as they lay there wrapped 
 in repose. 
 
 " i am alone," she said, " unless there be busy fiends whispering to my soul — 
 alone— alone, and what am I to do to save myself from destruction, from a death 
 too horrible to picture to the mind's eye? — if Heaven will not guide me, let 
 darker powers assume the task. I care not, for I am lost if I have not aid." 
 
 Such words as these had never yet passed the lips of Marianna. But, alas ! 
 her greatest beauty, the holy innocence of her heart, had gone from her, and 
 angel-like as she might still in appearance be, she was fallen. 
 
 And now a number of strange, subtle, and daring schemes, to relieve her from 
 the dilemma in which she was, crossed her brain, and she adopted the most daring 
 of them all, as will be seen by her actions. 
 
 She went closer still to the door of the chamber in which the two officers slept, 
 and then by dint of long and attentive listening, she felt quite satisfied that they 
 were sleeping. After coming to that conclusion, she, with so much gentleness 
 that not the least sound could be heard to break the rest of the lightest sleeper, 
 opened the bed-room door, and stood watchful, wary, and observant upon the 
 threshold, taking note of everything within. 
 
 "Why the officers had not put out the light in their room she knew not. It 
 might be that they had forgotten it, or that they thought it possible there might 
 be some alarm in the night, in which case it would be a convenient thing to have 
 a light ready ; but there it was, with a formidable long wick, lending not a very 
 good but still a sufficient light to the room. 
 
 The window, a large one, of the apartment, was immediately facing the door, and 
 the two beds were one on either side as you went into the room. 
 
 Under the window exactly, was a large dressing table, and it was to the contents 
 of that table that Marianna directed her attention. 
 
 She saw that there were four pistols upon it — no doubt the officers' only arms, 
 which they had placed there for safety. 
 
725 \ 
 
 The idea then of possessing herself of these arms, and then, with such for- 
 midable means, stopping any opposition if it were offered to leaving the Inn, was the 
 work of a moment in the brain of Marianna. 
 
 Her footstep was — 
 
 " As light as any seraph's o'er the dews of new creation," 
 and she advanced into the room without in the least awakening or disturbing the 
 fancy of the sleepers. 
 
 She reached the table. 
 
 It took but half a minute of time to possess herself of the pistols; and ther« too 
 lay the warrant for her own apprehension, and that she took. Then, with as noiseless 
 a step as she had entered with, she left the room, but she did not go back to her 
 own chamber. 
 
 With a hasty movement she ran down the old staircase. She knew it would 
 creak even if she were to steal down it with the softest tread, so perhaps the 
 safest way, although she did not do so from calculation, was to go down 
 rapidly. 
 
 As it happened, she made less noise, however. 
 
 She had noticed the premises sufficiently to take now the shortest route to the 
 outer door, although she was in the dark, and then she began to feel about it, in 
 order to ascertain what fastenings it had, a task of no ordinary difficulty, when 
 she had not the least ray of light to assist her in it. 
 
 After a few moments, she found that a bolt at the bottom of the door was shot 
 into its place, and that a key was turned in the lock, and still there sticking. 
 
 All the precautions were against out-of-door depredators, and not to prevent 
 any one from leaving the house at any time ; but when she had withdrawn the 
 bolt, and turned the key, she was much chagrined to find that the door was still 
 fast as before. 
 
 There was evidently some other fastening. 
 
 It took some time to find out what still impeded her, but at last her hand 
 touched an iron bar which went across the door, and which she found had only to 
 be lifted up. To do so was the work of the next instant, but she was too hasty 
 and eager, and the bar was much heavier than she had thought or calculated upon ; 
 it slipped from her fingers, and fell heavily to the floor, which, being of stone, 
 made a tremendous clatter. 
 
 It was quite clear that such a noise must awake everybody in the place, and 
 that, in all human probability, the officers would not be the last to rouse from their 
 slumbers, or the most confused when they were so roused. 
 
 The old proverb of the greater haste, the less speed, was never more fullv 
 exemplified than now, in the frantic efforts that Marianna made to open the door. 
 It did not fairly move upon its hinges until she saw a flash of light, and one of 
 the officers descending the staircase with the candle in his hand. 
 
 " Come on, Bill," he cried, " by G — she is giving us the slip. Bring your 
 pistols — she will be off." 
 
 Marianna said not a word, but levelling one of the pistols she had with her at 
 him, she fired. There was a stunning report, and down went officer and candle. 
 All was dark again, and she rushed into the open air 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXI. 
 
 THE CHASE. — THE GIPSEY. — THE CHANGE OF GARMENTS. 
 
 - Marianna thought that her safest plan would be to close the door of the inn 
 after her, and she accordingly did so. At all events, it would give her some time 
 if the opening it was as troublesome a matter to any one else as it had been to her! 
 
726 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 What injury, if any, she had done to the officer, she had no means of ascer- 
 taining. 
 
 She fled on in the blackness of the night, little heeding whither she was going ; 
 and indeed she had now no very clearly defined idea of where she was, for she had 
 been in so much agitation while on the Reading stage-coach, that she was not 
 capable of forming a good idea of how far that vehicle had taken her on her route 
 before the accident happened. 
 
 She thought, however, that it would be correct to turn to the right after leaving 
 the Stag Inn, and she accordingly did so, with the hope that she was still going 
 towards Bristol. 
 
 She glanced behind her, after she had got a considerable distance from the inn, 
 and she could see that lights were gleaming from every one of the windows. 
 Those who had failed to be awakened by the falling of the iron bar, if there 
 were any such, would not be likely to fail being thoroughly roused by the pistol- 
 shot, and she felt quite certain that a pursuit would soon be commenced. 
 
 Under Such circumstances, it was scarcely prudent to keep to a high road at 
 all, and she stepped aside, and crossed a stile that led her into rather a thickly- 
 wooded plantation, and among the trees she picked her way as well as she could, 
 not pausing again to look back, for the foliage of the tall trees, among which 
 she was, served as an effectual screen to hide all other objects from her. 
 
 She went on in this way for nearly half a mile, and the fa'rigue began to exer- 
 cise its influence upon her ; indeed the whole course of Marianna from London, 
 affords a most striking illustration of how mental excitement will overcome 
 bodily weakness, for under ordinary circumstances she could no more have gone 
 through what she had gone through recently, than she could have flown. 
 
 Suddenly the wood, for it was almost extensive enough to be called such, ter- 
 minated, and she saw before her a considerable extent of open country, and at a 
 short distance what she thought was a house, for there was a light at about the 
 height of a window. 
 
 Marianna had no particular wish to meet with any human being but one in 
 all the world, yet she thought that if for a short time she could procure rest and 
 refreshment among people who would not suspect her, it would be time well 
 bestowed. 
 
 " My strength may now uphold me/' she thought, *'■ but I have got far enough 
 to go to test it greatly, ere 1 look upon Edward's face again." 
 
 This idea induced her to approach the light, but she did so very cautiously, 
 resolving to be guided by appearances as to whether or not she should claim any 
 hospitality. 
 
 What was her surprise, however, before she had proceeded far, to be chal- 
 lenged again by the very gipsy boy, Acbar, who had before arrested her foot- 
 steps. 
 
 " You here?" she cried. 
 
 "Ah!" said the boy, "an old friend ; I know your voice — it is sweet, and al- 
 most like one of our people. How is it that you follow in our path, lady ?" 
 " You are mistaken." 
 " Mistaken ? Have I no eyes ?" 
 
 " You are not mistaken in so far as that I am here,but I have not followed you ; 
 and this second meeting is as unexpected, and to me, as welcome as the first — 
 yet " 
 
 « Why do you hesitate? Have we betrayed you, lady ?" 
 
 " No, no. But I was going to say that I required more services of you, forget- 
 ting, at the moment, that I had not the means of requiting it." 
 
 "We have once befriended you. Come to my mother, and see if she will do 
 so again ; for the remembrance of the past she may. Follow me, and I will take 
 you to her as before." 
 
 Marianna's former experience of the gipsies made her not hesitate a moment 
 about following the boy, and she began to think that her meeting with them a 
 
NEWGATE. 727 
 
 second time was a siigular stroke of good fortune — she asked Acbar how they 
 eame to be in that neighbourhood. 
 
 ** It is not," he said, " so very far from where we met before, and we hare 
 come across the country by much nearer routes than you probably did; we shape 
 our course always, as nearly as possible, as a bird would fly to its desti- 
 nation." 
 
 '* I understand you. It is a strange life you lead.*' 
 
 " Strange — ay, lady, it is strange, but it is at the same time delightful. We 
 are free from all the trammels that beset your people. If there is a green spot 
 more beautiful than another in all England, surely we enjoy it." 
 
 " And whence came you? Are your race Bohemians ?" 
 
 " No ; we are the lost tribe. But that is a matter which only an old man talks 
 about. Do not ask me any more questions. Here is the tent." 
 
 The boy evidently had his reasons, or perhaps simply commands, to avoid the 
 subject upon which Marianna had touched, and it seemed to her to be a great 
 relief to him to pause at the entrance of the old woman's tent, the opening of which 
 he drew aside and then entered. 
 
 Marianna heard a sharp sounding conversation going on within, in the language 
 which had before sounded upon her ears, and which she did not understand, after 
 which the boy came out, and beckoned her to follow him. 
 
 There was a sharp, eager look of suspicion upon the face of the old woman, and 
 she snatched up a lamp having a strong reflector and threw a glare of light upon 
 Marianna's face before she spoke to her, after which scrutiny she said, — 
 
 " Tis so. There is no treachery here. There is guilt, and there is hope ; but 
 not treachery. What seek you again, maid and wife as you are, with us r Speak 
 freely — what is it you desire ?" 
 
 " Chance has thrown me again in vour way," said Marianna. 
 
 "Well?' 1 
 
 " And this disguise will no longer serve me." 
 ".You would change it ?" 
 
 " You can probably enable me to do so. For myself I have not the means, and 
 I have given you all I can of the means I had with me. Remember I have still to 
 go to Bristol. The way is not yet quite half traversed. I throw myself upon 
 your compassion. If you will aid me do so ; if not, I will leave you as I came." 
 
 The old woman clapped her hands, and when the girl appeared, who had before 
 waited upon her, she gave her some order in the unknown language, and presently 
 a man made his appearance in the tent of the old hag, and approached her with 
 great respect and deference. A brief dialogue ensued, which from the glances 
 that were cast upon Marianna, had evidently reference to her, and the man said in 
 good English, — 
 
 " Lady, do you fly from a husband or from the laws ?" 
 
 * Both," said Marianna. 
 
 " But the offence is against the husband V 
 She felt half choaked as she replied, — 
 
 * It is." 
 
 Another short discussion ensued, and the man left the tent, after which the old 
 woman said to Marianna, — 
 
 "We are going to within a few miles of your destination. We shall travel 
 quickly, and you may go with us if you please. But you must conform to us in 
 dress and appearance, and as far as may be, in manners." 
 
 * Gladly— most gladly," said Marianna. *' Ah, now I seem to feel that I shall 
 look upon him once again. How can I thank you ?" 
 
 " If you have power to do a kind deed to one of our people, do it. If you have 
 ever influence with others, ask them to be kind and tolerant to the wanderer. W, 
 ask no more now of you. You have already, with no stinting hand, given us gold 
 and when we take that for a service, we never willingly leave that service half 
 done. Zarah will attend you, and make your toilette for you. You must be much 
 transformed." 
 
728 NEWGATE. 
 
 The gipseys kept faith with her, for they at once broke ujj the temporary encamp- 
 ment, and set off across the country, apparently with the most accurate knowledge 
 of the route they wished to take ; and for the first time since she had left London, 
 Marianna began to thiuk she could draw a free breath of safety. At a convenient 
 spot they halted, and the gipsey woman made some further alteration in Marianna's 
 dress. 
 
 Indeed, the transformation of her appearance was so perfect and complete, that 
 her best and nearest friend could not have known her to be the same person. 
 She was attired in the gipsey costume, and she was told that when she got to the 
 neighbourhood of Bristol or sooner if she chose to have them, she should have 
 restored to her her own clothing, which she had originally parted with, for the 
 male attire. 
 
 This assurance pleased and^ tisfied her upon that head, for in the midst of all 
 her terrible anxieties there was still the wish to appear to Edward Lancy as favour- 
 ably as possible. 
 
 At any other time, and if her mind had not been so wholly engrossed by her own 
 affairs the singular habits and primitive manners of the people among whom she 
 now was, would have awakened no small amount of interest and curiosity, but 
 now she had had but one great thought that engulphed all others, and that was to 
 reach Bristol. 
 
 As she neared the plaee of her des ' lation, she made presents of the pistols she 
 had taken from the officers, to members of the gipsey tribe, and they received them 
 with right good will, and without a que&tion of whether the donor had a legal right 
 to bestow them. 
 
 It was rather late in the evening when the gipseys halted, and formed an en- 
 campment, after which, the old woman who had already stood her friend, told 
 her thati t was necessary now that she should leave them, for that the tribe would 
 not go any nearer to Bristol which was only two miles further on, and whither she 
 might proceed on foot. 
 
 Marianna was pleased, as well as agitated, at this intelligence, and for some 
 few moments she could not speak in reply to it. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXII. 
 
 BRISTOL AT LAST. 
 
 At any other time probably, Marianna would have been astonished at the li- 
 berality of the gipsies, and she might have speculated upon the probability that; 
 the}' had some future views of reward, that might have been extremely inimical 
 to her interests, but, as we have remarked, her whole soul was so much engrossed 
 by the one grand object of her existence, that all minor considerations were com- 
 pletely lapsed in the one overwhelming interest which it created. 
 
 Her expressions of gratitude were fervent, although in her own estimation, 
 there was the frightful drawback arising: from the conviction that if they knew all,, 
 probably they would shrink from her with a feeling of abhorrence, and leave her' 
 to her fate, even if they did not surrender her to that justice which she had out- 
 raged. 
 
 The night was rapidly darkening around her, and although she might have availed! 
 herself until the morning of the hospitality of those most singular beings, her eager- 
 ness to proceed would not permit her to do so, and alone and on foot, she started! 
 in the direction of the city which she hoped would be the goal of her 
 happiness. 
 
NEWGATE, 
 
 729 
 
 And now a thousand new anxieties and frightful fears began to beset her 
 While she was at a distance from Edward Lancy all that was desirable seemed to 
 be that she should have sufficient strength to reach him, and throw herself into 
 his arms ; but now almost for the first time there dawned upon her the obvious 
 necessity of telling some tale to him, which should look like the truth and vet 
 not be it. ' ' . 
 
 True, it was the constant presence of his image which had induced her to 
 commit that frightful crime, to all the horrors of which she had yet to awaken. 
 
 fi^S^cl tUt ^ Mtl ° amiDd hiS ' be SUffidem to P a,Ii « te her 
 
 .vi?ffiv he teU Mm ^ at , she had d0Qe ? She asked herself that question, and 
 ^ K/f 1 L ngan r eredinthene g ative - She felt that she herself hid created a 
 frightful chasm between her and him she loved. She felt that she dared It 
 t0 *> h * ^ould shrink from atte^^W £t£ 
 But yet she could notgiveup the fond idea of meeting him, and the wild vague 
 
 No, 92, 
 
730 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 notion, the day dream of her fancy, it was possible for them both, situated as they 
 were, to fly from civilisation, still clung to her, although, perhaps, it was not painted 
 to her imagination in the same radiant colours that it had been. 
 
 The route which the gipsies had pointed out to her as leading the most directly 
 to Bristol, was not by the common high road, but by some lanes, which, by their 
 umbrageous solitude, were highly calculated to have a marked saddening effect upon 
 the mind. 
 
 But soon the lights of the city dawned upon her vision, and, with a heart flut- 
 tering between hope and fear, she entered the straggling suburbs of that city, 
 which, perhaps, is one of the most imposing, in its first aspect, of any in this 
 country. 
 
 Marianna, however, paid but little heed to the aspect of the city ; her whole soul 
 was intent upon reaching some of the quays upon the channel, where she coall 
 obtain iniormation of that vessel, the name of which seemed to be written upon her 
 brain in letters of fire. 
 
 " The Neptune — it is the Neptune, I must find," she said to herself, as she 
 proceeded — " the Neptune and Edward Lancy — then, surely, all will be well." 
 
 After proceeding for a considerable distance, and finding herself lost amid the 
 labyrinths of the city, she asked her way, and, by a Tare piece of good fortune, 
 it turned, out that the person of whom she inquired was enabled to tell her where 
 to find the ship in which she was so deeply interested. 
 
 She was told she had but to turn to the left, and a short walk would lead her 
 to a quay, off which, about a quarter of a mile, the vessel was lying. 
 
 She had barely power of utterance to thank the stranger for his information, 
 and then, with a vivid flush upon her face, which, despite all the terrors and anxiety 
 she had suffered; made her look r liantly beautiful, she took the path pointed out 
 to her, and soon, from the fresh current of air that blew upon her face, felt that 
 she was approaching the sea. 
 
 More than once a crushing horrible feeling of doubt concerning her reception 
 from Edward Lancy came across her mind, and at those moments she reeled like 
 an intoxicated person, and felt as if it were something of a miracle that prevented 
 her from falling to the ground. 
 
 * She reached a wooden rail or palisade, the base of which was washed by the 
 ocean, and to those she clung almost fainting for support; she felt *a strong con- 
 viction that, if she had to proceed but a few yards further, her strength would have 
 deserted her ; and at the eleventh hour, with the prospect of the realisation of 
 her hopes before her, she would have sunk. 
 
 How long she rested there she knew not, for a sort of dreamy unconsciousness 
 came over her, and the first feeling of recovery consisted in hearing some one ad- 
 dressing her, and repeating some set of words over and over again, but they re- 
 quired to be repeated very often before she could understand their import, simple 
 as they were. 
 
 " Are you ill, ma'am V was the inquiry ; " are you ill r Please to take my 
 arm if you're ill, ma'am." 
 
