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THE
M/{ {{...” wº
WRITINGS OF DOUGLAS, JERROLD.
COLLECTED EDITION.
-—4–
VOLUME I.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
- Jº-
Y3×2

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
BY
DOUGLAS JERROLD, ESQ.
LONDON :
BRADBURY AND EVANS, 11, BOUVERIE STREET.
1851.
LONDON :
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERs, WHITEFEIARs,
PREFACE.
—Q.--—
DURING the progress of the original publication of “St. Giles
and St. James”—which it is hoped is rendered somewhat less
faulty in the present revised edition—certain critics would charge
the writer with a cleaving desire to despoil the high for the profit
of the low ; with a besetting tendency to mum as a sort of moral
Robin Hood, stripping the rich of their virtues that only the
veriest poor might strut in the plunder. In reply to this, I will
content myself with saying that I somewhat confidently await the
verdict of a different opinion from the reader who may honour
these pages with a dispassionate perusal.
It has been my endeavour to show in the person of St. Giles
the victim of an ignorant disregard of the social claims of the
poor upon the rich ; of the governed million upon the governing
few ; to present—I am well aware how imperfectly ; but with
no wilful exaggeration of the portraiture—the picture of the
infant pauper reared in brutish ignorance ; a human waif of dirt
and darkness. Since the Original appearance of this story, the
reality of this picture, in all its vital and appalling horror,
has forced itself upon the legislature ; has engaged its anxious
thoughts ; and will ultimately triumph in its humanising sympa-
thies. I will only add that upon an after revision of this story,
I cannot think myself open to the charge of bedizening St. Giles
iy PREFACE.
at the cost of St. James; or of making Hog Lane the treasury of
all the virtues to the moral sacking of May Fair.
The completion of the first volume of a collected edition of his
writings—scattered over the space of years—is an opportunity
tempting to the vanity of a writer to indulge in a retrospect of
the circumstances that first made authorship his hope, as well as
of the general tenor of his after vocation. I will not, at least, in
these pages, yield to the inducement; further than to say that, self-
helped and self-guided, I began the world at an age when, as a
general rule, boys have not laid down their primers; that the
cockpit of a man-of-war was at thirteen exchanged for the
struggle of London ; that appearing in print ere perhaps the
meaning of words was duly mastered—no one can be more alive
than myself to the worthlessness of such early mutterings.
In conclusion, I submit this volume to the generous interpre-
tation of the reader. Some of it has been called “bitter:” indeed,
“bitter’” has, I think, a little too often been the ready word when
certain critics have condescended to bend their eyes upon my
page: so ready, that were my ink redolent of myrrh and frank-
incense, I well know the sort of ready-made criticism that would
cry, with a denouncing shiver, “aloes; aloes.”
D. J.
WEST LODGE, PUTNEY Low ER COMMON.
July 9, 1851.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
CHAPTER I.
THE streets were empty. Pitiless cold had driven all who had
the shelter of a roof to their homes : and the north-east blast
seemed to howl in triumph above the untrodden snow. Winter
was at the heart of all things. The wretched, dumb with exces-
sive misery, suffered, in stupid resignation, the tyranny of the
season. Human blood stagnated in the breast of want ; and
death in that despairing hour losing its terrors, looked, in the
eyes of many a wretch, a sweet deliverer. It was a time when
the very poor, barred from the commonest things of earth, take
strange counsel with themselves, and, in the deep humility of
destitution, believe they are the burden and the offal of the world.
It was a time when the easy, comfortable man, touched with
finest sense of human suffering, gives from his abundance; and,
whilst bestowing, feels almost ashamed that, with such wide-
spread misery circled round him, he has all things fitting ; all
things grateful. The smitten spirit asks wherefore he is not of
the multitude of wretchedness; demands to know for what espe-
cial excellence he is promoted above the thousand, thousand
starving creatures: in his very tenderness for misery, tests his
privilege of exemption from a woe that withers manhood in man,
bowing him downward to the brute. And so questioned, this
man gives in modesty of spirit—in very thankfulness of soul.
His alms are not cold, formal charities; but reverent sacrifices to
his suffering brother.
It was a time when selfishness hugs itself in its own warmth;
with no other thoughts than of its pleasant possessions; all made
pleasanter, sweeter, by the desolation around. When the mere
worldling rejoices the more in his warm chamber, because it is so
bitter cold without ; when he eats and drinks with whetted
appetite, because he hears of destitution, prowling like a wolf
around his well-barred house; when, in fine, he bears his every
B
2 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
comfort about him with the pride of a conqueror. A time when
such a man sees in the misery of his fellow-beings nothing save
his own victory of fortune—his own successes in a suffering world.
To such a man the poor are but the tattered slaves that grace
his triumph. -
It was a time, too, when human nature often sluws its true
divinity, and with misery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its
wretchedness in sympathy with suffering. A time, when in the
cellars and garrets of the poor are acted scenes which make the
noblest heroism of life; which prove the immortal texture of the
human heart, not wholly seared by the branding-iron of the tor-
turing hours. A time when in want, in anguish, in throes of
mortal agony, some seed is sown that bears a flower in heaven.
Such was the time, the hour approaching midnight, when a
woman sat on a door-step in a London street. Was she sleeping,
or was she another victim of the icy season Her head had
fallen backward against the door, and her face shone like a white
stone in the moonlight. There was a terrible history in that
face ; cut and lined as it was by the twin-workers, vice and
misery. Her temples were sunken; her brow wrinkled and
pinched; and her thin, jagged mouth, in its stony silence, breathed
a frightful eloquence. It was a hard mystery to work out, to
look upon that face, and try to see it in its babyhood. Could it
be thought that that woman was once a child?
Still she was motionless—breathless. And now, a quick, trip-
ping footstep sounds in the deserted street; and a woman, thinly,
poorly clad, but clean and neat withal, approaches the door. She
is humming a tune, a blithe defiance to the season, and her
manner is of one hastening homeward. “Good God if it isn't
a corpse !” she cried, standing suddenly fixed before what seemed,
in truth, the effigy of death. In a moment, recovering herself,
she stooped towards the sitter, and gently shook her. “Stone-
cold—frozen Lord in heaven that his creatures should perish
in the street !” And then the woman, with a piercing shriek,
called the watch; but the watch, true to its reputation for sound
substantial sleep, answered not. “Watch—watch ’’ screamed
the woman with increasing shrillness; but the howling of the
midnight wind was the only response. A moment she paused;
then looked at what she deemed the dead; and flinging her arms
about her, flew back along the path she had trod. With scarcely
breath to do common credit to her powers of scolding, she drew
up at a watch-box, and addressed herself to the peaceful man
within. “Why, watch—here ! a pretty fellow !—people pay
rates, and—watch, watch l—there's a dead woman—dead, I tell
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 3
you—watch—pay rates, and are let to die, and—watch—watch—
watch ' " And still she screamed, and at length, clawed at and
shook the modest wooden tenement which, in those happy but
not distant days of England, sheltered many of England's civil
guardians. -
The watchman was coiled up for unbroken repose. He had
evidently settled the matter with himself to sleep until called to
breakfast by the tradesman who, at the corner post, spread his
hospitable table for the early wayfarers who loved saloop.
Besides, the watchman was at least sixty-five years old; twenty
years he had been guardian of the public peace, and he knew—
no one better—that on such a night even robbery would take a
holiday, forgetting the cares and profits of business in comfort-
able blankets. At length, but slowly, did the watchman answer
the summons. He gradually uncoiled himself; and whilst the
woman's tongue rang—rang like a bell—he calmly pushed up
his hat, and opening his two small, swinish eyes, looked at the
intruder.
“Well! after that I hope you are awake—and after that
“What's the matter 7 ° asked the watchman, feeling that the
hour of saloop was not arrived, and surlily shaking himself at the
disappointment, “What’s the matter?”
“The matter | Poppy-head | *
“Any of your bad language, and I shall lock you up.” And
this the watchman said with quite the air of a man who keeps
his word.
“There's a woman froze to death,” cried the disturber of the
watchman's peace.
“That was last night,” said the watchman.
“I tell you, to-night, man—to-night. She's on a door-step ;
there’—and the woman pointed down the street. “I should
like to know what we pay you watchmen for, if poor creatures
are to drop down dead with cold on the highway.”
The watchman lifted his lantern to the face of the speaker—it
was a frank, lively, good-humoured face, with about five-and-
thirty years lightly laid upon it—and closing one eye, as if the act
gave peculiar significance to what he said, slowly observed,
syllable by syllable, “Any more of your imperance, and ”—here
he took an oath, confirming it with a smart blow of his stick
upon the pavement, “ and I’ll lock you up.” The woman
made some answer; but the words were lost, ground by the
watchman’s rattle, which he whirled about. As cricket answers
cricket, the rattle found a response. Along the street the sound
was caught up, prolonged, and carried forward; and small bye-
lanes gave forth a wooden voice—a voice that cried to all the
29
B 2
4. ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
astounded streets, “Justice is awake ” And then lantern after
lantern glimmered in the night: one lantern advancing with a
Sober, a considerate pace; another, with a sort of flutter; another,
dancing like a jack-o'-lantern over the snow. And so, lantern
after lantern, with watchmen behind, came and clustered about
the box of him, who was on the instant greeted as Drizzle,
“What's the row 2° cried an Irishman—a young fellow of
about sixty, who flourished his stick, and stamped upon the pave-
ument, like indignant virtue, impatient of a wrong. “What’s the
row % Is it her ?” and he was about to lay his civil hand upon
the woman.
Every watchman asked his separate question; it seemed to be
his separate right: and Drizzle, as though respecting the privi-
lege of his brethren, heard them all—yes, every one—before he
answered. He then replied, very measuredly—“A woman is
froze to death.”
“What agin 7 ° cried two or three.
“Agin,” answered Drizzle. Then turning himself round, he
headed the watch ; and motioning to the woman to show the way,
he slowly led his fellows down the street. In due time, they
arrived at the spot.