 She turned and looked at the speaker, he was a man who, from hi3 dress and 
 general appearance, seemed to have his occupation upon the sea, but be he who he 
 gaay, or what he may, there was no mistaking the look of genuine sympathy with 
 which he regarded her. 
 
 " Come, come/' he said, u now I look at you, I see that something has gone 
 amiss, but don't be down-hearted; we must expect a few storms now and then 
 to ruffle the gentlest seas." 
 
 " The Neptune — the Neptune," said Marianna. 
 
 " Do you mean the ship ?" 
 
 ■? Yes, yes, the Ntptune. Tell me, if you can, where I can find it." 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! I understand you now. VVhy, cheer up, my lass, and if you have 
 a lover on board the Neptune, he's no true sailor if he won't be rejoiced to find 
 such a tight little craft inquiring for him." 
 
 * Where is it — where is it V 
 
NEWGATE. 731 
 
 f Look ahead ; the night is not so dark but you may see her spars against the 
 sky ; she's more than a mile out in the channel, for she has shifted her moorings. 
 Nay, don't tremble s© ; if you want a cast on board of her, you can get it 
 here." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I want to go on board ; it is Edward Lancy's ship ; all will surely 
 obey him — and we will go far far away. There are sweet islands in the iEgean 
 Sea, where may be led a long, sunny life of liberty and love. We will care no- 
 thing for the busy scenes of every day existence, the sun of a brighter clime than 
 this will shine upon us, and we shall be happy." 
 
 The homely-spoken, weather-beaten merchant captain, who had been talking to 
 her, did not hear this rhapsody of the almost broken heart of that wretched giil, 
 or probably he would have doubted that she was in her senses, and would not have 
 been so ready to find her a boat wherewith to put out into the channel. As it 
 was, however, he soon handed her into a boat, which was brought round to the 
 landing-place ; a couple of men dashed their oars into the stream, and the boat 
 was skimming over the blue water. 
 
 It appeared to Marianna as if the night suddenly dropped down with tenfold 
 darkness, and the taper spars of the vessel which had been pointed out to her as 
 the home of him she loved, were no longer visible to her aching gaze ; the white 
 rippling foam of the sea occasionally dashed over the sides of the boat, and the 
 whjfl whistled past in low and mournful cadences, but there she sat, with her 
 hands clasped, gazing in the direction where the vessel had been pointed out to her, 
 and totally heedless of what would at other times have been to her an extremely 
 novel situation. 
 
 Circumstances were favourable to her reaching the vessel quickly, and she was 
 suddenly startled from her fit of abstraction by seeing, as the sky slightly cleared 
 in the direction she was going, the delicate tracery of the tall ship against the dim 
 and fleeting clouds. 
 
 " Hilloa !" cried a voice, " boat there \" 
 
 "Neptune ahoy!" cried one of the watermen, and then Marianna felt that in 
 a few moments she might be in the presence of that dearly loved one, to meet whom 
 she had gone through so many horrors, and waded through such a fiightful sea 
 of criminality. 
 
 "I shall see him/ 7 she said. " I shall see him once again, and he will not, and 
 cannot surely, cast me from him." 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXIII. 
 
 THE EXPLANATION WITH EDWARD LANCY. 
 
 It was not altogether an uncommon thing that a visitor should come to the 
 ship ; therefore when the men in the boat- answered so promptly to the hail from 
 the vessel's deck, they were allowed to come alongside without any further trouble, 
 and a rope was thrown for the purpose of aiding the visitor to ascend the vessel's 
 side. 
 
 Of course Marianna was not likely to be an adept at this mode of proceeding, 
 but what a thrill of pleasurable excitement shot through her frame when she 
 heard the voice of Edward Lancy. 
 
 " Don't you see," he cried, " that there is a female in the boat; a. visitor to 
 somebody, no doubt. Madam, it's contrary to all rule for you to come off after 
 sunset." 
 
 Twice Marianna tried to speak, but the effort was too much for her. A crowd 
 
I 732 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 of choking emotions prevented her, and when she did find breath to articulate, all 
 she could say was, — 
 
 <' Edward ! Edward !" 1 
 A voice from high heaven could not have excited more astonishment in the 
 heart of the young sailor than at such a time, and in such a place, to hear the 
 well-known accents of his much -loved Marianna. He was so utterly confounded 
 ' at the ficst flush of the affair, ihat he stood for a few moments without answering 
 her, and having more the appearance of a man awakened from a dream than any- 
 thing else. 
 
 " Edward ! Edward !" she said again, «' it is I." 
 
 " It is no delusion/' he shouted. " Marianna ! Marianna !" 
 
 In an instant he was in the boat, and that longed-for moment at length arrived 
 when she found herself clasped in the arms of him she loved, and reposing upon 
 his breast — all was forgotten in that one mement of delirious extacy. No" longer 
 did she remember that she had an explanation to make which might yet make her 
 an alien from the heart of that beloved one; no longer did she think of any danger, 
 or that she was environed by foes ; she was reposing upon the breast she had 
 come so many miles to greet, and she was happy. 
 
 But what a delusive happiness was that, which could only exist in the forget- 
 fulness of what should be much misery. How short-lived was that felicity Jikely 
 to be which at the first touch of reason was sure to exhale and disappear, like / 
 vapours in the sunbeams. 
 
 Without demanding explanations of how or for what reason she came to him, 
 he assisted her into the vessel, and the captain not "being on board, Lancy was 
 left in supreme authority, so that Marianna, alter all her fatigues, all her dan- 
 gers, and after all the horrors she had gone through, soon found herself in the best 
 cabin of the barque Neptune. 
 
 "Marianna," he cried, "my Marianna, speak to me ; something strange has 
 happened — perhaps something terrible, but I will not regret it, for has it not pur- 
 chased to me the dear felicity of seeing you many days sooner than I should 
 otherwise have expected. And what a long, weary journey, my Marianna, you 
 must have undertaken." 
 
 " Very long, and very weary, Edward.'' 
 
 " Oh ! Marianna, you love me better than you did. You do not now shrink 
 
 from my caresses, but tell me all— tell me all. Your mother is, I fear, no ** 
 
 " No more, you would say ; you are wrong, Edward, she lives, but——" 
 
 " Yes, there is another grief, your brother — we have lost him " 
 
 " Edward, listen to me. I have no tears even for my brother — 1 have come to 
 you, Edward, through terrors, difficulty, and dismay. Ask me nothing, hut that 
 I love you ; believe nothing, but that I am yours, and fyonrs only ; there may 
 come a time when you may know more, but not now, not now, Edward." 
 " Marianna, you alarm me," 
 
 " No, Edward, no, say not that ; you see I cling to you with all the fond de- 
 votion of a woman's trusting heart. Have you not called Heaven to witness a 
 thousand times, the depth of your attachment to me? Where is it now, Edward, 
 where is it now V 
 
 <e In mv heart of hearts, Marianna. Have you come to tell me now that you 
 doubt it?'*' 
 
 " No, no, but I have come to put it to the proof, Edward ; we must fly— we 
 must fly together, far away from homes, kindred, from all who know us. Oh, 
 Edward, iu all your wanderings by sea and land, do you know of no spot rich in 
 the wild desolation of nature that will receive two even such as you and I ? Speak 
 to me, Edward — do you know of such a spot ? — say that you do, and we will fly 
 to it. We may seem to lose a world, but we can be all the world to each other. 
 Edward— Edward, speak to me." 
 
 " Marianna, this strange passion, for the love of Heaven tell me what has 
 happened ? X ou are not what you were, your eye is lighted up by a strange bril- 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 733 
 
 liancy ; speak to me, Marianna. What fearful story is it you would keep from me 
 for a future revelation V 9 
 
 " Edward Lancy, when last we parted, you told me that you loved me with great 
 confidence, which could admit'of neither doubt nor fear : has that love gone from 
 your heart ? You told 1 me that your every hope of earthly happiness, your 
 every scheme of ambition or of joy, commenced and ended with the name of 
 Marianna." 
 
 " I did, I did, and Heaven be witness of the truth." 
 
 " Yes, Edward, yes ; I hear you, I hear you, and I am happy once again. You 
 do love me as you ever have loved me. Time past has not been a dream ; we 
 shall be happy. This ship — yes, this ship." 
 
 He darted to a side table and snatched up a lantern ; he held it tremblingly 
 her face and surveyed each beautiful lineament so familiar to his memory. 
 
 " No, no, Marianna— you are not mad." 
 
 "Mad, Edward?" 
 
 " It was a dreadful thought, but I dismiss it. Speak, Marianna — speak, i 
 am the slave to the enchantment of your beauty, and your excellence.' 1 . 
 
 " The ship, Edward, the ship. We are now out upon the waters, am I right ? 
 they seem to obey you here. Is it so, Edward V 
 
 "It is." 
 
 " Oh ! Edward — joyful sounds — unfurl your sails to this moaning night wind, 
 and we will fly." 
 
 " Gracious Heaven ! Marianna, you know not what you ask. What frantic 
 scheme is this V* 
 
 "Edward ! Edward! it is no frantic scheme — it is a stern, a dire necessity. 
 I hear the surging waters round the vessel — Edward, if you love me, take me — I 
 sacrifice all for you — perhaps more than I yet dream of, or know that I have sa- 
 crificed. If you love me, you must fly with me now, and at once ; tell me that you 
 will not, and I shall find as peaceful, if not as happy, a home in ihe bosom of "the 
 deep. Edward, I wait your answer." 
 
 " God help me !" he cried ; "what am I to do? This must be madness. Have 
 you come alone ?" 
 
 " I have — alone from London, with this deep resolve, which I have propounded 
 to you, at my heart — death or flight." 
 
 " But, Marianna, your imagination conquers reason. Dear, dear Marianna, I 
 implore you — - — " 
 
 " Death or flight 
 
 " No, no, let what will have happened, all will yet be well. Some great calamity 
 you dread to tell me of has shaken your reason, Marianna ; a night's repose here, 
 in peace and in honour, will restore you to yourself ; and when to-morrow's sun 
 hines " 
 
 a Peace, peace ; it shall not shine upon me here. Edward, farewell — a long and 
 last farewell to all my dreams of love." 
 
 * Whither would you go 1 Marianna, you know not what you do." 
 
 " I go to find a colder, though a more constant, embrace from the ocean. Fare- 
 well." 
 
 " Nay, this is the very extacy of some great grief. Were you a stranger to me, 
 Marianna, and your happiness indifferent to me, instead of being, as you are, the 
 chosen image of my dreams, and your joy my joy, I could not thus desert you ; 
 and with a loving force I must prevent your terrifying me and human nature by 
 some frightful act of unforgotten horror." 
 
 " Hush," said Marianna ; " I hear a boat." 
 
734 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXIV. 
 
 THE CHASE IN THE CHANNEL. 
 
 These last words which Marianna uttered were given forth in so cold a tone, 
 that no one for a moment could have imagined that she was really the victim of 
 such a terrible agony of spirit as that which possessed her ; and her senses at that 
 awful time must have been preternaturally acute, for, although Edward Lancy 
 listened attentively, and we may well suppose that his ears were more accustomed 
 to the sounds prevalent upon the sea, he heard nothing. 
 
 44 A boat," she said, "a boat— a boat comes from the shore; there is bur brief 
 time for consultation. Edward, you cast me from you." 
 
 " Marianna, do you wish to drive me mad ? Is this some frightful test to which 
 you have put my pure affection ? Say that it is so, and triumph in your scepticism." 
 
 " One last appeal," she said, and, clasping her hands, she" was /or a few 
 moments silent. " One last appeal ; Edward, Edward, listen. If you ever really 
 loved me, listen." 
 
 " With my whole soul, Marianna, to both appeals." 
 
 " There is a boat now coming from the shore — I have a something more than 
 mortal knowledge of its object. I think, Edward, there are busy fiends, who whis- 
 per things to such as J am. Edward, I have done a deed— oh, ask me not to name 
 it — there is no time now to paint to you how the dread of doing it decreased hour 
 by hour, and how the wish to do it grew gigantic in my brain. Edward, Edward, 
 save me, or 1 am lost. I have flown to yon through dangers and through difficul- 
 ties — contempt and obloquy are upon my head ; you can give me up to the myr- 
 midons of the law— yes, the law, Edward." 
 
 "The law! You, Marianna, offend the law ! You, such a miracle of purity 
 and innocence !" 
 
 " A reward—a large reward may be yours, Edward, by surrendering me to 
 offended justice. You may do it, for you are strong, and I am weak ; but it would 
 be more merciful to let me plunge into the sea, and more merciful still, Edward, 
 to kill me." 
 
 He staggered back at these frightful words, and was necessitated to grasp at the 
 first article he came near for support — he looked for a few moments completely 
 spirit-broken and crushed. 
 
 "Marianna," he gasped, "but a short hour since, and life to me seemed like 
 an untrodden garden, full of glorious scents. As I gazed upon the darkening sky. 
 above us, I was picturing to myself the long, happy future. Marianna, I will not 
 ask you what, under strong provocation, your noble, gentle nature has been 
 stirred to do— I know not that I can save you— but I do know that I can perish 
 with you." 
 
 " Edward," she cried, "my own still?" and she cast herself into his arms. 
 " Hilloa," he cried, " on deck there V and his voice rung like a trumpet through 
 the vessel. 
 
 8 Ay, ay, sir," cried one of the seamen. 
 
 " Is there a shore-boat nearing the vessel ?" 
 
 ° Yes, yes, Edward," said Marianna ; " there is— there is." 
 
 "Hush, dearest, hush!" 
 
 "Yes, sir," cried the voice from above; " a six-oared cutter. They have got 
 out of their track a little, but they have hailed the ship once." 
 " You hear, Edward, it is so — it is so. Oh, save me l" 
 
 " Cast loose our boat," he cried, with more calmness than before ; " throw some 
 hammock-cloths into her, and a beaker of water." 
 
 There was a trampling of many feet upon deck, and a creaking of pulleys, and 
 then a sudden splash upon the water. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 735 
 
 " Yes, yes, Edward/' said Marianna, hurriedly ; " we will fly now, away, 
 away, into the wild ocean. Oh, there are glorious isles gemming its bright greea 
 surface, and you shall be king of one of them, my Edward." 
 
 He gently disengaged himself from her clinging embrace; his face was very pale, 
 and seemed as if, in a few brief minutes, years had been added to his age- He 
 took from a locker a pair of loaded pistols, and placed them carefully in the breast 
 of his apparel, then turning to Marianna, he said— 
 
 " I am ready — speak not — lean upon me— we will at least make one desperate 
 effort for safety. 
 
 She clung closely to him, he could feel the beating of her heart, and so those two 
 doomed ones— for doomed they were — ascended the cabin-stairs, and stood upon 
 the deck of the vessel. 
 
 " We have not manned the boat, sir/' said one of the crew, " but all is ready." 
 
 (t Thank you, I am going alone with this lady." 
 
 u Hilloa — Neptune, ahoy ! came a voice across the water." 
 
 li Edward, Edward, they come, shrieked Marianna. 
 
 " Hush, hush, let me implore you to be calm and still/' 
 
 He assisted her into the boat in silence, and then descended himself, while the 
 crew looked on in wonder and amazement. It was one of the most extraordinary 
 things, that the principal officer of the ship— in fact her captain, when he who really 
 held that dignity was not treading her planks — should choose to row ashore himself, 
 when he might have got so many to perform the labour. Yes, to shore, for how 
 could they in the wildest stretch of their imagination, suppose that at such an hour, 
 with such a companion, and so badly appointed, he was going to put out to sea. 
 
 They watched him in silence, another shout, startling near, came by from the boat, 
 which Marianna with a strange prescience seemed to feel certain contained her 
 pursuers. 
 
 "Don't answer that shout/' cried Edward Lancy, "cast off." 
 
 *' Oh, its only a lark," said one of the young sailors, " he wants to get the young 
 woman ashore, without any of her friends knowing it." 
 
 " Neptune ahoy,'" cried a voice from the cutter, which was now nearly under the 
 bows of the vessel. 
 
 * What do you want," said a young sailor, il this aint the Neptune." 
 
 " Yes it is,— yes it is, we know better — if this aint the Neptune lying out here, 
 what is it ? " 
 
 " Why don't you see, stupid, its a pitch-pot." 
 
 " Where is Mr. Lancy going," said one of the men. " Did you ever see any 
 body row like that ? — why, he is pulling out to sea, as if he had ten men in his 
 arms." 
 
 It was so. The moment the boat was cast off, Edward Lancy had seized the 
 oars, and aided by the current which was running strong, but from the shore, he 
 went out to sea at a tremendous rate; the waves sparkled and formed pools past the 
 little boat, while a larger one than common would dash a volume of spray 
 completely over it. But that was unheeded, Edward Lancy cared for nothing but 
 to keep in the current, and to increase his distancefrom the vessel. 
 
 " We shall be saved, we shall be saved," cried Marianna, "and I shall owe it all 
 to you, Edward; " I will repay^the debt of my life, with the excess of my love." 
 
 " Leave me to my task, Marianna," he cried,—- do not speak to me in those tones, 
 or you will strike me powerless as an infant." 
 
 The cutter from the shore reached the vessel, the two officers from London were 
 in it, accompanied by the principal officer of the Bristol police. They produced 
 their warrant — the charge of murder was mentioned, and the sailors looked at each 
 other aghast. The explanation of the recent scene, now, they understood ; the rea- 
 son of the altered face and altered voice of their commander, and why he had put 
 out to sea so suddenly and so strangely. With one accord, they cast their eyes in 
 the direction of the rapidly receding boat, and then the officers saw it like a dim 
 speck upon the water, and they understood how their prey had escaped them. 
 
 They gave immediate orders to the seamen they had "with them; the broad sail of 
 
73 6 NEWGATE. 
 
 the cutter no longer idly flapped against its mast, but swelling to the wind -which 
 blew off the shore, it r pidly sped from the vessel in the wake of the one which 
 contained those desperate and almost despairing lovers. The crew of the Neptune 
 watched the chase from the deck of their vessel until both pursued and pursuers 
 were hidden in darkness. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXV. 
 
 THE FLIGHT AND THE* CAPTURE. 
 