“Froze to death?” cried Drizzle doubtingly, holding his lantern
to the bloodless, rigid features of the miserable outcast.
“Froze to death 7 ° asked every other watchman, on taking a
like survey.
“No, no ; not dead | Thank God not dead,” exclaimed the
woman, Stooping towards her wretched sister. “Her heart beats
—I think it beats.”
“Werry drunk; but not a bit dead,” said Drizzle: and his
brethren—one and all—murmured.
“Well ! what are you going to do with her?” asked the woman,
vehemently.
“What should we do with her ?” cried Drizzle. “She isn’t
dead, and she isn't a breaking the peace.”
“But she will be dead, if she’s left here, and so I desire”
“You desire l’” said Drizzle, “and after all, what's your name,
and where do you come from ?”
“My name 's Mrs. Aniseed, I live in Short's Gardens—and I
come from—the Lord ha’ mercy what's that ?” she cried as
something stirred beneath the ends of the woman's shawl, that
lay upon her lap. With the words, Mrs. Aniseed plucked the
shawl aside, and discovered a sleeping infant. “What a heavenly
babe " she cried : and, truly, the child in its marble whiteness
looked beautiful; a lovely human bud, a sweet, unsullied
Sojourner of earth, cradled on the knees of misery and vice.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 5
For an instant, the watchmen in silence gazed upon the babe.
Even their natures, hardened in scenes of crime and destitution,
were touched by the appealing innocence of the child. “Poor
little heart!” said one. “God help it!” cried another.
Yes; God help it ! And with such easy adjuration do we
leave thousands and tens of thousands of human Souls to want
and ignorance; doom them, when yet sleeping the sleep of guilt-
lessness, to future devils—their own unguided passions. We
make them outcasts, wretches; and then punish, in their wicked-
ness, our own selfishness—our own neglect, We cry “God help
the babes,” and hang the men.
Yet a moment. The child is still before us. May we not see
about it—contending for it—the principles of good and evil? A
contest between the angels and the fiends ! Come hither, states-
man; you who live within a party circle; you who nightly fight
some miserable fight; continually strive in some selfish struggle
for power and place, considering men only as tools, the merest
instruments of your aggrandisement ; come here, in the wintry
street, and look upon God’s image in its babyhood | Consider
this little man. Are not creatures such as these the noblest,
grandest things of earth 7 Have they not solemn natures—are
they not subtly touched for the highest purposes of human life 2
Come they not into this world to grace and dignify it ! There is
no spot, no coarser stuff in the pauper flesh before you, that indi-
cates a lower nature. There is no felon mark upon it—no
natural formation indicating the thief in its baby fingers—no
inevitable blasphemy upon its lips. It lies before you a fair,
unsullied thing, fresh from the hand of God. Will you, without
an effort, let the great fiend stamp his fiery brand upon it ! Shall
it, even in its sleeping innocence, be made a trading thing by
misery and vice . A creature borne from street to street, a piece
of living merchandise for mingled beggary and crime ! Say ;
what, with its awakening soul, shall it learn ? What lessons
whereby to pass through life, making an item in the social sum 7
Why, cunning will be its wisdom ; hypocrisy its truth ; theft its
natural law of self-preservation. To this child, so nurtured, so
taught, your whole code of morals, nay, your brief right and
wrong, are writ in stranger figures than Egyptian hieroglyphs,
and—time passes—and you scourge the creature never taught,
for the heinous guilt of knowing nought but ill ! The good
has been a sealed book to him, and the dunce is punished with
the gaol. .
Doubtless, there are great statesmen; wizards in bullion and
bank-paper; thinkers profound in cotton, and every turn and
variation of the markets, abroad and at home. But there are
6 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
statesmen yet to come ; statesmen of nobler aims—of more heroic
action; teachers of the people; vindicators of the universal dignity
of man ; apostles of the great social truth that knowledge, which
is the spiritual light of God, like his material light, was made to
bless and comfort all men. And when these men arise—and it
is worse than weak, it is sinful, to despair of them—the youngling
poor will not be bound upon the very threshold of human life,
and made, by want and ignorance, life's shame and curse. There
is not a babe lying in the public street on its mother's lap—the
unconscious mendicant to ripen into the criminal—that is not a
reproach to the state ; a scandal and a crying shame upon men
who study all politics, save the politics of the human heart.
To return to the child of our story; to the baby St. Giles; for
indeed it is he. -
In a moment, Mrs. Aniseed caught the infant to her bosom ;
and pressed it to her cheek. As she did so, she turned pale, and
tears came into her eyes. “It’s dead,” she cried, “blessed angel!
the cold—the cruel cold has killed it.”
“Nonsense,” said Drizzle, “the woman’s for killing everything.
It’s no more dead than its mother here, and”—and here the
watchman turned to his companions for counsel—“ and what are
we to do with her ?”
“We can’t take her to the workhouse,” said one, “it’s past
the hour.”
“Past the hour !” exclaimed Mrs. Aniseed, still hugging and
warming the babe at her bosom—“it isn't past the hour to die,
is it, , ”
“You’re a foolish, widlent woman,” said Drizzle. “I tell you
what we must do ; we’ll take her to the watch-house.”