 Situated as they were, neither Marianna nor Edward Lancy could tell for some 
 time if they were pursued or not, and Edward thought that the night was so far 
 favourable that it was possible they might for a time altogether escape the observation 
 of their pursuers, and so gain a considerable start. 
 
 But if they had so gained it, with what end or object would that melancholy 
 voyage be undertaken. The wild romantic chimera which had haunted the imagi- 
 nation of the unhappy Marianna, that it was possible to go out on the ocean with 
 Edward Lancy, and there find a home on some island similar to such as she had 
 heard or read of in romances, could take no practicable hold of the more practised 
 judgment of Edward Lancy. 
 
 With him the affair was just a thing of impulse, — a mode of escaping present 
 danger of too horrible a character to wait for or endure — and so he nerved himself 
 to the task which he had in view, and rowed on out to the open sea with scarce a 
 notion upon his progress, beyond the fact that it was progress. 
 
 He sat, of course, with his face to the shore, and Marianna was opposite to him, 
 with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon his countenance, which was faintly 
 discernible in the night air. 
 
 " Edward ! Edward !" she saiJ, ° I do nothing — must I sit idle, while you 
 are saving me V 
 
 " Marianna — Marianna 1 would that I were " 
 
 " You are, Edward — you are — oh, do not tell me that you have a doubt. 
 Edward, if you do not save me, I have destroyed you." 
 
 As she spoke, she saw that he suddenly appeared to be paralysed, and for a few 
 moments he no longer pulled steadily at the oars, but allowed the boat to drift idly 
 in the current. 
 
 " Marianna," he said, " will you not now tell me all ?" 
 
 She let her head sink upon her hands, and sobbed convulsively. 
 
 " Speak — oh, speak," he continued, «/ do not leave my busy ancy to form a 
 thousand frightful conjectures. Tell me ail, my Marianna— 1 will not shrink, 
 and let the deed be what it may, I will not believe that it was you who did it, 
 but some beautiful spirit, in your likeness. Speak to me, Marianna — speak 
 to me." 
 
 She looked up and she strove to speak. The word she wished and thought to 
 utter was " murder," but like the Amen of Macbeth, it stuck in her throat, and 
 she could not say it, and now again he plied the oars, and it was with such an 
 appearance of desperation, while his eyes were fixed upon something beyond the 
 spot, that she began to shake with new apprehensions. 
 
 And now suddenly a strange flash of light fell upon his face — she started and 
 turned round with a cry of terror to see whence it came. 
 
 Oh! how transfixed with horror was she, to see but a short distance from them 
 the cutter, with its sail dashing along, and swelled out to the wind, while the 
 light, which had fallen upon Edward's face, came from a blazing torch, which a 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 737 
 
 man held up in the bows of the pursuing vessel, and which shed a broad glaring 
 light over the sea. 
 
 She could not speak— she could not move— • that light, like the fabled gorgon's 
 head, seemed sufficient to turn her to stone. It had come to that at last, — she 
 had sacrificed her Edward, and she had not saved herself. 
 
 But yet there was a resource-yet one resource: when are the wretched and 
 the hopdess without that one resource ? She could die The waves were dash- 
 ing past the boat, and among them she might yet find a home. 
 
 Edward Lancy must have seen by her glance into the water what fearful 
 thoughts had suddenly found a home in her heart. 
 
 « No, Marianna, no," he cried ; and abandoning the oars h^dashedfon^^ 
 
738 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 clasped her in his arms — " no, in life or in death we will be together. Together 
 always — together forever." 
 
 There was an awful pause, and she looked up in his face. A smile played upon 
 her own beautiful features, and notwithstanding the dreadful crime she has com- 
 muted — a crime against which all society arms itself— we will not grudge to her the 
 felicity of that moment, even if during its brief continuance she did forget that 
 she was guilty. 
 
 And we may truly say that at that time all was forgotten but the one feeling 
 that she was really and truly in the arms of him whom she loved* 
 
 Oh, what infinite delight was that, and how she clung to him, looking, as she 
 was accustomed to look of old, long before misery had made her what she now 
 really was. It was the last gleam of joy that lost one had to cling to in this 
 world, which to her had turned out one of such unexampled misery and 
 desolation. 
 
 " Edward — Edward V she whispered ; " Edward, all is well — oh, yes, all is 
 well now." 
 
 He said nothing more at that moment. He was satisfied that he had stopped 
 her in the horrid purpose which had flashed across her mind, but which she 
 seemed totally and entirely to have banished from her consideration. 
 
 On came the cutter. A few moments more, and it was so close to the little 
 boat in which were Edwaid Laney and Marianna, that if it had not altered its 
 course it must have ran foul of it, and then one of the officers called out in a 
 loud tone,— 
 
 u Tfeat is my pri*oner !-~that female in the boat. Mind, my men we pay you 
 all well fof this night's work." 
 
 The cutter fell off to the wind, and was alongside the boat, so that the officer 
 could reach out his hand and lay hold of Marianna* sarm, which he did with a grip 
 that made her give a cry of pain. He knew not his own danger. 
 
 " Will you unhand the lady," said Edward, calmly. 
 
 " I rather think not. Come, madam, you are my prisoner." 
 
 Edward Lancy took one of the pistols from the breast of his apparel which he 
 had placed there,, and levelling it at the officer, he fired it full in his face. The 
 wretched man uttered a shriek, and then fell back dead. 
 
 The greatest confusion now prevailed, and a fearful struggle ensued. Edward 
 had to contend yet with eight men. What could he do ? He fought until he was 
 thrown bleeding and totally insensible at the bottom of the cutter, and Marianna 
 was a prisoner, notwithstanding she had made a desperate attempt to cast herself 
 into the sea. 
 
 The torch which one of the crew had carried had been extinguished in the 
 scuffle, but they had the means of re -illumining it, and so, with that straggling 
 looking light, gleaming from the bows of the cutter, its crew bent all their exertions 
 to the oars to get to land against the current that still set rather strongly from 
 the shore. 
 
 And'what were Marianna's feelings now. Where was now that intellect which 
 had once been a thing to wonder at ? Alas ! all seemed to be in abeyance, and 
 she sat in the cutter as pale as death and as still. 
 
 The cutter neared the shore. It was well for its crew that in going out the sail 
 had done all the work for them, or they would scarce have had sufficient strength 
 to make head against the strong current they had to encounter ; and had it 
 not been that other lives — the lives of innocent men— would have had te be sacri- 
 ficed, one could almost have wished that that boat,' with Marianna and her lover 
 had never seen the land of England. 
 
 But her trials were not over yet. Heaven did not see fit yet to allow the breath 
 of life to exhale from her, nor in that time of most exquisite misery did it see fit 
 to take from her entirely her reason. 
 
 To be sure, she sat with manacles upon those small tender wrists, looking like 
 one who had farpassed thej confines of sanity, but the intellect was only for the 
 ime stunned, it was not entirely crushed. The capacity to suffer much still remained. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 739 
 
 The shore was gained at last. An eager, curious crowd awaited them at the 
 landing place ; and as Marianna held firmly by the oar, and was taken from the boat* 
 there were some pitying tears shed for her youth and beauty. 
 
 " God bless you, and prosper you/' said one. 
 
 " Good fortune to you," said another ; u I don't believe you are guilty." 
 Marianna only shuddered as she passed on. It is doubtful whether at the time 
 she perfectly understood that those were words of sympathy. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXVI. 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 We will pass over three days — three days of such fearful incident and unex- 
 ampled agony to those who under other circumstances must have been the happiest 
 of the happy, that a description of them would have been extremely painful. 
 
 Moreover, there would have been a certain amount of monotony in that 
 description; the history of one day would have been almost the history ef the 
 rest; and without dwelling upon the mournful mental phenomena which the 
 conduct of Marianna and of Edward Lancy was sure to exhibit, we may in a few 
 words sum the events of the three days' proceedings. 
 
 There was no attempt made to deny that Marianna was the person mentioned 
 in the warrant of the London magistrate, and the authorities at Bristol therefore 
 found no difficulty in backing that warrant, and sending her in legal custody. 
 
 But they had another prisoner to settle with, and that was Edward Lancy, 
 who, it will be remembered, had most unfortunately, and without accomplishing 
 any one good purpose in so doing, shot the officer who first laid his hand upon 
 Marianna in the boat. 
 
 That was an affair which the magistrates of Bristol could and would take 
 cognizance of ; it belonged to their jurisdiction, and the facts were sufficiently 
 clear, and the evidence quite abundant, to ensure the committal of the unhappy 
 young man, who, in a moment 'of rashness, had resented the profane touch that 
 was placed upon her whom he adored. 
 
 The only thing that seemed to move Marianna from the death-like apathy that 
 crept across her, was, the fact of separation from Edward, for not until he was 
 committed to the county gaol, and she was given into the hands of officers, to be 
 conveyed to London, did she seem to awaken to the fact, that that separation was 
 to take place. 
 
 Then, and not till then, did her countenance lose its fixed and apathetic" expres- 
 sion, but the magistrate saw there might be a scene unpleasant to witness, and they 
 made a sign to take her away, but she clung to Edward frantically. 
 
 " No, no," she cried, " not yet, — oh ! not yet— we can at least die together." 
 
 He did not speak, but ene look of agony revealed the world of anguish that was 
 in his brain. His better understanding the circumstances in which they were 
 placed at once told him that the appeal was useless. 
 
 She was dragged, shrieking, from his side. 
 
 He looked after her, and they thought he was mad, for it was with all the aspect 
 of an indifferent spectator, and we can almost suppose that the fearful occurrences 
 which had taken place, must to a great degree have unsettled the reason of one 
 who thus found all his hopes crushed, and that there was henceforth nothing to 
 bind him to existence, even if he were permitted to live, but the memory of circum- 
 stances, each one of which was surely sufficient to drive him to madness. 
 * * * * * • 
 
740 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 It is night, and a slow steady rain is falling in the streets of London; the air is 
 murky and full of mists, the gutters run with a gurgling sound, and down the 
 fronts of the house?, in long black streaks of the reeking moisture. None are in 
 the streets but those whom stern necessity has forced there to be. Pedestrians 
 flit about, looking like dim shadows through the falling rain, and a general air 
 of wretchedness and discomfort pervades the whole of the giant city. A close 
 carriage draws up to the door of Newgate,' a surly Cerberus unbars the gate, 
 and something is said in a low tone by a man who has sprung from the carriage. 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said the gate-porter ; " bring her in. Here, Mat.' 
 
 *■ Well, what now," said a surly voice ; " blow me if there's any rest in this 
 here world. Here's fine times, I have set down to pick this here blessed 
 trotter, and somebody's always wautiog somethink." 
 
 "Here, run to the governor's rooms, and tell him there's a capital charge 
 come in." 
 
 " Oh, well," said Mat, who was the prison messenger, " that's another thing, 
 I was afeard I was going to be obligated to go jm for to get a quvarten of 
 something for somebody in this here rain. Anything in doors I does'nt mind, 
 cause you see I can peg into my blessed trotter as I goes along." 
 
 "You had better bring her in," said the turnkey. 
 
 " Yes, my mate will do that ; I brought one of the Bristol fellows with roe, 
 for to tell the truth. 1 don't half like the looks of the girl. It's rather an odd 
 thing, being a woman too, that she has not spoken one word, good, bad, 
 or indifferent, since we left Bristol. We have travelled fast of course,; and 
 stopped at the usual stages, but not a sentence has she uttered to any human being. 
 She's got out of the carriage when she was told, and got into it when she was 
 told, and there has been that odd look upon her face, that I tell you I don't like. I 
 wouldn't have sit alone with her on any account." 
 
 ** Lor; you must be a poor creature," said the turnkey. " We are used to 'em here. 
 They just speak or they don't speak, as it pleases them. But bring her in — bring 
 her in." 
 
 In another moment Marianna passed the portal of that dreadful building, which, 
 to the imaginations of all, ever wears the aspect of despair. The small iron door 
 was* shut behind her v\ ith a clanging sound, and she was in the vestibule of the 
 prison. 
 
 And who that had kuowh her a short time since — one little month, — would now 
 have recognised her for the same person. Where was now that look of calm and 
 joyous intelligence, which was wont to light up her countenance i W^here were 
 now those roseate tints upon^her cheeks, which had shamed the rose ? And yet she 
 was beautiful. Bujt it was something like the cold beauty] of the s tatue reared to 
 the genius of melancholy. 
 
 She looked with the calmness of despair at the frowning walls, the^ coarse offi- 
 cers who bent upon her an eager gaze, and the ponderous locks which were thought 
 necessary to guard the doors upon the unhappy. 
 
 In a few moments the governor appeared with the warrant in his hand, which 
 had been sent to him. He just cast a slight glance at Marianna, and then wrote a 
 receipt which he handed to the officer, > and which released her from his 
 custody. 
 
 ** Now, Jenkins," he said to a man who followed closely. " Now, Jenkins look 
 alive, you know where to place the prisoner. By-the-by you can be alone if you 
 like, prisoner." 
 
 Alone," iaid Marianna ; " that is a boon." 
 
 "Very well, you will see to that, Jenkins." 
 
 M I beg pardon, sir," said the officer, * but we rather think she'll make away with 
 herself, if she can." . . 
 
 " Oh, very well, we'll see to that, and put nothing in her way. Now Jenkin 
 look alive." 
 
 The governor walked away without paying any more attention to Marianna, who 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 741 
 
 stood for some moments unobservant of the scene around her, until she was touched 
 upon the arm by Jenkins, who said, — 
 " Now, if you please, this way." 
 
 She followed him without a word of comment, and he led her through a world 
 of dark winding passages. Here and there only they came upon a lamp dimly 
 burning upon a niche, and upon the sound of the approaching footsteps, a man 
 would peep out from some recess in the wall, where he was keeping his lonely 
 watch within the prison. 
 
 A nod' was the only salutation that passed between these warders and Marianna's 
 conductor. At length, selecting a key from a bunch he had hanging at his girdle, 
 he opened the door of a cell. 
 
 ** There," he said," you'll be comfortable enough, it's only been whitewashed to- 
 day—and you can't be wery lonely, for you can hear the rain splashing away in 
 the old court-yard. Good night, maim, good *night, marm. Oh, very well; 
 it's no odds to me, you may come the sulky if you like, please yourself, marm, and 
 you pleases us. That's the way to do it, and if you doesn't like jour quarters, you 
 may lump 'em. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXVII. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 Who shall say what were the feelings of Marianna, during^the lapse of that long 
 dreary night in the lonely cell in Newgate? 
 
 Thus she was inclosed within those massive walls, the loneliest of the lonely, iso- 
 lated from all humanity, and yet in the midst of such a world of teeming 
 existence. 
 
 The sullen splash of the rain into the court-yard adjoining, and the clock of St, 
 Sepulchre's church as it struck the hours, were the only sounds that came upon 
 her ears. We scarcely dare attempt to give imagination the rein, and to picture 
 what she felt during that awful night. 
 
 When they came to her in the morning, they were almost frightened at her 
 looks ; she was calm, but it was an awful preternatural calmness, and oh, how pale 
 and wan she looked! Her cheeks had fallen, and her eyes looked large and 
 lustrous ; but she replied gently to what they said to her. She originated no re- 
 mark, but she was not taciturn when she was spoken to, and even those stern offi- 
 cials began to pity her, she was so young and still so beautiful. Even Mr. Jenkins 
 who was not made up altogether of the milk of human kindness, said to the man 
 upon the outer lock . 
 
 "Well, if so be as she did pison old Barclay, which 1 don't no ways knew, — 
 mind yer, I should bring in a verdict as it sarved h'm right." 
 
 A paragraph appeared in a morning paper, of which the following is a copy : 
 
 * * The unhappy Mrs. Barclay, against whom a verdict of wilful murder was 
 found at a coroner's inquisition upon her husband, will afford an example of 
 rather speedy justice; she was lodged in Newgate only the night before last 
 The grand jury found a true bill against her yesterday, and to-morrow she will 
 be placed upon her trial, there being an uncommonly small calander this 
 session." 
 
 - Yes, the proceedings in the case of poor Marianna happened to be thus quickened, 
 and on the evening before her trial, one of the sheriffs visited her. \ ^ 
 
742 
 
 NBWeATE. 
 
 " Your trial," he said, " will come on to-morrow, and it is neeessary that you 
 should, at all events, take some steps necessary for your defence." 
 She shook her head mournfully. 
 
 *' It is not for me/' said the sheriff, H to give any opinion upon your case, but if 
 you will instruct council, you shall not want the means of so doing." 
 
 " No, no," she said, " leave me; we are all in God's hands." 
 
 " But listen to me. From your present state of mind, probably, you may be 
 induced to plead guilty—but I wish to tell you that such a plea may have a bad 
 effect with regard to others." 
 
 " Others! is not one victim sufficient ?" 
 
 u No, the law may demand a thousand, if a thousand be implicated ; but the 
 evidence against you may break down in some quarter, and if you be acquitted, it 
 will be more to the advantage of Mr. Lancy that he should have committed the 
 act he has committed in the defence of a person whom the law declares inno- 
 cent than one whom it condemns.'' 
 
 She clasped her hands, and a look of horrified dismay came across her 
 countenance. 
 
 " What is that— -what is that you say about Edward Lancy V she exclaimed. 
 
 " Do you not recollect that during the struggle that took place at the period of 
 your capture, he is said to have shot one of the officers T[ 
 
 "Oh, yes — yes — I remember all! Tell me, tell me, what to do! Anything ! 
 Oh, God! anything for Edward's sake." 
 
 " Then my advice to^you as a friend is, to plead i Not guilty,' to the indictment, 
 and to see quite confidentially the counsel I will introduce to you." 
 
 It w,as a young man who was introduced by the sheriff to Marianna's cell, and he 
 remained with her some time. What passed between them no one knew, but it 
 was remarked, that when the counsel left the prison, he was deeply agitated, and 
 his steps quite faltered as he did so. He spoke to no one, but passed out of the 
 prison as quickly as he could do. 
 
 If she had indeed told him all, we cannot indeed wonder at the emotion which 
 he exhibited. He was human, and what human heart could listen to the tale she 
 had to tell, without feelings of the most painfully excited character. 
 
 Far be it from us to invest criminality with that halo of romance or sensibility 
 which shall rob it of its enormity. We simply detail facts, and although Mari- 
 anna had certainly committed that crime which is alike denounced by God and 
 man — the crime of murder — we can still look upon her with eyes of pity, and 
 we do not believe that there is any human being breathing who would raise a 
 shout against her. 
 
 On the morning of the trial, the death-like paleness which had hitherto sat upon 
 her countenance seemed to have vanished ; there was a flush upon her cheek which 
 looked more like the hectic of fever, and while it added to her beauty, was strongly 
 suggestive of that rt worm i' the bud" which was sapping her young existence. 
 
 And what shall we say of the public excitement, which this trial at the period of 
 its taking place excited ? There are very few now old enough to recollect — but 
 those few must still have a vivid recollection of the popular commotion it 
 created. 
 
 The Old Bailey was besieged at an early hour by eager and expectant crowds, 
 and it required the united exertions of the whole constabulary force of the city to 
 prevent some fearful consequences from ensuing, in the eagerness of about ten 
 times the number of persons than the court would crushingly hold to obtain ad- 
 mittance to it. 
 
 Every crevice and every corner where standing room could be obtained was 
 crammed, and it was only by the officers dragging a number of persons by main 
 force out of the court, by the private passage leading from Newgate, that anything 
 like order was restored, and even then the judge, when he took his seat, looked 
 almost appalled at the sea of faces before him. 
 
 ** Officers," he said, " it was very wrong to let so many persons into the court." 
 
 c ? Please you, my lord, they let themselves in/' said an officer. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 743 
 
 This produced a slight laugh, and the officers, to show how efficient they could 
 be, dragged out two or three people who had never moved a muscle. 
 
 Order was at length restored again, and all eyes were turned towards the dock, 
 upon which were sprinkled the usual array of herbs, which is supposed to keep 
 infections and all gaol fevers from my lord the judge ; and there too was the swing- 
 ing glass adapted to throw a strong light upon the unhappy persons awaiting there 
 for judgment. 
 
 Even those who were crushed into the most incapable of all corners now 
 were quiet, and every face being turned in one direction produced a strange effect, 
 while the stillness of so great a number of persons made it more remarkable 
 still. 
 
 And now was heard the sound of a footstep, and then another. One of the 
 turnkeys of the prison makes his appearance, but he comes rather sideways 
 up the passage towards the dock — another moment, and there is Marianna. 
 
 She advanced slowly, and she tottered as she came. She required support, 
 and she grasped the front of the dock and then she sunk, having to all appear- 
 ance been mainly supported by her own firm clutch of the bar of justice. 
 
 The sheriff whispered to the lord mayor, and the lord mayor whispered to the 
 judge, and then the latter said, — 
 
 "The prisoner is evidently unwell-— let her have a chair. An arm-chair, gaoler, 
 if you have one." 
 
 There was a general clapping of hands through the court which could not be 
 repressed. 
 
 The judge shook his head. 
 
 *• I warn," he said, " all spectators here that it will be my duty, and duty that 
 I shall fearlessly exercise, to commit any one to prison who in any way or man- 
 ner whatever, interrupts the proceedings of the court. Such conduct cannot and 
 will not be borne." 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXVIII. 
 
 THE TRIAL CONTINUED. 
 
 The preliminary operations of swearing in the jury, &c., occupied some time, 
 during which an arm-chair, as the judge had directed, was brought to Marianna, 
 and then a long verbose indictment was read, and in which, in the most prolix 
 and tedious manner Marianna was arraigned for the murder of Mr. Barclay, and 
 then she was called upon by the clerk of the arraigns to plead. 
 
 * Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty of the crime here laid to your 
 charge ?" 
 
 Her thoughts seemed to be far away, and there was a pause for her answer; 
 but her answer came not. 
 
 " Prisoner !" said the judge, and the deep tone startled her, and she sprung to 
 her feet, "you are required to plead to the indictment." 
 
 <r Yes, yes— not guilty, for Edward's sake. Not— not guilty." 
 
 She sunk back to her place again, with her lips still parted to the sound which 
 she had uttered. 
 
 The attorney-general, who was prosecuting, arose, and the attention was divided^ 
 between him and the prisoner. He spoke in lather a low voice, so that it became 
 necessary that close attention should be paid, and that induced a neces 
 quietness likewise, which was a great thing to be attained in so crowded &n 
 asstmblage. 
 
744 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 " My lord and gentleman of tV.e jury. — The prisoner at the bar stands charged 
 vvitb the murder of her husband, Mr. Charles Barclay, merchant of the City of 
 London, and it will not be ray duty to do more than simply lay before you the 
 circumstances under which it will be proved in evidence the crime was com- 
 mitted, and those peculiar facts which bring it home to the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 " I can make no doubt gentlemen, but that a feeling of the protoundest pity 
 pervades your breasts, for that unhappy prisoner, and I will make bold to say, 
 there is not one among you, who is more deeply touched with that feeling than 
 myself, and if it should seem to you that the evidence brought before you, this day, 
 is not sufficiently conclusive against the prisoner to enable you conscientiously 
 to convict her of the crime with which she is charged, ' I shall leave this court, 
 gentlemen of the jury, rejoicing that my painful duty has been brought to such a 
 termination. 
 
 i( It appears, gentlemen of the jury, that some years since the brother of the 
 prisoner at the bar, named John Wilmot, entered the service of the deceased Mr. 
 Barclay, and went several voyages to the Levant in a vessel belonging to that 
 unfortunate gentleman, and hence, gentlemen of the jury, some sort of acquaintance 
 or friendship sprung up between the family of the VVilmots and the late Mr. 
 Barclay. 
 
 *J The story is brief : that intimacy ripened into affection on the part of Mr. 
 Barclay, for the prisoner at the bar — an affection whieh we may suppose to be re- 
 ciprocal, when they were married on the 14th of this, present month. Mr. 
 Barclay immediately preceding his marriage purchased a villa, called Oak 
 Lodge, Finchley — as a residence for his wife and his wife's mother, who was to form 
 one of the domestic circle." 
 
 " It will appear that Mr. Barclay was a man of great scientific information, and 
 he delighted in chemical research, so much so ; that the captains of his vessels- 
 he traded to all parts of the habitable globe — were directed to bring home to him 
 any products of those countries which might aid him in his scientific investi- 
 gations. 
 
 " Whether wisely or not, my lord, it is not for us to say — but this unhappy 
 gentleman turned his attention to the effects of poisons, and one of his captains 
 brought home to him a small quantity of that peculiar and deadly liquid used by 
 the South American aborigines — for poisoning the ends of their arrows and darts 
 in warfare — a poison, the effects of which are almost instantaneous and in- 
 variably fatal, and which contains a large proportion of the deadly hydrocy- 
 anic acid. 
 
 " It -will appear to yen in evidence that the prisoner at the bar was well aware 
 of the presence of this poison in a small cabinet in the library in the house at 
 Finchley, and that Mr. Barclay had upon more than one occasion explained lo her 
 its death-dealing properties. 
 
 "These parties, then, were married, privately and respectably, on the 1-lth 
 instant ; and any one would have supposed that such an union would have borne 
 the promise of future happiness. The bride and her mother went at once, after 
 the ceremony, to the house at Finchley, whither Mr. Barclay was to repair, after 
 transacting some important business which required his presence in the city. 
 
 "My lord and gentlemen, the unfortunate deceased^did so repair to his country 
 house, where he had invited a few intimate friends to celebrate the occasion ; and 
 it appears that the greatest harmony and hilarity prevailed until midnight, when 
 the guests very properly took their departure. 
 
 " During the evening, however, a man, whose name is unknown, and concern- 
 ing whom the police have not been able to acquire any information, called and 
 requested to see Mrs. Barclay ; and with that unknown individual the prisoner at 
 the bar had a short interview. 
 
 " At or a little after twelve o'clock, then, Mr. Barclay retired to his chamber, 
 followed by the prisoner at the bar, who ordered a glass of Madeira to be brought 
 up to that chamber by one of the servants. That servant, gentlemen of the jury, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 745 
 
 will depose that she went up to the chamber-door, and was met by the prisoner 
 on its threshhold, who took the glass of Madeira from her, and then dis- 
 missed her. 
 
 u It appears that upon the night of the 14th, from eleven o'clock until the dawn 
 of morning, there was almost incessant rain, and in consequence of some defect in 
 the drainage, the lodge at the entrance of the grounds at Oak Villa was overflowed, 
 aud about twenty minutes after twelve o'clock the porter had to get up from his 
 bed ><-. i!e the water out of his kitchen. 
 
 " He was interrupted in this occupation by some one demanding the, gate to be 
 opened, and, to his great surprise, he found this to be his new mistress, in her j 
 wedding dress, and wrapped up in her cloak, who was designing to leave the * 
 premises. 
 
 *• In obedience to her peremptory orders, he opened the gate, and then went 
 forth, taking the London road ; and about half an hour afterwards the gate- 
 orter, feeling extremely uneasy at what had passed, as his mistr ess did not return, 
 
 No. 94 
 
746 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 went to the house, and upon going to Mr. Barclay's chamber, Svlong with some 
 
 other servants belonging to the establishment, that gentleman was found lying, half 
 undressed, upon the floor of his chamber, a corpse — a broken wine-glass lay close 
 to him, and on the threshold of the room, nearly outside of the door, lay a small 
 bottle, still containing traces of the South American poison alluded to. 
 
 " It appears that Mrs. Barclay, the unhappy prisoner at the bar, adopted every 
 means which ingenuity could suggest for escaping the vigilance of the police. She 
 reached London, and thence took the royal mail for Bristol, but left that convey- 
 ance on this side Reading, and after some most extraordinary escapes, she was 
 captured in a small boat along with another person, with whom we have nothing 
 to do at present, in the Bristol Channel. 
 
 " My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I hope and trust that this is a fair and 
 candid exposition of the leading facts of this most unhappy case. A vast number of 
 minor circumstances, all, I grieve to say, tending to fix the onus of the guilt upon 
 the prisoner at the bar, will appear in the course of the examination of the wit- 
 nesses, but it is my sincere hope that I have not added one word to the narrative 
 I have given detrimental to the interests of the prisoner." 
 
 The attorney-general sat down, and the general impression was, that he had 
 made the very least of the case, and that after all it was but an affair of strong 
 circumstantial evidence. 
 
 CHAPTER CXXXIX. 
 
 THE WITNESSES FOR THE PROSECUTION. 
 
 During this admirable and gentlemanly address from the attorney-general, it 
 was doubtful if Marianna heard a word he uttered, or if she did so, it was with 
 that kind of hearing which comprehends not. There was a strange glance of 
 vacant and terrible despair at times upon her face, while then again it would 
 remain as if her thoughts were travelling back to the past and communing within 
 on her lost happiness. 
 
 And now all eyes were directed towards her to n<W|fcf any effect had really been 
 produced, but the result of the investigation was baffling. She sat supine, but 
 her face, they thought, had turned paler still. Oh ! it was a sad and heart-rending 
 sight to see one so young and so beautiful in so frightfully painful a position. 
 
 But who could help her ? Many, nay we may say all, could sympathise with 
 her ; but who could help her 1 
 
 After a pause in the proceedings, of a Hit *hree minutes duration, tie first wit- 
 ness was called, and that was a servant of h '.ite Mr. Barclay, named Thomas 
 Stevens. He was examined by another coun^ for 'he prosecution. 
 
 " Were vou in the service of Mr. Barclay before his marriage?" 
 
 " I was.'" 
 
 " Did the prisoner at the bar ever visit Oak Lodge before the marriage ?" 
 
 " Yes, she and her mother, Mrs. Wilmot, came one day with Mr. Barclay, 
 and they all had luncheon in the library, because the dining-room ceiling was 
 having something done to it." 
 
 " Very well. You attended upon them, I believe. State to the jury what you 
 observed." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I waited on them, and while I was there, Mr. Barclay opened a little 
 cabinet that was in the room, and showed Miss Wilmot and her mother some bottles 
 of poison, and one in particular he said was what the savages used to poison their 
 arrows and darts with." 
 
NEWGATE. 747 
 
 " Very well. You continued in the service of Mr. Barclay until his marriage 
 
 and death ?" 
 *' Yes, sir." 
 
 " What happened of a noticeable character on the evening of the day on which 
 your late master was married to the prisoner now at the bar ?" 
 
 « Why, sir, in the course of the evening there came a ring at the door, and I 
 answered it, when a gentleman asked for Mrs. Barclay. He did not give his 
 name, but I showed him into a room, and then went and told her, and she went 
 to him. ,, 
 
 « That gentleman was a stranger to you ; but probably you would know him 
 again by sight V* 
 
 " Quite a stranger, sir, and I can't say I should know him again." 
 " What further happened ?" 
 
 " I was called up by an alarm that master was dead. Between twelve and one 
 o'clock, we found him dead on the floor of his room. I picked up a little bottle. 
 Yes, that is the bottle I picked up near the door." 
 
 " Now is this, or is this not, to the best oi your believe, the bottle containing the 
 poison that was most particularly pointed out to the prisoner at the bar by the late 
 Mr. Barclay on the occasion of the luncheon in the library ?" 
 
 M It looks just like that same bottle." 
 
 « Very well ; you can remain in court ; I don't know that I have anything fur- 
 ther to say to you." 
 
 " Stop, Thomas Stevens," said the young counsel who had had the interview 
 with Marianna in Newgate ; " stop, if you please. I wish to ask you a few ques- 
 tions ; and I wish to say, first, that I do not at all object to the way in which you 
 have given your evidence upon this most melancholy occasion." 
 
 He now paused, and turned round to the counsel, who continued, — 
 
 " Do you know the age of the deceased, Mr. Barclay ?" 
 
 "About fifty-five, and he looked it, too." 
 
 " Now I understand you have lived in his service a considerable time. Was he j 
 a man of a mild, quiet, inoffensive kind of disposition V 
 
 The eyes of Thomas Stevens opened a great width at this question, and he shook 
 his head gravely, as he replied, — 
 
 ° Ah, sir, you don't know him I see. Why there wasn't a more violent mad- 
 man, when he was put out of his way, in all the world than Mr. Barclay. We 
 dared not come in his way for love or money, sir." 
 
 " Indeed." 
 
 " Oh dear, yes, sir ; he was the most passionate man ever I knew sir ; the ser- 
 vants led a horrid life with him one way or another, and there's not many who 
 would stay as long as I did in the service of such a master." 
 
 t( Did you ever hear him say that he would leave the world if it did not please 
 him ?" 
 
 " No, sir, I can't say I have." 
 
 " Was he sober on the night in question V 
 
 t6 He was not to say sober, sir, and yet I can't say he was very bad in liquor. 
 He was rather the worse for wine, and noisy and violent as he always was on such 
 occasions ; we all thought it very strange that he should be abusing his young wife 
 so soon, for he was calling and bawling to her as if they had been married never 
 so long, and she looked ready to drop, and just like a ghost." 
 
 "Now, when Mr. Barclay got intoxicated, was he not in the habit of boasting 
 of his knowledge of poisons, and going to the cabinet where they were kept?" 
 
 " I have heard him boast that he knew more of poisons than all the doctors in 
 London." 
 
 " You found this bottle upon the floor ?" 
 «I did." 
 
 "It is not broken, and looks as if it had recently rolled from the hand of some 
 one on the floor— no doubt Mr. Barclays own hands. You can go down." 
 
 <k Stop!'' said the attorney-general, " You never saw Mr. Barclay go to the ' 
 
748 NEWGATE. 
 
 cabinet where the poisons were kept on the night in question, or on any other 
 occasion when the worse for liquor V 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 " Call Maria Hammond." 
 
 This Maria Hammond was the servant who had been ordered by Marianna to 
 bring the glass of Madeira up to the bed-room, after she herself had gone to it, 
 and her testimony was certainly of a character to be highly prejudicial to the prisoner. 
 
 She was examined by the junior counsel for the prosecution, and deposed as 
 follows: 
 
 *' I was parlour-maid in the service of Mr. Barclay . At about 12 o'clock, he went 
 to his bed-room, and kept calling to the prisoner to come to him. She met me 
 and frightened me, she looked so ill, and she asked me to bring up to the bed-room 
 a glass of Madeira." 
 
 ** Did she say nothing else?" 
 
 " Nothing whatever. I took up the wine, and she took it of me at the door. I 
 heard Mr. Barclay speaking to her, and asking what she wanted more wine for. 
 She seemed to me " 
 
 The attorney-general interposed. " Really, we don't want to know what 
 seemed to this witness." 
 
 " Nay, my lord ; I beg to call upon your lordship to protect me in my examination 
 of the witness," said the junior counsel, who was piqued at the interference ; and 
 the counsel for Marianna exclaimed, — 
 
 " Really, gentlemen, you are quarrelling about your own witness ; pray let her 
 speak. What did it seem to you V* 
 
 " It is not," said the judge, "a question the witness ought to answer. We want 
 facts, not suppositions." 
 
 "Exactly, my lord," said the junior for the prosecution; " but after the un- 
 courteous manner in which the attorney-general has interrupted me, I beg to 
 leave the case entirely in his -hands." 
 
 "Very well," said the attorney-general; "I have done with the witness. 
 The only tact it appears that she is in a position to depose to is, that the prisoner 
 ordered a glass of Madeira to be brought to the bed-room, and into that Madeira 
 we have medical evidence to prove the poison was poured." 
 
 " Not a doubt of it," said Marianna's counsel, calmly. 
 
 "And by the prisoner," added the attorney-general. 
 
 " Yes, I think so likewise." 
 
 The judge rather stared, and so did the attorney-general ; but in a moment he 
 felt convinced that that was a part of the plan of the defence, and leaning back in 
 his seat, he said, — 
 
 " Oh, very well, very well." 
 
 " This is rather irregular," said the judge. 
 