“The watch-house !” cried Mrs. Aniseed. “Poor soul what
have you got to comfort her with there 7°
“Comfort | Well, I’m sure—you do talk it strong ! As if
women sitting about in doorways was to be treated with comfort.
Howsomever, mates,” said the benevolent Drizzle, “for once
we’ll try the workhouse.”
With this, two of the watchmen raised the woman, and
stumbling at almost every step, they bore their burden on.
“Make haste l’ cried Drizzle, doubtless yearning for the hos-
pitality of his box, “make haste: if the cold doesn’t bite a man
like nippers l’ And so, shambling along, and violently smiting
in their turn both arms against his sides, Drizzle preceded his
fellows, and at length halted at the workhouse. “It hasn’t a
wery kindly look, has it !” he cried, as he peered at the mansion
of the poor. “All gone to bed, I dare say. And catch any on
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, 7
'em getting up such a night as this.” So saying, Drizzle pulled
manfully at the bell, as though fairly to test his powers of attack
with the power of resistance within. “The governor, and matern,
the musses, the porter, and all on ‘em snoring in lavender.” The
bare thought of this Elysium added strength to Drizzle's arm,
and again he pulled. “Had hot elder wine, or dog's-nose, or
something o' the sort, to pull their precious nightcaps on 1’’ And
again Drizzle tugged with renewed purpose. “They think o' the
poor just as much as they think o’ meat and 'tatos, -as only things
to live upon.” And still the workhouse bell rang a comfortless
accompaniment to the watchman’s indignation. “Now, I know
it ; I could swear it’—cried Drizzle—“they're every one on 'em
awake ; they can’t be otherwise ; wide awake, and thinking how
precious nice their blankets is, and how cruel cold it is here,
Yes; they hear the bell—they do; they can't help it; and they
say to themselves, there’s some poor devil outside that's frost-bit
and going to die, and wants a hot bed, and a dose of brandy, and
all that, to bring the life into him again ; and he won’t have it. No
—it's past the hours, and he must come agin to-morrow. That's
what the varmint say”—cried Drizzle—“that's what they say to
themselves, and then they go off, and sleep all the Sweeter for
knowing it. It’s as good as another blanket to 'em—it is,”
exclaimed the watchman, enraged by the picture his fancy had
executed, no less than by his abortive exertions at the workhouse-
bell. “And now, what's to be done Why, nothin, but to go
to the watch-house.”
“And I’ll take the baby home with me,” said Mrs. Aniseed,
“ and warm it, and give it something, and—”
“Can't allow that,” said one of the watchmen.
“Why not, poor lamb l’’ asked Drizzle, suddenly tender,
“She’ll take care of it—and what are we to do with it ! You
don’t think she's a goin to steal it !”
“Steal it !” cried the indignant Mrs. Aniseed.
“I should think not,” said Drizzle. “Folks needn't steal
things o' that sort, I’m sure ; the market’s overloaded with 'em ;
they’re to he had for nothin', and thank’ee too. So you’ll take
care of it till the mother comes round 2*
“To be sure, I will, poor dear heart 1" answered Mrs. Aniseed,
hugging the child closer.
“And your name's Aniseed, eh? Yes? And you live in
Short's Gardens ! All right: to-morrow morning bring the baby
to the watch-house. We’ve nobody to nurse it there, neither
wet nor dry.”
This touch of humour was not lost upon the watchmen, for
they acknowledged it with a loud laugh. Then one of them,
8. ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
suddenly alive to the humanities of his calling, cried, “Let’s
bear a hand with the woman, or I'm blessed if she won’t be dead
outright.”
And with this, the watchmen bore the mother to the watch
house, and Mrs. Aniseed hurried with the child to her home.
CEIAETER II.
TT was past twelve when Mrs. Aniseed reached her abiding-
place in Short's Gardens: a place, whose name gave warranty
of by-gone rusticity; of a time when St. Giles really breathed
in the Fields; when blossoming hawthorns offered incense to
the saint ; when linnets, building in the furze, sang matin
hymns to the protector of the leper. Many changes has St.
Giles beheld : other and better changes are, we hope, to come.
There, in the fields, was good St. Giles installed the physician
and the comforter of leprosy. Here was he known, and prayed
to as intercessor between Heaven and suffering man. Disease,
the born thing of dirt and poverty, knelt at his shrine and begged
for health. And years passed on, and the disease abated. The
plague of human kind—arrested by human knowledge and energy
—was smitten down, and the leper became a sufferer unknown.
And then St. Giles gathered about him the children of poverty.
He became the titular Saint of rags and squalor. The destitute
and the criminal took refuge under his protecting wings, The
daily hypocrite on crutches owned St. Giles for his protector;
cheats and mumpers of every sort—the town brigands, that with
well-aimed falsehoods make wayfaring compassion stand and
deliver—dwelt about the shrine of St. Giles, and lied and
cheated, starved and revelled in his name. A St. Giles's bird
was a human animal of prey—a raven, a kite, a carrion-crow.