 " Very irregular," said Marianna's counsel. a Witness, you heard Mr. Barclay 
 talking angrily ; what was the purport of that angry talking V 
 
 "He wanted the wine himself, instead of letting Mrs. Barclay have it. That 
 was the meaning of what he said, though I don't recollect the precise words 
 he used." 
 
 " That will do — you may go down." 
 
 The next witness was the gate porter, and nothing was elicited from him but just 
 the fact that Mrs. Barclay had made her appearance at the lodge, and insisted upon 
 his opening the gate and allowing her to leave the premises. The counsel for the 
 prisoner asked him but one question, and that was — 
 
 " Did Mrs. Barclay appear to be very much frightened?" 
 
 " Yes, almost beside herself with agitation, and she looked like a ghost." 
 
 A t>r, Watkins, who resided in the immediate vicinity of Oak Villa, was then 
 called, as he was the medical man who had first seen the body of Mr. Barclay, 
 after he was discovered lying dead in his bed-room. 
 
 This gentleman was a highly respectable practitioner, and it so happened that 
 he too had a kind of reputation upon that very subject of poisons, which had J 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 749 
 
 become deeply interesting 1 to all concerned in that most exciting and peculiar 
 criminal trial. 
 
 After the fracas that had taken place between the attorney-general and his 
 junior, the latter had firmly declined interfering with the business, so that Mr. 
 attorney-general was forced to examine unimportant as well as important wit- 
 nesses himself, which was rather an unusual proceeding, but then he had certainly 
 brought it upon himself by a hasty mode of speech which he ought not to have 
 adopted towards one who was working with him. 
 
 There was almost an impression upon the part of the audience, that the counsel 
 for the prosecution would do] what they could for the prisoner, short of downright stul- 
 tifying themselves in the eyes of the judge and the jury, and so the trial continued. 
 
 CHAPTER CXL. 
 The trial continued. 
 
 Dr. Watkins gave his evidence with great clearness and precision, and to the 
 following effect : — 
 
 *£I reside in the immediate neighbourhood of Oak Villa, the residence of the late 
 Mr. Barclay, and I was called upon between twelve and one on the night of the 
 14th instant, to attend to that gentleman. I found the whole establishment in the 
 greatest confusion and consternation, and I was at once shown up to Mr. Barclay's 
 bed-room, where I found a crowd of domestics with lights. They made way for 
 me, and lying upon the floor, I found Mr. Barclay himself, and upon a cursory 
 examination I saw that that gentleman was quite dead." | 
 
 " Did you at that time take any steps to ascertain the cause of his decease V 
 
 " I did not ; but on the following morning I got an old friend, likewise a medi- 
 cal practitioner, to assist me, and we proceeded together to the house to view the 
 body. We made the most accurate medical examination we possibly could, and 
 came to the conclusion that death had resulted from poison of a peculiar descrip- 
 tian, not well known in this country, except to chemists." 
 
 " Will you state to the jury what that poison was V* 
 
 " It is rather a coarse preparation of the hydrocyanic acid.'' 
 
 " You have no doubt whatever with regard to the cause of death ?" 
 
 " Certainly — no doubt — there can be no doubt upon the subject in the mind of 
 any one acquainted with the nature of the poison of which I speak." 
 
 " Have you an opinion from the position in which you found the body that 
 the deceased could have administered the poison himself?" 
 
 u I have formed no opinion whatever upon that subject. I merely come forward 
 as a medical witness." 
 
 " Did you pick up the fragments of a wine-glass from the floor of the apart- 
 ment ?" 
 
 " I did, and those fragments assisted me materially in forming my opinion 
 of the cause of death. They had the peculiar flavour of the acid I mentioned." 
 
 The attorney-general did not wish to ask any further questions of Dr. Watkins, 
 and the counsel for Marianna arose. 
 
 " We have heard your evidence, sir, and Mr. Attorney- General has thought 
 proper to ask you a question which you have not answered. I wish, without 
 disguise, to place that question before you in another shape, and without having 
 foimed an opinion at all upon the subject. Was there anything in the disposition 
 of affairs in the bed-room of Mr. Barclay to induce you to think it was impossible 
 he could have taken the poison himself?" 
 
 " Certainly not." \ 
 
 Some unimportant witnesses were now brought forward merely for the purpose 
 
750 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 of showing that Marianna had made the raost strenuous efforts to escape, and that 
 she had in fact succeeded in baffling experienced officers who had been sent to 
 capture her, for a considerable time. 
 
 " 1 have no more witnesses to call/ said the attorney-general. " The case lies 
 in a nut-shell. Probably so short, and so meagre a looking case has scarcely ever 
 been brought before the court ; but still, when we come to look at it, the chain of 
 , evidence, although short, is fearfully cenclusive, and although no one ceuld 
 actually say that they saw Marianna take the poisonous drug from the cabinet in 
 the library, or that they saw her tender it to Mr. Barclay, yet the whole of her 
 own conduct, taken in connection with the : nces, is terribly suspicious, 
 
 and, of course, her flight so immediately upon Mr. Barclay's death could bear but 
 one construction." 
 
 The judge had made very few notes, indeed, during the progress of the trial ; 
 indeed the evidence was so short and condensed that it was scarcely necessary for 
 him to make any, and the spectators looked at each other with dubious eyes, as 
 if they thought it would be impossible to convict anybody upon such a flimsy- 
 looking statement. 
 
 The counsel for the defence, however, knew too well the serious character of 
 that evidence, and when he arose to speak, there was a slight agitation in his 
 manner, which clearly demonstrated the anxiety under which he laboured. 
 
 A stillness of a most remarkable character among so large a body of persons 
 reigned in the court, as he commenced his address. Fears were at first entertained 
 that he was actually going to break down at the very onset of what he had to say, 
 but those fears were very soon dissipated as he proceeded, and they found that he 
 was heart and soul for the case. He spoke as follows : — 
 
 " My lord and gentlemen of the jury, — I cannot say that I am one of the oldest 
 practitioners in this court, but 1 have yet listened within its walls, to a suf- 
 ficient number of cases to feel that this is one of the most remarkable ever sub- 
 mitted to its consideration. 
 
 " I do not rise for the purpose of impugning one tittle of the evidence which 
 has beenjbrought before you this day. I do not rise for the purpose of saying that 
 my learned friend, whose disagreeable duty it is to conduct this prosecution, has 
 conducted it in any other than a most fair, liberal, and pains-taking spirit ; and 
 although my learned friend is entitled to a reply to the evidence of »the witnesses 
 I shall call for the defence, as well as to cross-examine those witnesses if he shall 
 think fit, I feel quite certain that that reply, and that cross-examination will be 
 conducted solely with that one object, namely, the promotion of justice— that 
 glorious and immutable justice, vfhich it is our boast in these realms to administer 
 to the lowest as well as to the highest. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, I stand before you on this occasion with a great and 
 abounding confidence in the cause I advocate. s I have a story to tell you which 
 will not only awaken all your best sensibilities, but will most emphatically and 
 successfully reply to this charge against the prisoner at the bar, and prove her 
 innocence most satisfactorily. 
 
 " To do this it will be necessary that I should give a brief history of pro- 
 ceedings, of which you have heard nothing from the coun sel fo rthe prosecution, 
 because it was clearly not the duty of the prosecution to travel out of its path by 
 bringing those circumstances before you. 
 
 " But in so far, my lord and gentlemen of the jury, as it was not the duty of 
 the prosecution to call your attention to those affairs, it is the duty of the defence 
 to do so. 
 
 " It has been accurately stated by my learned friend that some sort of acquain- 
 tanceship or intimacy took place between the Wilmots and Mr. Barclay, in con- 
 sequence of John Wilmot, the brother of the prisoner at the bar, holding rather a 
 responsible station on board a vessel belonging to the deceased Mr. Barclay, and it 
 was perfectly true that at certain times and seasons the prisoner and her mother 
 visited the large establishment of the late Mr. Barclay. 
 
 "But, gentlemen of the jury, there is another person mixed up in these pro- 
 
NEWGATE. 751 
 
 ceedings. On board the same vessel with John Wilmot, and on the terms of the 
 closest intimacy, was one Edward Lancy, who during the intervals of several 
 voyages resided in the "humble but honourable home of the Wilmots, and so 
 endeared himself to them, by the many noble qualities he had, that an attachment 
 of the most tender nature sprung up between him and the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 " This was perfectly well-known to Mr. Barclay ; but it appears that he looked 
 with an eye of passion upon this beautiful girl, who now appears before you 
 blighted in the very spring of her existence, and so crushed already that the 
 memory of these things will for ever chase away joy from her bosom. 
 
 (t It appears that the ship Neptune, on board of which were both of these y oung 
 men, encountered a furious tempest, in the course of which John Wilmot was 
 washed overboard, and lost in the raging ocean — a fact which the captain of the 
 vessel communicated to Mr. Barclay in a letter, and from this simple circumstance, 
 gentlemen of the jury, arose the hellish plot, which, presuming this young girl to 
 be as she must be, this day acquitted by you of the crime of which she stands 
 charged, will embitter her happiness for ever. 
 
 " It seems that Mr. Barclay, instead of communicating the death of John 
 Wilmot to his mother and sister, altered the name in the letter to the name of 
 Edward Lancy, thus inducing a belief in the m:.nd of the prisoner at the bar that her 
 affianced husband was no more, and that her affections were for ever widowed." 
 
 CHAPTER CXLI. 
 
 THE DEFENCE CONTINUED. 
 
 The increasing paleness of Marianna's face during the address of the counsel 
 had attracted the attention of many persons in the court, and now from her 
 sinking and dejected state it appeared that she was almost about to faint. 
 
 The judge had observed her, and ordered some water to be brought to her, adding 
 likewise,' — i ? 
 
 " This prisoner should scarcely have been put upon trial in such a state of 
 health." 
 
 " My lord," said the counsel, " she would not have lived till next session 
 under the stigma of this crime of which she is accused." 
 
 This was a little diversion in favour of Marianna, and her counsel felt it to be 
 such, although Heaven knows she was innocent of any acting in the business, 
 for she had not the most remote idea of the line of defence he meant to adopt. 
 
 After a short time he continued his address. 
 
 " The shock of the supposed death of Edward Lancy so completely prostrated 
 the prisoner at the bar that a very serious illness was the result, during which Mr. 
 Barclay very officiously obtruded his services, until the Wilmots were greatly in 
 his debt, and altogether dependent upon him. 
 
 " Then it was broached to the mother his passion for the daughter, and after a 
 series of persecutions, such as one may imagine to arise, this despairing, heart- 
 broken girl was dragged, virtually speaking, almost a living corpse to the altar, little 
 guessing the cruel imposition which had been practised upon her, or for one 
 moment surmising that she had lost a brother instead of a lover. And now, my 
 lord and gentlemen of the jury, we have come down to the 14th of the present 
 month, on the night of which the fearful catastrophe which has produced this 
 inquiry took place. 
 
 H Resigned, but heart-broken, the prisoner at the bar accompanied her mother to 
 
752 'NEWGATE. 
 
 — — — — — ■ — i . e 
 
 Oak Villa ; a number of rude guests were there assembled, acquainted with th 
 deceased, and more than once during the evening she was taunted with her posi- 
 tion, and abused by the man who had, by such nefarious practices, made her 
 his own. 
 
 "And now we come to that circumstance which was endeavoured to bit made 
 something of by the prosecution, namely, the visit of some mysterious stranger 
 to the prisoner at the bar at Oak Villa. 
 
 " She was so visited, but that stranger shall no longer, to the jury, be myste- 
 rious ; he shall appear before them in his own proper person ; and he shall him- 
 self state what was the object of that visit, and what passed at it. 
 
 <c It has been already stated that Edward Lancy was alive, and it appears that 
 only two days before the marriage, the ship Neptune, in which he was, arrived at 
 Bristol, having on board of her as a passenger, a Lieutenant Matthews, of the Royal 
 Navy, who, as he was proceeding to London at any rate, was commissioned by 
 Edward Lancy to call upon Marianna Wilmot and inform her that he was well, 
 but that not for several days could he be with her, in consequence of several 
 repairs to the vessel. 
 
 " It will be remembered that he had not the smallest notion of what had' 
 taken place during his absence, and of course all that he expected to find 
 was, Marianna and her moLherin mourning for the loss of John Wilmot. 
 
 "Lieutenant Matthews came to town, and with an earnest desire to perform his 
 mission, at once repaired to the cottage where the Wilmota had lived, and where, 
 of course, Edward Lancy fully expected they lived still. 
 
 " There he discovered the great change that had taken place, and the stun- 
 ning intelligence that this young lady, why had been represented to him, by 
 Edward Lancy, as a pattern of all that was excellent and virtuous, had during 
 his absence married Mr. Barclay. 
 
 "This, gentlemen of the jury, was upon the very day of that marriage, and 
 anxious to fulfil his mission, Lieutenant Matthews left London, and proceeded, to 
 Oak Villa, for the purpose of seeing the now Mrs. Barclay, and by no means im- 
 pressed with favourable notions concerning her. This, then, gentlemen of the 
 jury, was the mysterious stranger, to whom allusion has been made, and whose 
 visit, most unquestionably, although most innocently, was the cause of all that after- 
 wards ensued. 
 
 "He saw Mrs. Barclay, and he spoke to her coldly, until, in the course of con- 
 versation, he discovered that she would never have been the bride of another but 
 that she had a firm conviction that Edward Lancy was no more, and that by con- 
 senting to wed Mr. Barclay, believing herself too, at the time, to be fast hurrying 
 to an early grave, she was providing many comforts for her mother's declining 
 years, which otherwise she might in vain look for. She then made this remark to 
 Lieutenant Matthews, that death— any death — was preferable to the mental agony 
 she then endured. 
 
 " My lord and gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Barclay went on rioting and drinking 
 with his friends until midnight, and then they left him in anything but a state of 
 sobriety, and he retired to his chamber. 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury, within that last hour the unhappy prisoner at the bar 
 had found access to the cabinet within the library, where the chemical prepara^ 
 tions were kept, and amoHg them the South American poison, and she possessed 
 herself of the latter. 
 
 " In pursuance to her declaration to Lieutenant Matthews, that any death 
 was preferable to the sufferings she endured, she was determined to let Mr. 
 Barclay see what his villany had ended in, by swallowing the poison before 
 his face. 
 
 " For this purpose was it that she had the bottle in her bosom, and for this pur- 
 pose was it that sha ordered one of the servants to bring up a glass of Madeira as 
 has been stated in evidence. 
 
 " She met that servant upon the threshold of the bed-room. She took the wine 
 from her, and at once poured the deadly poison into it She let the bottle fall at 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 753 
 
 " What was she to do ? There she was alone with the dead, and the slightest 
 reflection must have told her that she would be suspected — as you see she has 
 been — of the crime. Who was to advkeher r Where was she to fly for succour? 
 It is not to be supposed, my lord and gentlemen of the jury, that a young girl, at 
 such a moment, would adopt the wisest course — nay, it would have been almost 
 suspicious had she done so. The verv indiscretion of her subsequent conduct 
 is in her favour. 
 
 " Of course, she ought to have alarmed the house, callled up the servants and 
 
 Wo 95. 
 
fH NKW0ATE. 
 
 given general publicity to the facts* But what did she do? She fled—fled 
 in terror — fled, she knew not where, and chance alone directed her to London. 
 
 '* Then there came calmer reason, and she wanted advice — who was she to fly 
 to for that advice — to her mother who had persuaded her into the unhappy 
 marriage i No. But to Edward Lancy, who loved her, and to whom she 
 had given her young heart's best affections ; and then commenced that calamitous 
 journey to Bristol, which made her conduct appear so criminal. 
 
 " When a young girl loves, the object of her attachment is, in her estimation, 
 the best, the greatest, and wisest of human beings, She invests him in her fancy 
 with a power that is gigantic. Can we wonder that she flew to Edward Lancy 
 for succour? You see, gentlemen of the jury, how a plain tale, unvarnished by 
 the eloquence of pathos, and completely unadorned by any of those tropes and 
 figures 1 might have brought to bear upon this sad domestic history, has put this 
 prosecution down. 
 
 " There needed no bits of practised oratory in a case like this — there needed no 
 appeal to your feelings. No, gentlemen of the jury, it is your judgment which I 
 rely upon for an acquittal." 
 
 CHAPTER CXLII. 
 
 THE VERDICT. 
 
 Perhaps the person most amazed in the court at what the counsel related, was 
 Marianna herself. She almost doubted the evidence of her own senses, and could 
 almost have believed that she* had dreamt her guilt, and that the state of the case 
 ,wa# really what it was stated by the counsel, who had certainly done his utmost 
 to screen her from the consequences of her crime. 
 
 Oh, how happy would she have been were it really so. If she could but have 
 brought herself to the belief that she were, innocent ; but alas ! that was a delusion, 
 and she had listened to the latter part of the counsel's addre&s with a feeling of 
 wondering curiosity at the ingenuity by which facts and occurrences were tortured 
 into the semblance of something widely different from what they really were. 
 
 There was a slight pause before any witnesses were called for the defence, and 
 then Marianna's counsel again rose, saying, — 
 
 " The first witness I shall call will be the captain of the vessel, who wrote to 
 Mr. Barclay that John Wilmot had been washed overboard in the storm." 
 
 This captain was accordingly produced, and he swore positively that he had 
 written that much to Mr. Barclay. 
 
 He was asked if he was quite sure by the attorney-general, upon which he got 
 quite angry, and asked him in return if he were quite sure he had two little pig- 
 tails to his wig, and that ended his cross-examination. 
 
 Lieutenant Mathews, who, upon the report of the proceedings in the news- 
 papers, had voluntarily come forward, now made his appearance, and he substan- 
 tiated all that the counsel had stated. 
 
 The attorney-general examined him. 
 
 " Did you write to your friend Edward Lancy at Bristol, to tell him the result 
 of your mission V 
 
 " No j Mrs. Barclay begged me not to do so." 
 " Did she give you any reason V' 
 " She did not." 
 