And once again, the Saint presided over filth, and its born evil,
disease ; again, St. Giles was sought by lepers, most hideous,
most incurable—the lepers of crime and poverty.
And—it cannot be doubted—St. Giles suffered in reputation
from the unseemly flocks that gathered about him. In the imagi-
nations of men, he became a low, pauper Saint ; a Saint of vulgar
tastes, and vile employments; a saint that was scarcely spoken
of, save in connection with craft, and ill manners, and drunken-
ness, and lying, and thieving. Even Saints suffer in renown by
constant association with poverty and wickedness.
And then they made St. Giles a hanging Saint : made him keep
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 9
a sort of half-way house, where he offered the final bowl to the
Tyburn-bound felon. St. Giles was poor, and was assorted with
the gallows. That ignominy is, however, past. Now St. Giles
does not offer a comforting draught to thieves: no ; he only
breeds them.
And now is St. Giles to be wholly reformed. He is to be made
a cleanly saint. His cellars, where his infant votaries are begotten
for crime, and nurtured for the gaol, are to be destroyed—filled up
again. The demon typhus is to be killed with sweet air and fresh
water. The brotherhood of St. Giles are no longer to be of the
Blessed Order of Filth ; they are to wear linen, and wash their
hands and faces !
To our story.
It was past twelve, when Mrs. Aniseed ascended the third
flight of stairs that led to her home—her one room. A voice
was heard proceeding from that room—a voice, droning a street-
ballad of the day. “Why, Susan, I'm blessed if I hadn’t given
you up,” said the voice, the owner of it being a short, broad-
chested block of a man, seated before a tolerable fire, which, with
half-contemplative look, he continued to scrutinise; never turning
his eye towards the partner of his bosom and his hearth. And
thus, complacently whiffing smoke from a ruin of a pipe, he con-
tinued to stare at the coals and talk: “If I didn’t think some-
|body had run away with you. I’ve been home this half-hour.
Not much luck again to-night. Hardly enough to pay for the
link. Howsomever,” said Jem, as though still talking to the
fire, “I’ve got something for you.”
“And I’ve got something for you, Jem ;
herself. “Guess what it is.”
“No : I never guess with a woman,” said Jem ; “a man has
no chance.” And then he asked, “What is it !”
“Look here,” cried his wife, unfolding her apron, and disco-
vering the sleeping babe. -
Bright Jem jumped from his seat, and now looking at the child
—and now in his wife's face—asked, with solemn voice, and
uplifted eyebrows, “Where did you get it 7”
“I found it, Jem,” said the woman.
“Found it ! Well, next time, when luck's upon you, I hope
you’ll find something better.” And them, with his forefinger he
touched the baby's cheek, and said, somewhat tenderly, “Dear
little heart | ?”
“Can't you see who it's like, Jem 7” asked Mrs. Aniseed, and
her eyes softened.
“Why, it’s like all babies,” answered Jem. “I never see any
difference in 'em ; all the same, like Dutch cheeses.” -
” said his wife, seating
l.0 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“Ha! Jem,” said Mrs. Aniseed, “you've never been a
mother.”
“No,” said Jem.
“Else you’d have seen that it's as like our dear lost Dick as
One angel’s like another"
“Not a hit—not a bit,” said Jelu in words; but his tone and
manner said, “And so it is.”
“Oh, I saw it—in a minute, Jem ; and I see it now, dear little
fellow. He'd ha’ been dead, stone-dead in the morning, if I
hadn't come up as I did.”
And Jem, placing his hands upon his knees, and staring in his
wife's face, asked, “And where did you find him?” Whereupon,
Mrs. Aniseed—with commendable brevity—narrated the incident
of discovery already chronicled.
“Well, poor little chap,” said Jem, resuming his seat and his
pipe, “he’s welcome to board and lodging for one night.”
Mrs. Aniseed made no answer, But as the child began to
wake, she bustled about the room, and soon prepared for it a
sufficing supper. Few were the minutes, and she had the child
upon her lap with its bare legs almost roasting at the fire, and
with more than infantine energy, trying to swallow the victuals,
Spoon and all.
“Why, if he doesn’t eat like a young sparrow,” said Jem, eye-
ing the little feeder askance. “Ele's not strange in a strange
place, any how.”
“Oh, Jem l’’ cried Mrs. Aniseed, as though she was unbur-
thening her heart of its dearest wish—“Oh, Jem, how I should
like to keep it !” Jem said nothing; but slowly taking the pipe
from his mouth, he looked all the amazement he was master of
Of course his wife took no notice of this. She merely continued:
“I’m sure, Jem, the dear little soul would bring a blessing
on us.”
“Yes, and another belly to fill; and another back to cover ;
and two more feet to shoe; and”—and we know not what inven-
tory of obligations Jem would have made out ; but his wife—a
fine tactician—began to chirrup, and cry to the child, and make
all those legendary noises of the nursery, handed down to us
from the time that Eve nursed Cain. Jem was in a moment
silenced. Whereupon, in due time, Mrs. Aniseed set the child
up, and then danced it in the very face of Jem, calling upon him
to remark its extraordinary loveliness, and by consequence, its
extraordinary resemblance to their lost Dick.
“He’s a sharp little shaver,” said Jem, gently pinching the
baby's cheeks—when the baby laughed.
“If it doesn't seem to know what you say, Jem,” cried Mrs.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 11
Aniseed; and then with new vehemence she added, “Something
tells me it would be lucky to us.”
“Nonsense, woman : * cried Jem ; “how can we afford such
fancies' You’ll be thinking of keeping pug-dogs and parrots
next. Besides, it's impossible, with the playhouse going down
as it is.”
“I’ve been quite in the way of babies to-night,” said Mrs.
Aniseed, a little shifting the subject ; “young master's come
to town.”
“Oh, a boy is it 7” grumbled Jem. “Well, he’s a better
chance of it than that little chap.” Mrs. Aniseed drew a very
long, deep sigh, intending it for an emphatic affirmation. “He’s
a good big gold spoon in his mouth already. Humph a boy is
it And what, after all, Mrs. Aniseed, what business had you
there. You know I don’t like it—and you will go.”
Now this remonstrance applied to the visits of Mrs. Aniseed
to a certain house in St. James's-square ; at which house a
younger spinster sister of the linkman's wife flourished as under
kitchen-maid. She, however, had a due contempt for St. Giles's,
and all its dwellers; and on certain occasions had not scrupled
to express her wonderment that her sister, “who after all was
not sich a very plain gal,” should have ever taken up with so
low a husband as a nasty linkman. She had somehow compared
the big bouquets of the footmen with the pitch and hemp with
which Bright Jem was wont to earn what she called “his low,
dirty bread,” and her nice sense of sweetness was grievously
offended by the contrast. Sometimes, too, out of purest conde-
Scension, Kitty Muggs—for Muggs was the virgin name which
no odoriferous lacquey had as yet robbed her of would visit
Short's Gardens. At such times it was impossible for her not to
make it known to St. Giles the vast debt of gratitude due from
it to St. James:–a debt which Bright Jem—as one of the
representatives of the meaner locality—never by the Smallest
instalment ever permitted himself to pay.
“As for Kitty, he was always very glad to see her if she'd leave
her nonsense behind her; but she always walked into the room as
if she walked upon eggs; always brushed the chair afore she'd
sit down ; and always moved with her petticoats lifted up, as if
the white honest deal boards of the floor was so much gutter-mud.
And then the tea was always so coarse, and not a bit like their
gunpowder ; and the bacon was rusty, not a bit like their hams;
and in fact there was nothing, no, not even the flesh and blood of
Short's Gardens, at all like the flesh and blood of the West-End.
Why didn’t she keep to her own dripping, and not cast her nose
up like a flounder's tail, at the clean, wholesome food of other
12 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
people? He hated all such stuff; and what’s more, he wouldn't
have it.” Such, again and again, had been the words of Bright
Jem ; and he never heard of the sisterly visits of his wife to the
aristocratic kitchen-maid, without protesting against them.
“Well,” said Mrs. Aniseed, “she's the only relation I have in
the world, and I can’t help seeing her. Poor girl! she's young
and giddy, but she doesn’t mean nothing.” -
“Young and giddy l’ cried Jem ; “well, I don't know at what
time of life geese leave off their giddiness, but she’s old enough
to be the mother of a good many goslings. Got a boy, have they
—ha! they’ve been wanting one long enough, Got a young St.
James | Well, babies in that quarter may be made of finer sort
of stuff than hereabouts; but he can hardly be a handsomer little
thing than young St. Giles here.” Saying this, Jem held out his
arms, and in an instant Mrs. Aniseed had placed the baby in them.
“Well, he is a capital little fellow,” cried Jem. “Has he done
sucking, I wonder 7 °
“To be sure he has,” averred Mrs. Aniseed on her own respon-
sibility.
“A lively little dog, Isn't he 7” and Jem danced the child upon
his knee, and snapped his fingers at it, and the child leapt up, and
laughed, and crowed. And then Jem looking sadly at the infant,
said, “And he is like poor little Dick. I see it now, Susan ; he is
like Dick.”
Mrs. Aniseed made no answer; but with great alacrity bustled
about the room, and prepared supper. Such preparation was soon
made. “Now I'll take him—you can’t eat with him in your lap,”
she said.
“Let him be ; I'll manage it—I used to do it once. Well,
well—what’s gone can’t be helped. It's no use a grievin',
Susan, is it !—no, not a bit. If times wasn’t so bad, now—to be
sure he won’t take much as he is ; but then he'll grow bigger,
and—” -
“And I’m sure he’d be a comfort to us,” cried Mrs. Aniseed,
“he looks like it.”
“If he isn’t fast asleep—Lord | Lord " cried Jem, gazing at
the child, “who to look upon a sleeping baby, and to know what
things are every day done in the world, would ever think that all
men was sleeping babes once. Put it to bed, Sue ; stop a
minute”—and Jem tenderly kissed the child. Then turning
round, and looking in the fire, he said to himself, “it is like little
Dick.”