 " That will do, 1 have nothing further to say to you, sir.' 1 
 "And I," said Marianna's counsel, "have no more witnesses to call. I con- 
 sider the ease for the defence as complete as ever was brought into a court of 
 
NEWGATE, . 755 
 
 justice, and it is quite impossible that the highly intelligent jury that we have here 
 this day can come to any other conclusion." 
 
 Everybody expected a reply from the attorney -general, but he shook his head, 
 and looked up at the bench, saying, — 
 
 " I leave the case in your lordships' hands." 
 
 A stillness as of the very grave pervaded the court as the judge turned over his 
 notes preparatory to summing up the case to the jury. 
 
 " The prisoner at the bar," he said, " stands charged with the wilful murder 
 of Charles Barclay, her husband, between the hours of twelve and one o'clock on 
 the morning of the 15th instant. 
 
 " How or by what means the deceased Charles Barclay induced the prisoner at 
 the bar to become his lawful wedded wife, I am of opinion is quite irrelevent to 
 the present inquiry, and let those circumstances have been what they may, it does 
 not appear to me that they can, or may, in any shape whatever, militate for or 
 against the prisoner, as specially concerning her acts between the hours of twelve 
 and one on the 15th instant. 
 
 ** It appears that the prisoner was in a very different circumstance of life to the 
 deceased; but they were married upon the 14th instant, and by arrangement went 
 to Oak Villa, where the alleged crime took place, and whether it was good taste 
 or bad taste to have riotous and unruly friends to celebrate his wedding-day is 
 nothing to uaor the present inquiry. 
 
 " It appears that the deceased was fond of chemical pursuits, and thai he very 
 indiscretly kept deadly poisons in his house, which he more indiscreetly still 
 pointed out to other people, either from personal vanity at being the possessor of 
 that little learning which we are told is a dangerous thing, or from a confidence in 
 human nature not participated in by the wise. 
 
 " It is argued upon all hands that the prisoner was aware of the existence in 
 the house of these poisons, and where they were kept, and so, gentlemen of the 
 jury, we can hardly suppose that up to a late hour on that evening, had any no- 
 tion whatever of poisoning herself, or of poisoning her husband, and the affair 
 seemed to have been going on smoothly enough in their roughness until the arrival 
 of this Lieutenant Mathews with the extremely mal-apropos intelligence to the 
 prisoner at the bar, that her lover, whom she had supposed dead, was still alive, 
 and in ignorance of all the events which had taken place since his departure 
 from this country in the ship Neptune." 
 
 « if as reasonable beings, we are to sit here and endeavour to find evidence of 
 the commissioa of a very grevious offence, and that evidence should be so clear 
 and distinct, concerning the commission of the act, that there could be no doubt 
 on the mind of any reasonable man, it would then be scarcely in our province to 
 speculate upon the motives that induced the commission of that offence, but where 
 we have onlv circumstantial evidence, it is necessary to look into the circumstances 
 at large, for* the purpose of seeing if it lies within the probable plan of human ac- 
 tions, that the crime would have been committed by the individual charged 
 with it. 
 
 " There ean be no moral doubt whatever, gentlemen of the jury, that some very 
 great revulsion of feeling must have taken place in the mind of the prisoner 
 upon being informed of the continued existence of that individual whom she had 
 considered as dead. 
 
 " This revolution of feeling was in proportion to the strength of attachment she 
 had for that person, and whatever might have been her attachment to-him while 
 living, there can be no doubt but that his death much increased it. 
 
 " It seems, then, to be admitted upon all hands, that from this moment the 
 prisoner at the bar, conceived some desperate resolution, which ended in the death 
 of Mr. Barclay, and the point for your consideration, gentlemen, is whether that 
 result is a preconceived one or an accidental one. 
 
 " The whole question is narrowed down to that one consideration, did she in_ 
 tend to poison herself with the drugged wine, or did she intend to poison her hus„ 
 
 . - — — - — - 
 
756 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 band, Mr. Barclay? There are some considerations worth attending to, before we 
 come to a conclusion concerning that point. 
 
 " In the first place, we hear by the evidence of Lieutenant Matthews, that she 
 begged him not to make any communication to Edward Lancy, and the only motive 
 she could have had must have been one of two : either that she wished herself to 
 make the first communication to him, or that she wished, when he did hear her 
 story, that it should be softened and rendered pathetic by the news likewise of her 
 death. 
 
 '* Gentlemen, you will perceive that the first supposition is compatible with 
 the story told the counsel for the prisoner, but the second is not. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen, it certainly appears to me as rather a remarkable thing, that 
 a person contemplating suicide, and being possessed of a bottle containing a con- 
 centrated poison, should, instead of taking it there and then, upon the spot, order 
 a glass of madeira to be taken up stairs as a vehicle for its imbibation. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, I do not say that is impossible ; bat it is very re- 
 markable, gentlemen, that the innocent person should do exactly what we should 
 suppose the guiltv party would do, or think of doing — and the mere theatrical 
 motive of swallowing the poison in the presence of Mr. Barclay, requires a pecu- 
 liarly constituted mind to render it sufficiently explanatory of tie glass of madeira, 
 and the risk of weakening, if not neutralising, the. effects of the poison. 
 
 " We find, then, that after the unhappy circumstances which had resulted in the 
 death of Mr. Barclay, the prisoner at the bar, by a singular piece of fatality, took 
 every possible step to induce an assumption of her guilt ; but, if her mind had 
 been so intent upon suicide, there was still below this indiscreetly-got-up cabinet, 
 from which another dose could have been easily procured ; and we must conclude 
 that the prisoner seeing Mr. Barclay was no more, must have had reflection 
 enough to come to the conclusion that the barrier being removed between her 
 and her former lover, she need do nothing more desperate than to run to Bristol, 
 and cast herself into his arms. 
 
 M Gentlemen of the jury, it is not for me to prejudice this case ; my duty lies 
 precisely in another way. It is for you to decide whether the conduct of the pri- 
 soner at the bar, deposed to, on oath, by respectable witnesses, whom we have no 
 reason to doubt, is compatible with the ingenious and romantic story told by her 
 counsel. 
 
 *' We all know, gentlemen of the iury, that the truth is sometimes stranger than 
 fiction, and far be it from me to say that the defence of the prisoner be not one of 
 those strange truths. Indeed, it is my duty to tell you, gentlemen, if you feel any 
 doubt whatever, the prisoner is entitled to the benefit of that doubt ; for it is in ac- 
 cordance with the Knglish law, that ten guilty persons should be allowed to escape 
 the just punishment of their offences, rather than that one innocent individual should 
 be convicted wrongfully ; and so, gentlemen, I leave the casein your hands, being 
 convinced that you will bring to bear upon it a sound and merciful discretion.'' 
 
 CHAPTER CXLHI. 
 
 THK VERDICT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. — AN INTERRUPTION, 
 
 The address of the judge was listened to with such profound attention that even 
 when he ceased to speak, they still continued to listen, not quite certain his 
 charge was completely over. 
 
 A slight movement, however, in the jury box, convinced them that the fearfully 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 757 
 
 interesting trial had arrived at that point when, perhaps, a few moments would 
 declare life or death to the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 Almost* all eyes now became riveted upon Marianna, who sat in a strangely 
 fixed attitude, the general opinion being that she was quite unconscious of the 
 crisis which had been reached. 
 
 If her mind had not entirely given way before, it seemed now upon the point 
 of doing so, and there was scarcely any person in that crowded court who, if an 
 adverse verdict were returned against her, would have regretted to have been told 
 that her mental faculties had become submerged in her distresses, and she was 
 unconscious of the frightful perils of her situation. 
 
 During the trial quite enough had bten stated to tran^r almost all the sympathy 
 of the auditors from the dead to the living, and thos^ who commenced listening 
 to the inquiry with the opinion that Mr. Barclay r;as very much to be pited, 
 ended it by a strong conviction that Marianna w?.« a victim. 
 
 Every face but two in that court bore a painfully anxioas expression, and those 
 two were the judge's and Marianna's ; he made indifferent by professional prac- 
 tice, perhaps by a greater amount of tact in knowing exactly which way the thing 
 would go, while her indifference was the apathy oi despair, which had engulfed 
 all her faculties. 
 
 A quarter of an hour had elapsed, and still the jury were in anxious discussion. 
 The judge spoke, — 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, you can retire if you please and consider your verdict 
 more at leisure." 
 
 Almost as he uttered the words, the jury had turned and faced the court, and 
 the foreman in reply, said, — 
 
 " My lord, we have agreed upon our verdict." 
 
 The clerk of the arrains immediately rose, and in a monotonous voice in which 
 those gentlemen usually perform their functions, he said, — 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict ? do you find the 
 prisoner of the bar guilty or not guilty ?*' 
 
 " Guilty," said the foreman. 
 
 A strange sound came from the multitude of persons present — it was not a hiss, 
 and it was not a groan, but it seemed as if each individual had uttered a soft ex- 
 pression of pity, the aggregate of which had swelled up to the sound we have men- 
 tioned. 
 
 It was evident the officials of the court feared some ebullition of feeling, for 
 silence was vociferously demanded. 
 
 Marianna remained still immoveable, and evidently unconscious of her condem- 
 nation. 
 
 The judge still had his awful duties to perform, in pronouncing sentence upon 
 the prisoner, and even his usual indifference seemed to desert him, and his face 
 turned of a sallow whiteness. 
 
 Amid a silence, that if any one had closed their eyes, might have induced them 
 to think they were alone in that court, he spoke — 
 
 " Prisoner at the bar, you have had a fair and patient trial ; everything that 
 could be urged in your defence has, I believe, been conscientiously urged, and 
 there has been every disposition on the part of all who have been engaged in 
 those painful judicial proceedings, to give a favourable character to that 
 which has been so urged ; nevertheless, after a patient inquiry into the 
 circumstances, the jury have thought proper to find you guilty of a fearful 
 crime, and at this stage of the proceedings, I may say that it is a verdict in which 
 I fully concur, and it becomes my painful but necessary duty to pass upon you the 
 sentence of the law, which is, that you be hanged by the neck until you be dead, 
 and may you, in that world which is to come, meet with a mercy which the defec- 
 tive state of human nature, and the painful necessity for the enactment of strin- 
 gent laws for the proteclion of life and property, prevents us from awarding to you 
 ir* this world." , 
 
758 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 The jailor touched hereon the shoulder, but she moved not, although they saw 
 her lips slightly tremble. 
 
 " Come," he said, " you must follow me." 
 
 " Remove," said the judge., " remove her," and it was^evident, from his tone and 
 manner, that he was deeply affected. 
 
 " Come," said the jailor, " do you understand it is over." 
 
 " Hush," she said, " not another word. I have got their pistols. Surely Ed- 
 ward, in all your voyages you have seen some place where the world may look 
 for us in vain — some tranquil spot, shut in by the great ocean, and we shall be 
 happy." 
 
 These words were spoken with an exquisite pathos, that went to the hearts of 
 all who heard them. The judge himself was forced to speak in an unusually stern 
 tone, to cover his emotion, and the counsel for Marianna rose and said, — 
 
 " I trust, my lord, what you see now will induce your lordship to forward a 
 recommendation to the proper quarter to commute the sentence of death into one 
 of imprisonment, for the law can never contemplate the taking of the life of one be- 
 reft of reason,' 
 
 " That shall be seen to,'' said the judge. ''The sentence will be respited for a 
 week, and the conduct of the prisoner carefully watched in Newgate ; let her be 
 removed from the court, I beg.' 
 
 The principal turnkey had procured some assistance, and Marianna was forth- 
 with removed from where she sat, but before she could be removed from the court* 
 there was heard at its entrance a tremendous confusion an if some person was in- 
 tent upon forcing his way in whom it required great power to resist. 
 
 6( What is that ? what is that? said the judge, " this is most unseemly conduct 
 on the part of any individual. ' 
 
 And now there appeared at the door of the court, a man fighting his way like a 
 madman. In vain the officers flung themselves upon and tried to resist hi*, but 
 he beat them aside as if with the strength of a giant, and then in lond accents he 
 cried, — 
 
 " Marianna ! Marianna ! Marianna ! Marianna ! I have come to save 
 you." 
 
 " Edward/' she shrieked, and her countenance was lighted up with a world of 
 emotion. " It is he, 'tis Edward." 
 
 CHAPTER CXLIV. 
 
 THE FUTILE ATTEMPT. THE TWO CELLS. 
 
 So it was indeed Edward Lancy, who to the intense astonishment of Marianna, 
 and the fearful bewilderment of the officers, who all believed he was in safe custody 
 in Bristol, made his appearance in that court. 
 
 He was toil and travel- worn, and some of his garments hung in shreds about 
 him, and he had all the appearance about him of having done, what he really hnd 
 done, namely, walked all the way from Bristol, after having in the most daring 
 and hazardous manner broken out of gaol in the former place, where he-had been 
 thought to be so perfectly secure. 
 
 Probably nothing at that time but the voice of Edward Lancy would have reco- 
 vered her from that fearful stupor, but that well-known beloved voice, like a magic 
 spell, had at once produced its magic effect, and had roused her to something like 
 a consciousness of where she was." 
 
 " Hold off, hold off," he cried to the officers who still crowded round him and 
 endeavoured to secure him, " hold off, and I will do no harm to any one. I come 
 to save her ; Marianna, I will save you." 
 
NEWGATE. m 
 
 "Take that man iuto custody,'* said the judge. 
 
 "Ifc* no," cried Marian aa, "he at least is innocent. Let one victim suffice." 
 f* Yes, yes," cried Edward, "let one victim suffice. Let the guilty suffer, I con- 
 fess the crime." 
 
 u What crime ? " cried Marianna 's counsel . 
 
 " The murder of Mr. Barclay. Let that young girl go free — it was 1 who did 
 the deed. Who would accuse himself of murder wrongfully ? Do I not know the 
 consequence ? But can I see the innocent suffer ? J-<et her go, and let my life 
 pay the forfeit to the offended laws." 
 
 * e No, Edward — no, Edward," said Marianna; " live yet, and let me be em- 
 balmed in your remembrance as one who loved you. We shall meet again, Edward, 
 I shall but go before to that world where we shall meet again." 
 
 " Young man," said the judge to Edward Lancy, " you interrupt most indeco- 
 rously the proceedings of this court, and without knowing or wishing to know 
 more of you, I give you into present custody for that offence. Officers, remove 
 Mm." 
 
 " Yes, yes— but hear me. Do I not charge myself with murder — do I not tell 
 you that Marianna is innocent, and that I did the deed? I will show you with 
 great particularity how I did the deed, but you must let her go." 
 
 The judge shook his head. 
 
 "This is yery lamentable— very lamentable indeed,' , he said ; " very grievous t° 
 all right-minded and right-thinking people. Officers, do your duty." 
 
 " Nay, only a moment," cried Edward, as he struggled with the officers ; ** only 
 a moment, my lord judge, and I will tell you how I did the deed. Surely, surely 
 if I confess the deed and she denies the act, justice cannot doubt or falter.' 
 
 It seemed that Marianna had only for a very small period of time been recalled 
 to a true consciousness of her existence, for by the very next word she uttered she 
 shewed that the past, in her estimation, filled up the present, and the present was 
 too like a dubious dream to lay a firm hold upon her imagination. 
 
 "Oh, Edward," she said, "you have come to me at last. What shall prevent 
 us from living happy now ? Shall we not go far from here, and make our home 
 in some island in the ocean ? Speak, Edward ; tell me that you know of some 
 gentle spot where the foot of man hath not yet trodden, but where we, despite all 
 the frowns of fortune, may make a very Eden of delight. Hush ! What noise is 
 that ? They pursue us, but I have the pistols ; yes, I have the pistols ! How 
 the boat rocks in the billowy ocean ! Faster, faster, Edward ; let us skim through 
 the blue ocean. Oh, Edward, if we cannot live together, we can die together." 
 
 " Great Heaven, you hear her," cried Edward Lancy. " Are there such fiends 
 in human shape as could sacrifice her? Oh, no, no ! Impossible, impossible !" 
 
 The judge made another sign to the officers, which imperatively demanded of 
 them to clear the court, and overpowering Edward Lancy by numbers, they dragged 
 him through a narrow doorway, and closed it upon him. 
 
 Almost at the same instant several of the turnkeys carried Marianna from the 
 bar, and those fearful proceedings might be considered at an end, as far so that 
 judge, that jury, and those spectators were concerned, 
 
 Edward Lancy could have now but one melancholy consolation, and that was 
 ; that he was not separated by many miles of country from Marianna, but was be- 
 I neath tile same roof with her, although that roof was the fearful and terror -striking 
 I one of Newgate. 
 
 Marianna that beautiful being who had seemed to be formed for the purpose of 
 showing the world what loveliness really was, but had met with so fearfully an 
 adverse fate, was conducted at once to a condemned cell, and there left alone to 
 I the meditations which in so far as they might partake of the wild and the imagi- 
 native, would be a mercy. 
 
 Such an opinion did the officers entertain of the daring and desperate character 
 of Edward Lancy, conjoined to his being really a very powerful young man, that 
 I he was recommended to very close custody, and it was thought expedient likewise 
 
760 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 to place him in one of the condemned cells, so that he really was not far^rom 
 
 Marianna. 
 
 The day has passed away, and a rainy night has come on, the murky shower de- 
 scended upon the walls of old Newgate, getting up a drowsy, dreamy sort of sound, 
 as it patted against them, which penetrated into its deepest cells, reaching the ears 
 of many a heart-stricken wretch separated within those gloomy walls from the rest 
 of human nature. 
 
 Let us look how Edward Lancy was occupied that evening. 
 
 For a time he sat in the cell completely motionless, as if his faculties were 
 entirely stunned by what had taken place. 
 
 He had been told that Marianna was convicted, and that information had 
 been the summing up of all the terrific that the subject could afford to his imagi- 
 nation. It had come like a direct and tangible blow upon his heart, and no wonder 
 that for a considerable time he was incapable of anything in the shape of 
 reflection. 
 