Though late when she went to bed, Mrs. Aniseed was an early
riser. She had prepared breakfast, and had fed her baby charge
before her husband was stirring; and it was plain had determined
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 13
within herself to place all things in their ver rosiest light before
the eyes of her helpmate. She had already conned and got by heart
twenty arguments to prove the exceeding comfort—nay, the ulti-
mate profit, the child would be to them. And with these argu-
ments simmering in her head, she moved actively about, setting
her room in Order, at the same time expressing the most endearing
pantomime to the infant that lay rolling before the fire. Never
since the first quarter of her honeymoon had Mrs. Aniseed shown
herself in sweeter temper. Bright Jem was not slow to feel its
influence. “Why, Susan, you’re as lively as May-day this morn-
ing,” said he, commencing his toilette. “Where's the little
chap 2"
“There he is, bless him : * cried Mrs. Aniseed, “and as much
at home as if he had been born here. Well, I don’t know—I
never thought I could love any baby again after Dick.”
“Pooh women can love no end o'babies,” said Jem. “ They 're
made a purpose for it.” Jem seated himself to breakfast, yet ere
he began, recreated himself by tickling the child at his foot with
his forefinger, to the mutual delectation of baby and man;
whilst Mrs. Aniseed, pausing in a half-cut slice of bread and
butter, looked over the table, quite delighted with the sport.
How she laughed, and how frequently she assured Jem that she
always said he was the best nurse in the world ! She then re-
mained solely attentive to the duties of the table, until Jem
having achieved his morning bacon, turned himself round, and
with his elbows upon his knees, looked thoughtfully down upon
the child.
“Well, that's a better place than a door-step, any how,” said
Jem, as the baby kicked before the fire. -
“Yet that's what it must come to again, Jem, if we're hard-
hearted enough to turn it out.”
“Humph It’s a shame they should be born, Sue ; a down-
right shame,” said Jem mournfully.
“La how can the man talk such wickedness 2'"
“I always think so, when I see 'em running about—poor dirty
creturs—as if they'd been spawned in gutter-mud.”
“With nobody to teach 'em nothing !”
“Oh, yes; they all of 'em go to school, such as it is,” cried
Jem bitterly. -
“I’m sure, Jem, they don’t,” said his wife. “There ar’n’t
Schools enough for 'em ; and then again how many of their
parents don’t care whether they know no more than headstrong
pigs' " - *
“Oh, yes; they all listen to a schoolmaster. I’ve seen him
talking among 'em under gateways, and in corners, and in courts,
14 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
and afore shop-windows, and in all sorts o' places in the streets;
yes, a schoolmaster teaching little things—and how they do learn,
to be sure—no taller than that ; ” and here Jem, with impressive
action, held up a wire toasting-fork.
“I never heard of him in the parish,” said Mrs. Aniseed; “what
schoolmaster do you mean * *
“The devil, Susan, the devil: I've seen him among the children,
horns, tail, and all—ha! quite as natºral as he's shown in any
pantomime—I’ve seen him as plain as I see you ; and whilst
he’s been teaching 'em, I’ve seen beside him Jack Ketch a grin-
nin', and a rubbin’ his hands, and a smackin’ his mouth like a
fellow as sees a hearty meal, and wants to fall to. I say it, Susan,
and I’ll stand to it—it’s a shame they’re born.”
“Won’t it be a blessed thing to snatch this darling cretur—if
it doesn't look sensible as though it knew what we was talkin' of
—this pretty cretur from all such trouble, all such wickedness' "
asked Mrs. Aniseed, moving closer to her husband.
“Why, there was little Tom Jumper’—mused Jem—“ and
pretty Jack Needles—and that sarcy little chap, but no real harm
in him at first, Bob Winkin—didn’t you and me know 'em all !
And wasn’t they all ruined afore they knew what ruin was 7
Where are they now 7 Why, ask Newgate—ask Newgate,” said
Jem, moodily. “And that's what they’ll do with you, my little
codger"—and Jem nodded to the infant, “that 's what they’ll
do with you. I can see it—though it's a good many years off yet
—I can see the rope about your little neck as sure—”
“La, Jem l’ screamed Mrs. Aniseed; and she instantly seized
the baby in her arms, and hugged it to her breast, as though to
protect it from impending peril.
“Why, what an old fool you are l’” said Jem, wanly smiling at
his wife.
“Well, you shouldn’t talk In that way,” answered Mrs. Aniseed,
“it’s tempting Providence. If you’re such a fortune-teller, and
can see so much, it’s a bound duty upon you, Jem, to prevent it.”
Jem was silent: therefore his wife—true to her sex—talked on :
“You ought to go down upon your knees, and bless yourself that
you can make this darling lamb your own, and save it.”
Jem was silent a minute; and then spoke somewhat briskly on
the inspiration of a new thought. “It’s all very well about
lambs, my dear; but how do we know they’ll let us have it !