 The silence and solitude of the place he was in, however, were beneficial cir- 
 cumstances to him, and gradually his mind recovered, so that he was at length 
 capable of not only fully understanding the situation in which he had placed 
 himself already, but to calculate some of its probable results. 
 
 " My lodging here," he said, w is but temporary, and in the morning I 
 expect I shall be taken back to Bristol under such an escort as shall prevent the 
 possibility of an escape. Oh, what frantic delusion it was in me to think for a 
 moment that I could save Marianna by affecting to be guilty myself. ,, 
 
 Edward Lancy was right there. It was a wild thought, and as wildly exe- 
 cuted, and under its influence only, had he been able to undergo the great 
 fatigue he had gone through in traversing so immense a tract of country on foot, 
 and that too in an incredibly shoit period of time. 
 
 Another hour still passed away, and still he sat moodily thinking. He felt 
 that his situation was most desperate, as was likewise Marianna's, and that 
 nothing now could possibly place them in a worse position. 
 
 This was a conviction that was extremely likely to get up in his mind a million 
 strange projects, and he certainly did think of some of the most improbable and 
 extraordinary things that could come to the mind of man. 
 
 But at length his imagination and his reason both began to take one particular 
 channel, and his mind flew back to all the earliest histories, from childhood up to 
 th it time he had heard or read concerning prison escapes. 
 
 "Have not persons," he said, " found their way from dungeons, under the 
 most adverse and disastrous circumstances, from impregnable fortresses ? and 
 zealously guarded prisoners of war have made their way with no other weapons 
 in this world but courage and tact— the energy to seize circumstances as they 
 occur, and absolutely to force them into favourable combinations." His blood 
 began to stir a little, and he paced the narrow confines of his cell. " Newgate," 
 he said, V 'tis true I am in Newgate — but have there been no escapes from New- 
 gate? Have no bold hearts and ready hands found their way out of this recep- 
 tacle of misery ? Has human ingenuity so encompassed this place with strength 
 that it may not be forced ? I will scarcely think that. 
 
 " Newgate ! Why the very name appals the unhappy, and they lie down 
 supinely bearing their fate when once within its horrible walls. But shall 1 do so? 
 Wherefore should I do so ? Why should I not recal that courage which, under so 
 many circumstances, has served me, — shall I attempt nothing because the attempt 
 is difficult, and the success is very doubtful ? No, let that rather be an additional 
 inducement to me to use greater energy, and to v offer greater resistance to what 
 may happen. 
 
 " t Tis true that I am unaided — that I have no arms — that I am rather chary 
 of taking human life — but you are here, my Marianna, you are here, and for the 
 chance c f discovering you, even amid the horrors of this place, I will yet make 
 some des perate attempt at freedom." 
 
 The desire to rescue himself, and to rescue Marianna, grew [each moment 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 761 
 
 strength, till at last it was quite clear that, come what might of the attempt, the 
 attempt would be made, and^that, too, with the grand elements of all success- 
 energy and decision. " I surely can lay claim to both." 
 
 CHAPTER CXLV. 
 
 EDWARD LANCY's ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE PROM NEWGATE, 
 
 Edward Lancy now recollected that he had been visited by a turnkey very 
 shortly after he was placed in his cell — a circumstance which at that time had not 
 made much impression upon him, but which now entered at large into his calcu- 
 lations. 
 
 He felt quite confident that some hours must have elapsed since that visit — and 
 as it is no part of prison regulations in this country to neglect those who come 
 
 No, 96. 
 
762 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 under the laws here, he felt quite certain in a short time he should be again visited 
 
 for the purpose of bringing him refreshment. 
 
 He recollected, likewise, that the man who had before visited his eell had a 
 large bundle of keys hanging at his girth, with one of which he had doubtless 
 opened that very cell ; and he recollected that this man made the remark to him 
 that he was in one of the condemned cells, but that it didn't matter as he wouldn't 
 be there long, in allusion to his being taken from thence to Bristol. 
 
 All this had been heard by Edward Lancy, but heard in that kind of dreamy 
 manner, that a person hears things in which they take no great interest, but which 
 just effect a lodgment in the memory, and may eventually be speculated upon. 
 
 Now, indeed, those recurred to him as words of importance, and they gave 
 birth to ideas which otherwise would not have found a home in his breast. 
 
 "I am in a condemned cell," he said, ''by the accident of circumstances, 
 although I am not condemned; but Marianna is in a condemned cell, because 
 she is condemned. Who knows but she may be my near neighbour ? Oh, that my 
 voice could reach her. But hush! hush ! I must not indulge in such fancies — 
 this is the period of action, not for dreamy thought. I cannot hope to be able to 
 rescue her, but it will be a great thing to breathe some words of comfort to her — 
 to tell her, whatever may be the opinions of the world concerning her, that I love 
 her still— surely I could rob this night of some of its gloom." 
 
 Edward Lancy was the very soul of generosity and honour, and to commit an 
 injustice was, in his estimation, a most sad consummation, and he had great dif- 
 ficulty in reasoning himself into the belief that it was necessary, under his present 
 circumstances, to do a seeming wrong. 
 
 " From the world's beginning," he said, u individuals have been sacrificed to 
 system., and in the pursuit of objects in themselves great and glorioug, it would 
 scarcely do to pause because some evil would be done. By a sudden attack upon 
 that turnkey I might possess myself of his keys.'* 
 
 It will now be seen which way ^he thoughts of Edward Lancy were tending. 
 
 Probably he was scarcely so extravagant as to think escape to be within the 
 verge of probability. No; he fixed his mind upon a minor, and to him a great 
 object, and that was to see Marianna. 
 
 He thought if he could accomplish that, he might breathe some woids to her 
 which would almost reconcile her to her destiny, by letting her feel the individual 
 for whom she had made such sacrifices, appreciated those sacrifices in their 
 proper spirit, and was far from condemning the heart that had loved him too 
 well. 
 
 It would, indeed, have been hard if she had met with reproach from Edward 
 Lancy ; as he said, — 
 
 "No; let her criminality in the world's eye be what it may, she is still dear, 
 very dear to me, and I will not condemn her !" 
 
 " There was a time when at the mere mention of the crime of which she now 
 stands charged and convicted, I should have shuddered with horror, but I have 
 learned to make allowance for what I now know more of than I used to know — 
 human nature." 
 
 He was interrupted in these cogitations by hearing the sound of a footstep, 
 and the idea at once possessed him that if his schemes were to be executed, it must 
 be done at once. 
 
 He trembled ; but it was not with apprehension, but it was with a conviction-— 
 a conviction which he could not entirely stifle — that he was really about to commit 
 an act of gross injustice towards a man who was merely doing his duty, by 
 making, what must be in order to be an efficient one, a furious attack upon the 
 turnkey. 
 
 The footsteps came nearer still. 
 
 " It must be done," he said. " Yes, for thy sake, Marianna, it must be done — 
 not done with rigour, but yet done effectually/' 
 
 He waited just within the cell door, and in another moment he heard the key 
 turn in the lock. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 763 
 
 He felt that if he deliberated, he could not do it, it was so cold blooded a thing ; 
 so if it had to be done at all, it had to be done furiously and done at once. 
 
 " Well," said the turnkey as he opened the door, ** how do you find yourself 
 by this time ?" 
 
 With one blow Edward Lancy laid him senseless upon the threshold of the cell, 
 but probably the blow itself would have been insufficient to insure such a result, 
 had not the turnkey struck his head against the stones, receiving a blow that 
 rendered him perfectly quiescent. 
 
 The small lantern which the man had with him, and which was fastened 
 with a leathern belt round his waist, was not extinguised. Lancy possessed 
 himself of it in a moment, and then taking a bunch of keys, he commenced hur- 
 riedly fitting them to the lock, to see which was most applicable to the condemned 
 cell. Scarcely a minute elapsed before he found the proper key, and so far he 
 certainly had accomplished all his purposes. 
 
 It was a brief moment of exultation suddenly quenched, for he heard another 
 footstep, and he saw the glimmer of another light. He was not aware that the 
 turnkeys visited the cells in pairs, and that it was the merest accident in the 
 world that the man he had knocked down was without his mate. 
 
 What was he to do ? It was much more from impulse than from reflection 
 that he suddenly dragged the miserable turnkey within the cell, and Suddenly 
 closed the door. About a minute elapsed — a minute of awful anxiety, and then 
 there came a tap outside the cell door, and a hoarse voice cried, — 
 
 " Hilloa, prisoner, have you been visited ?" 
 
 " Yes,^ said Edward Laneey. 
 
 " The deuce you have," said the voice ; 11 Where's my mate, I wonder ? Bill, 
 Bill, I say. Well, you've gone your round in an amazing hurry/' 
 
 Edward Lancy listened, and he heard the retreating footsteps of the man, and 
 a feeling of great thankfulness came across him that this turnkey had not thought 
 it worth his while to look into the cell, for if he had done that, all must have been 
 discovered. 
 
 There was certainly now a little breathing time, but it might not be for long, 
 inasmuch as there was of course a strong probability that the absence of the 
 turnkey would soon be discovered, and lead to an investigation that would point 
 out the truth. 
 
 Feeling quite assured of this, Edward Lancy with the lantern in one hand and 
 the key in the other, continued his investigation with an anxious hope of disco- 
 vering the key that would fit the doors of the other cells, and that in one of them 
 he should find the object of his search. 
 
 Any one at all acquainted with the interior of Newgate is aware that those 
 called the condemned cells, and which at this present day are only used for the 
 confinement of the refractory prisoners of all denominations, are situated together, 
 and along one side of a small court-yard. From this court yard there is a narrow 
 passage, and at right angles to that another parellel to the couft yard, and in 
 that latter, we find the enfrances to these condemned cells, so that the back of 
 these cells is in this court-yard, from whence it receives an inefficient light. 
 
 They are all much of the same size and proportion, and at that time, and it may 
 be so now likewise for all We can say to the contrary, one key could fit every 
 lock. 
 
 With what joyful eagerness, and yet with what great agitation, did Ed ward 
 Laney try the lock of the next cell door. It opened readily ; but a pang of disap- 
 pointment shot across his soul, for the cell was vacant ; but to fly to the next was 
 the work of a moment. Vacant ! vacant ! still. 
 
 " Great Heaven," he cried, " where can they have bestowed hef ? Marianna ! 
 Marianna! am I never to see thy face again ? Marianna! Marianna! cannot you 
 bear the voice of him who loves you. Speak, oh, speak^! 1 shall hear the fainjest 
 whisper of your well-known voice. Marianna ! my Marianna !" 
 
 Another cell was opened, and Edward Lancy staggered beneath the superadded 
 diiappointment of finding that likewise empty, 
 
764 
 
 NEWGATE, 
 
 He paused at the next door, and a chilling faintness came over him. 
 
 " She's not here," he said ; oh, she's not here; — 'tis all in vain, I shall not 
 again look upon her once agaiD. She is not here— she is not here." 
 
 Despairingly he turned the key in the lock, It shot back with a harsh and 
 grating sound. He flung the door open and held up the light above ; its rays fell 
 upon what appeared to be a heap of white apparel in the further corner of 
 the cell. 
 
 CHAPTER CXLVI. 
 
 THE LAST INTERVIEW. 
 
 Minute after minute elapsed, and there stood Edward Lancy gazing upon that 
 immoveable mass of white clothing, the lamp shaking in his hand, as though all 
 nervous energy had departed from him. 
 
 «< Dead ! dead ! dead V he at length gasped. " Dead— is it she—and has 
 death already done its work?'* 
 
 With an unsteady step he tottered into the cell ; he sank down upon his knees 
 by the white object. . He placed aside the mass of clustering ringlets that had 
 escaped from their confinement. He gazed upon the pale and still countenance of 
 Marianna. 
 
 " Never more — never more," he cried, in drooping accents, " wili those lips 
 discourse sweet music. Never more will those eyes beam with radiance that was 
 of heaven. She is lost to me, lost to me for ever." 
 
 His tears fell upon her face like rain, and it might have been that in her seeming 
 trance of death his voice had reached her sense of hearing, or those tears falling 
 like gentle dews upon her face had some wondrous influence. Her eyes opened, 
 and a gentle sigh came from her surcharged heart. 
 
 " She lives — she lives !" he cried ; " who shall tear her from my arms ! Mari- 
 anna — mv Marianna, — in joy, in sorrow, in grief or pain, or extacies, still still 
 
 my own." 
 
 She could not speak — she knew him — for a faint smile played across her 
 features and a glance of ineffable joy danced in her eyes ; the cell door was opened, 
 and a current of fresh air, cool and invigorating, came from the stone passages 
 beyond. That air recovered her greatly, so that in a few minutes, she was able 
 to pronounce his name. 
 
 f Edward, Edward ! it is indeed Edward*?" 
 
 " Yes, Marianna! yes, once more I clasp you in my arms. Ah, Marianna! 
 what is all the world to me— could you dream that I loved you not— forbear such 
 treason to the fondest, purest affection, that ever warmed a human breast." 
 
 '* Oh, Edward, Edward ! I will close my eyes, and will not ask you where we 
 are. Let me rest upon your breast, and let me dream I hear the sono- of 
 forest birds, and the gentle murmuring whisper of the foliage." 
 
 " Marianna." 
 
 " Hush, hush ! dispel not the delusion. There are no cold stone walls around 
 us now." 
 
 The spell that had bound|him to the spot — the forgetfulness of the moment, that 
 had made him happy, had gone. 
 
 "Cold stone walls !" he cried. "God of Heaven! let me think; we are in 
 Newgate. Marianna, there is a hope — so faint a hope — so very faint that it will 
 scarcely bear the telling. But mark ! we may — we may escape. Come away 
 — come away from here ; there is no alarm yet — all is stili. There are, surely, 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 765 
 
 myriads of old intricate hiding-places in this vast pile, and we may find some such 
 in which to hide. Come, my Marianna, there is a winding passage — I marked it 
 as I came— I saw the black dust resting upon its stones. It may lead to liberty— 
 and it may not lead to such a glorious consummation. It may lead yet to some 
 concealment where, for a time, we may enjoy all thet earth has left us now — the 
 sympathy of kindred souls.'' 
 
 *' We can, at least, die together." 
 
 " Yes, yes, we can die together — yes, Marianna. Ah, that I could die for 
 thee." 
 
 " No, no, Edward, let me die— live to be happier ; and think of your poor 
 Marianna, as one who played the game of life badly." 
 
 " Marianna, you yet know me not. Can it be that you should think me happy 
 even in time to come, if I could survive you ?" 
 
 " Yes, Edward, yes ; does not time cure all wounds 
 
 " A slow physician, Marianna, death is kinder and quicker.*' 
 Edward, Edward, I implore you, do not pause to reason with me upon this 
 theme, but fly at once. A recollection of what has happened has come back to 
 me, and now I understand all. It is for me, Edward, that you are suffering ; and 
 unimpeded by me, you may yet escape." 
 
 " No, Marianna, it is you who will give me strength ; with you I can brave a 
 world." 
 
 " Edward, Edward, hear me ; these may be my last words to you ; and if they 
 are such, remember they are to implore you to fly. I am past human aid, and may 
 not cling to you but to drag you down, as some strong swimmer may be engulphed 
 in the deep waters by some trembling wretch in his despairing agony." 
 
 Hush ! no more, no more ! I have sworn it to Heaven, that I will live or 
 die with you, and you will not ask me, Marianna, to break my oath." 
 
 The manner in which he uttered these words was quite sufficient to convince her 
 that all further appeals would be in vain. She sunk sobbing hysterically on his 
 breast, and from that moment she talked no more of parting. 
 
 "Lean upon me, lean upon me," he said, and come quickly — this way, Mari- 
 anna ; you perceive that I have a light : let us leave the cell. What a chance this 
 has been, that has left us yet so far unmolested." 
 
 They left the cell together, and got into the long narrow passage from which 
 they might have proceeded to the court-yard, had it been their wish to do so, but 
 Edward Lancy guessed there was no chance of escape in that direction, and he 
 preferred diving more into the interior of the prison. 
 
 Why or wherefore it was so he scarcely himself knew ; but he had become 
 attracted by the sight of a narrow gloomy passage which he had noticed upon 
 being conducted to his cell, and which by the slight glance he had received of it, 
 did not seem to have been traversed for many a day. 
 
 Great misfortunes often endue feelings of superstition, which else would find no 
 home in the heart, and it was quite pardonable in Edward Lancy that he should 
 think that till this moment some special providence pointed out to him that narrow 
 passage as a road to freedom. 
 
 " Come, come," he said, " let us be quick — all our hopes may hang upon a few 
 moments' speed," 
 
 And thus it was that he hurried her on, but as he passed his own cell door, he 
 saw that there was a tolerably heavy iron bar hanging by a hook and so con- 
 structed that it could be removed at pleasure. To possess himself of it was but 
 the work of a moment. It was a powerful weapon, and no one could be said to 
 be unarmed while it was in their possession. 
 
 They had not gone many paces now, before they heard a solemn bell, solemn to 
 them, as it was brought to them through thick stone walla which surrounded them, 
 but not solemnly told, for the strokes were rapid and rather indicative of some alarm. 
 
 The fact was, that the turnkey was missed, and this was a signal, understood 
 by all the officials of the prison, and which meant that, they should be vigilant 
 beyond the common amount of vigilance, for something was amiss. 
 
766 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 Neither Marianna nor Edward Lancy could doubt for a moment but that the 
 sound of that bell indicated some alarm ; but what it precisely meant — \* bether 
 it were pursuit, caution, or calling together the officials of the prison— they, of 
 course, had no knowledge. 
 
 It had the effect, however, of greatly increasing their speed, and they went 
 rapidly down the narrow passage. 
 
 A disappointment, however, rose very speedily, and averted them ; for, before 
 they had got many paces into that gloomy recess, tbey were stopped by a mas- 
 sive door, which seemed effectually to bar their progress. 
 
 " We are lost," said Marian Da. 
 
 " No, no — not yet. If you can leave the support of my arm for a moment, I 
 think I may soon remove this barrier to our path." 
 
 The lock of the door, which was fastened on to the other side, was very ponder- 
 ous. The key-hole was immense ; so much so, indeed, that Edward could easily 
 put the end of the iron bar into it, — so that at once he had a powerful leverage ; 
 and both the iron work and wood work of the door being old and rotten, the lock 
 almost immediately gave way to the large power bronght against tt. 
 
 The door shook ; then there was a crashing sound, and instantly the door creaked 
 upon its hinges ; a current of air — cold, but apparently loaded with noisome ex- 
 halations — blew upon their faces, and threatened the extinction of the lamp ; but 
 it survived the blast, and, leaning once more upon the arm of Edward Lancy, 
 Marianna, with trembling eagerness, pressed onwards. Edward did not, however, 
 forget the precautionary measure of closing the door behind them ; so that, to the 
 eye, it would have the appearance of being still fast, though not to the touch; 
 
 CHAPTER XCLVII. 
 
 NEWGATE BEWKATH THE SUHFACE. 
 
 They could not but pause a moment now to listen attentively and anxiously, in 
 order to ascertain directly if any one was following up that passage. 
 
 It was a great relief to find that the footsteps passed on, and died away in the 
 distance. 
 
 " Marianna," said Edward Lancy, " we are safe for at least a time. Do yoo 
 not hear our pursuers are passed on ?" 
 
 " Yes, Edward ; yes, Edward, for a time ; but whither will these dreary passages 
 lead us? Oh, Edward, are they not dungeons of themselves?" 
 
 " They are dungeon-like, Marianna ; but still there is a greater freedom in tra- 
 versing them than we could possibly enjoy in the aetual dungeon from whicn you 
 have escaped. Hope, my Marianna — hope still for happier days.''' 
 
 " Is it possible, Edward, "from your lips I hear these words ? Can you still 
 cherish the delusion that we can- be happy t A Las, alas, Edward, the happiest days 
 we can see are past and gone, and the light of their joy will shine upon us no 
 more." 
 
 " I will not despond while we are together. . Lean upon me, Marianna, and let 
 us proceed." 
 
 Clasping one of his arms with both her hands, and trembling at his side, she 
 proceeded with him down the narrow passage, on the floor of which the black dust 
 lay so thick, that it felt to the touch like snow; and ever and anon their way was 
 impeded by spiders' webs of enormous length and consistency. 
 
 Edward Lancy held up the light as high as he could above his head, and that 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 767 
 
 was nearly as high as the arch ceiling of the place in which they were, so that 
 they could see tolerably well, although the atmosphere in that place was by no 
 means favourable to combustion, and the lantern was far from burning cheerfully 
 and bright. It was well though they had the light at all, for without it a fearful j 
 accident might have happened to them, and as it was, they only just perceived in 
 time, that there was a deep and very nearly a perpendicular staircase before them, 
 the black chasm occasioned by which was but a trifle darker than the dust that 
 begrimed floor on which they trod. 
 
 Marianna trembled, and clung convulsively to her companion. 
 
 " Oh ! Edward," she said, "must we descend so fearful a place as this." 
 
 tf My Marianna, our own fears may make it fearful, but surely darkness has no! 
 real terrors, but those with which the imagination chooses to people it." 
 
 H And yet I tremble, Edward ; yet I tremble." 
 
 f Are you not with me ? And are we not all the world to eaeh^other ? Are we not 
 both desolate except in our own love ? Oh, Marianna, what is darkness — what is 
 gloom of place compared with that mental night of the feelings which would be 
 ours if we were separated." 
 
 " Those words are true, Edward ; anywhere, anywhere with thee, and I wil* 
 think that it is sunshine." 
 
 She clung closer to him, and she did not tremble so much as she had trembled ; 
 he encircled her slender waist with his arm, and thus partially supported her as 
 they slowly descended the staircase. 
 
 The stairs were narrow, and afforded but a slight foothold. Edward counted as 
 he descended, and found that there were forty, and when he reached the flooring 
 below, it felt more like earth trodden hard, and the air was very chill and damp. 
 
 "This must be a portion," said Edward, "of the Newgate that is under ground, 
 and of which much has been said, of which so little is known. I have heard, 
 Marianna, that there are* vaults, and dangerous, gloomy, well-like excavations ; 
 beneath the ponderous pile of stone that constitutes the edifice of upper Newgate, jC 
 that have been unexplored for many years, but surely there must be some outlets 
 different from that which seemed to us a means of egress. 
 
 "If ever," said Marianna, "dismal places like these should be explored, surely 
 it should be by such as we are." 
 I " And why so, Marianna ?" 
 
 j "Because, Edward, what have we to fear? We fly from death, so that if we 
 meet it here in some form, it is but what we expected in a more ungracious form. 
 We have all the chances, Edward, of bettering the saddest of all conditions, and 
 our condition being such, can we make it worse V* 
 
 "You are right ; that is true philosophy. Do you not think that the lantern 
 burns brighter here. It seems to me, too, as if there was some current of cold air, ' 
 so. cold and pure that it must come through some opening leading into the open 
 atmosphere. Oh, what a hope does it not- inspire. Who knows after all, Mari- ! 
 anna, but that this passage may lead us to liberty." 
 
 The walls of the place they were now in were of much ruder construction than 
 those above ; heavy blocks of stone seemed to have been placed regardless of how; 
 their rugged edges might stand forth, spoiling the symmetry of the whole con-j 
 struction. The arched roof alone bore the appearance of more advanced art, and| 
 the appearances of entire desertion of the place for many years were more marked j 
 and a thousand times more loathsome than the passages above* 
 
 White shining looking fungi were growing upon the walls and in every corner. ! 
 The spiders webs were of a peculiar and strange colour, and slimy insects seemed! 
 to thrive and grow bloated in that apparently unpropitious place. 
 
 Now and then, there was a rushing rustling sound, and two or three rats, grown 1 
 hoary and gigantic, would dart screaming past our adventurous explorers. 
 
 On these occassions, Marianna would cling just a little closer to the arm of Ed- 5 
 ward Lancy, and give a scarcely perceptible shudder, at what under happier cir- 
 cumstances would have excited a much larger amount of terror,, hut misfortune 
 robs the mind of a great portion of its perception of the disagreeable, and that 
 
768 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 i young lady-like feeling, which a few months since might have caused a shriek at 
 he approach of an insect or a loathsome reptile, was now crusned. 
 
 It was Marianna who at length pointed out to Edward that the passage they 
 were in was a sort of corridor, and that they passed by several low, arched doors, 
 which opened from it on either side. Tbey paused in indecision, as to whether 
 they should open one of those doors or proceed onwards. 
 
 "They are old dungeous, Marianna; they are nothing but old dungeons," said 
 Edward Lancy, "and have, no doubt, been tlong since disused. Nevertheless, 
 if this good iron bar will assist me so far, I will willingly penetrate into one of 
 them." 
 
 The doors were low and arched, and seemed to be entirely composed of blackened 
 wood ; but what was the most surprising thing connected with them wag, there 
 was no fastening of any kind or description discernible ; in fact, they were not 
 fastened at all — those doors were hanging idly on their hinges, and by getting hold 
 of one of them below, there being sufficient opening between it and the door, 
 Edward Lancy found that it yielded at once, although rather harshly, owing to the 
 rusty state of the hinges. 
 
 The difficulty of getting into the dungeon, if it were such, was, however, very 
 I little decreased, if any, by the removal of this door, for it was within that again 
 t that appeared the real portal, and was all over clumped with pieces of iron, and 
 I apparently immoveable as a rock. 
 
 Without stopping to waste time in bootless conjectures as to what sort of service 
 the outer door could possibly have been of, Edward Lancy bent all his energies to 
 its demolition, a feat which, if it were to be accomplished at all, was certainly 
 likely to be so by the powerful weapon he had to do it with. 
 
 For some time he found a difficulty in getting a hold for the point of the bar of j 
 iron, but after a series of blows, he accomplished that purpose, and then his work 
 became rapid and easy. 
 
 The plates of iron themselves were in many cases completely oxidated, while j 
 the woodwork was so completely rotten , that it came away in powder before the touch 
 of the iron bar, and certainly not more than five minutes were consumed in the j 
 destruction of the door. 
 
 It was well that Marianna, to whom Edward Lancy had given the lantern to ( 
 hold, was not standing in the current of foetid air which came from this dungeon, J 
 for dungeon it was, when the door was destroyed ; if she had been, it is probable the j 
 light would have been extinguished, aWcl that she herself would have suffered most j 
 serious inconvenience. 
 
 That awful mephitical atmosphere sufficiently proved there was no outlet to ! 
 the dungeons, and they stood on one side pausing for a few minutes until the air 1 
 should become sufficiently mixed with the cool draught of the passages to enable i 
 them to breathe it with safety. 
 
 They thought as they then stood, that several strange sounds came from ■ 
 the dungeon, but such might be very easily accounted for by the supposition that 
 even such a loathsome place as that was not absolutely inimical to some species of 1 
 animal life. 
 
 "Let us enter," said Marianna. 
 
 CHAPTER CXLV1II. 
 
 THE VICTIM OF THE DUNGEON. 
 
 They crossed the threshold of the dungeon, and Edward Lancy, who had re- 
 possessed himself of the light, turned it slowly round, so that its reflector afforded 
 them a "succession of pictures of that most gloomy place. 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 769 
 
 It seemed to be a mere earthen excavation, the walls of which appeared to be 
 made durable by large flint stones embedded in them. A pool of water stood in 
 one quarter which seemed to have oozed up from below, and 
 mass of black rotten looking straw, and it was towards that latter object that the 
 curiosity of both Marianna and Edward Lancey was directed. 
 
 As if they had agreed to do so and with one accord, although they said nothing, 
 they slowly approached that mass of corruption which they felt had been at one 
 time the dreary bed of some wretched prisoner. 
 
 XrHvery species of gUy ^"'^T^^ who had 
 
 No. 97. 
 
770 
 
 NEWGATE. 
 
 been deputed to do so ; for there certainly lay those remains, a ghastly mass of 
 steaming corruption. 
 
 The man had evidently not been moved since his death, for there he lay;, par- 
 tially drawn up, as if, in his last agony, fome convulsive movement of the limbs 
 had laken place, and there got fixed in the rigidity of death. 
 
 The sight, was an awful one— a sight to shun lest the imagination in time to 
 come should be infected by its tenors ; but yet they both continued gazing at 
 it for several minutes, as if fascinated by its horrors, and totally unable to tear 
 themselves away. 
 
 It was Edward at last, who, by a violent effort, turned from the hideous sight, 
 > and half carrying Marianna, they both reached the passage again, from which they 
 new regretted they had emerged to look at anything so truly horrible. 
 
 Not a word passed the lips of either of them regarding the fearful spectacle. 
 They left the door of the dungeon open up the narrow tortuous passage in which 
 they found themselves. 
 
 But now a new source of deep anxiety began to take possession of Edward 
 Lancy, for when he spoke to Marianna he found that she answered him in a weak 
 and faint voice, as if her strength were failing — he felt too that she hung more 
 heavily upon his arm, and all the terror of her becoming seriausly indisposed came 
 over him, with its dreadful consequences. 
 
 " Marianna — Marianna," he cried, " you are ill ?" 
 
 " No, no," she said, " not yet j I can bear up yet a little longer." 
 
 " A little — only a little — what is to become of us 
 
 " Hark 1" she said, suddenly, K hark ! What do you hear, Edward % Oh ! they 
 are coming to drag me to a scaffold, and consign me 10 a death too horrible to 
 contemplate. Edward, save me — you said that you would save me." 
 Hush, my Marianna— be calm. I hear nothing." 
 
 Even as he spoke, he found reason to contradict his own assertion, for he heard 
 the tramp of feet and the hum of voices. He fel)t certain that the marks of their 
 footsteps had been seen in the dust, and that they could be pursued now with 
 most unerring accuracy. 
 
 A species of desperation came over his mind, and the idea at last, after all that 
 had been gone through, all that had been attempted, of being taken, was indeed gall 
 f and wormwood to his spirit. 
 
 S " Come on — come on — Marianna," he cried, ,£ nerve yourself to proceed. These 
 passages may yet lead to safety ; there is no chance oi safety but in progression." 
 The danger was imminent, and for a few moments it seemed that the feelings of 
 indisposition and fatigue that had come oyer Marianna were vanquished by the 
 dread of capture— capture from which she had everything to fear, and nothing to 
 hope. 
 
 " Edward, Edward," she cried, " rather yourself kill me than let me fall into the 
 hands of those who, with all the horrible calmness of judicial ceremony, would 
 take my life. Kill me, Edward, and I shall yet say you have saved me." 
 
 " No more, no more, Marianna. ket me not hear such desperate and futile words 
 from your lips. We will not even yet certainly abandon hoj e.'* 
 
 That word hope has surely in it a wondrous spell, for again it nerved Marianna 
 to proceed. And now if there had been any other staircase or pit-iall in the passage 
 they must have CGijie to destruction, for they heeded not whither they were 
 going, so that they advanced. She seemed to fly rather than walk or run, but 
 soon the flash of the torches carried by their pursuers threw more light upon their 
 path than did their own lantern ; and seeing this, Edward Lancy cast away the 
 j light, which had become an incumbrance rather than service, and with his arms 
 j still encircling the waist of Marianna, he pushed on. 
 
 •; But alas ! all was in vain. The passage terminated by a door apparently of amaz- 
 < ing strength, and whatever hope there might be beyond that d»or, there was 
 I amazingly little of successfully passing it before their pursuers should reach 
 I them. 
 
 | Marianna sunk upon her knees, and with clasped hands implored the protection 
 
 i - I : . 
 
NEWGATE. 
 
 771 
 
 of Heaven ; while nerved by despair to perform feats of superhuman strength, 
 Edward Lancy with the iron bar made a tremendous attack upon the door, which 
 shook with the force of his continuous blows. 
 
 On came the pursuers, — tramp, tramp, along the passage. Then there was a 
 momentary pause, for they did then stop to listen, and to form some opinion 
 of the sound which came upon their ears, and which was produced by Edward 
 Lancy's furious attack upon the door with the iron bar. 
 
 They could hardly imagine that those quick resounding blows were produced by 
 one individual, and yet they were so, although the officers one and all gave it as 
 their decided opinion that such was not the case, but that some other prisoners 
 were liberated, and assisting to break the jail. 
 
 This pause, however, was but temporary, and was not sufficient in duration to 
 enable Edward to break through the door. Heaven only knows if it would have 
 availed him aught, if he had succeeded in doing so. 
 
 " Once more, dear Edward," shrieked Marianna, " I implore you to kill me, 
 death would be sweet at your hands ; these are not the words of madness, they 
 have a fixed signification ; I know what I am about ; kill me, Edward, kill mc 
 to save me." 
 
 <l Forward, forward^" cried a voice, "forward, and you have them, down with 
 them, and never mind the consequences/' 
 
 A turnkey rushed forward, but one sweep laid him senseless ; another, with more 
 judgment, got upon all fours and ran between Edward's feet. He fell heavily, but 
 was pounced upon immediately and secured by three or four athletic men. 
 
 Marianna did not move, she remained in the same attitude she had assumed 
 when imploring Edward to take her life, in preference to leaving her to the tender 
 mercies of the law. 
 
 They raised her up, but she looked around her with vacant eyes. It was quite 
 evident that a gain had come over her that apathy and unconsciousness of all 
 surrounding objects which had deadened her to the many afflicting circumstances of 
 her trial. 
 
 Perhaps that mental indifference was the only mercy that Heaven at that 
 juncture, could afford her, and saved her from most unutterable pangs. 
 
 Edward Lancy was half stunned by the heavy fall he had had, and although he 
 heard the hum of voices around him, he did not comprehend their purport. 
 This mental confusion, however, soon passed away, and he found himself 
 manacled and a prisoner. 
 
 " At last — at last," he said, "and has it come to this at last?" 
 
 " To be sure it has," said one of the officers. " What else could you expect? 
 Why, you hardly thought, did you, that you could get away? A precious dance 
 you have led us, to be sure." 
 
 " Lost— lost— all lost." 
 
 "What does he say— all lost, Bill ?" cried another, " I should say it's all found. 
 Just give Stevens a poke up, and ask him how he is. What ajollv crack that bar* 
 gave him on the side of the head, to be sure." 
 
 The man who had been struck down by Edward Lancy was perfectly insensible, 
 and from his appearance it seemed likely he would never require such another 
 crack upon the head in this world, for his worldly tronbles seemed although they 
 were either entirely concluded or else just upon the point of being so. 
 
 In a few moments the governor of the prison arrived to give orders concerning 
 thejprisoners. ° 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 When the governor saw that the capture had been made, he looked the satisfac- 
 tion that he felt, and advancingto Edward Lancy, he said, — 
 
 " We will take good care, for all our sakes, that this does not happen again 
 You must have been mad to think you eould ever find an outlet from Newgate." 
 
772 
 
 NEW 6 ATE. 
 
 There was no answer leturned. Edward merely inclined his head slightly, and 
 then twined his arm round the waist of her whom he loved so tenderly. 
 " Do not weep," he said. 
 " No — no," she replied ; (( I am happier now." 
 
 " Bring them this way," said the governor, pointing to a narrow passage close 
 at hand. ,{ Bring them this way. ,Ve shall manage, I think, to find some secure 
 place to lock them in. Bat mind that old dry well, here ahouts. Don't get into 
 that, any of you; and if you do naw, don't say I didn't tell you of it." 
 
 The party advanced down the narrow passage, hut when they arrived at the 
 brink of the neglected well which the governor had spoken of, they could not 
 but pause, and one said, — 
 
 " What a depth it is, to be sure." 
 
 These words seemed to awaken that loving and loved one, whose life had been 
 such a career of misfortune, from the kind of trance that had stolen over her. 
 " Edwnid," she said in a whisper, " one plunge." 
 
 He understood her, and in another moment they both, locked in each other's 
 arms, disappeared down the well, where to this day they lie two ghastly skeletons, 
 locked in a horrible embrace of death. 
 
 the e:\C. 
 
 London: Printed by E. Lloyd, 1J, Salisbury-square, Fleat-street. 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
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