How do we know that its mother—”
“I hasn't no mother, Jem. I slipt out afore you woke, and
I run down to the watch-house, and its mother died in the night,
Jem ; I thought she couldn't live. It's a hard thing to say, but
it’s no loss to the child; she's gone, and I won’t say nothing
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 15
about her; but them as know her give her shocking words. So
here’s the child, Jem, a begging of you, with all its little might °
—and here the woman put the baby’s hands together—“to take
it, and to do all you can for it, and to be sure that our little,
under such a blessing, will never grow less; and here it is—isn’t
it like our dear Dick, Jem'—here it is, a praying you to take pity
on it, and love it, and be a father to it. And you will, Jem l—
you will ?” cried the woman, the tears coming into her eyes, as
she held the infant towards her husband.
Now Bright Jem was in face and figure as uncomely a lump of
humanity as is ordinarily met with in any one day's travel.
His flat broad face was the colour of ancient parchment, thinly
sprinkled with deep pock-marks. His mouth was capacious as a
horse-shoe. Short brush-bristles thatched his head ; and his
eye-brows, clubbing together, could not have mustered fifty hairs
between them. His small, deep-set black eyes—truly black, for
there seemed no white to them—were the lamps that lighted up
with quick and various expression this most difficult countenance;
and, in the present instance, did certainly appear as though they
twinkled with a fire, direct from the heart. Jem was an ugly
man. He knew it. This truth had been so frequently, so earnestly,
so plainly impressed upon him, that—slow as most men are in
such belief—he could not but believe it. More : we believe that
he was quite contented with the creed. There are times, however,
when ugliness may steal a look—a tint from beauty. . We believe
that no woman, for instance—if she marry for love—let her be
ugly as Sibyl, looks altogether ugly on her wedding-day. How
it is done, whence it comes, we have not the philosophy to fathom ;
but sure we are that the spirit of beauty does sometimes irradiate
the features of deformity, melting and moulding them into mo-
mentary comeliness, and most sure we are, that the said spirit did
with its best doing, shine in the countenance of Jem, as his wife
pressed the orphan child upon him,
“You’ll love it, and be a father to it?” again cried Mrs.
Aniseed.
“If I don’t,” cried Jem, “I’m-” but the wife stopped what-
ever word was coming, by putting the child’s face to Jem's mouth ;
and he took the creature in his arms, and hugged it fondly, nay,
vigorously.
And now is young St. Giles Snatched from the lowest round of
the ladder—(can it be Jacob's ladder that, resting on the mud of
a cellar, is still to lead to heaven 7)—Now is he caught from direst
destitution; from the teaching of hypocrisy, and craft, and crime,
to have about him comforts—though small comforts it is true; to
be no longer shown, the image of poverty—a thing of human flesh

16 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
and blood to extort halfpence upon 7 Is he really to be promoted
from the foul, dark vault of a loathsome lane—savage beasts have
sweeter sleeping-places—to the wholesomeness, the light, the
airiness, the respectability of a three-pair front, in Short's
Gardens? To that very three-pair front which Kitty Muggs,
of St. James's-square, looks down upon from her scullery
with all the loftiness of contempt ' Yes, it is true: St. Giles
will be promoted. On the dunghill of poverty, how great the
distinction between the layers of straw : what a world of differ-
ence between base, half-way, and summit ! There is an aristocracy
of rags, as there is an aristocracy of stars and garters.
Alas! for only one minute is young St. Giles housed in his new
home—for only one minute is he the adopted babe of James and
Susan Aniseed, when he is called back to act his unconscious part
of mendicant, when he is reclaimed, carried away in bondage, the
born slave of penury and wrong. It is even so.
Before Jem had ceased caressing the child, he heard an unusual
hubbub on the staircase ; another instant, and his door was flung
Open, and a wretched, ragged woman—worn, thin, and ghastly—
staggered into the room, followed by other women. “My babe—
my own babel” cried the first woman, and was falling in a heap
upon the floor, when Jem rapidly placing the child in his wife's
arms, caught the intruder. Aroused, excited beyond her strength,
she pointed to the child, tried to speak, and then fainted.
The cause of this interruption was soon made known to Jem.
“The dear soul had come after her child.”
“Her child !” cried Mrs. Aniseed. “She’s not the child’s
mother, and she sha’n’t have it. I saw the mother last night—
saw her froze to death—at least she died soon afterwards.”
“Why, you see,” said an old crone, “this is how it is. The
dear woman there, that’s the darling's mother, was sick of a fever
—the Lord help us, she's sick now, and so is half the lane. Well,
you see, being so sick, she couldn’t go out herself not by any
means. Well, and so she lends the child to Peggy Flit ; and
when Peg never came back at all, the poor cretur that's there,
went well nigh mad. And this morning, we found at the watch-
house that Peg was dead, and that you had got the babe ; and
you see we’ve come for it, and that's all,” said the harridan with
diplomatic precision.
“But if she's the mother,” asked Mrs. Aniseed, “for what
should she lend the child 2 °
“For what should she lend the child !” crowed the old woman,
looking very contemptuously at her catechist—“for what should
she lend-why in the name of blessed heaven for what else, if
not to a begging with it !”
ST. GILES AND ST, JAMES. 17
In fine—for why should we protract the scene?—young St. Giles,
the unconscious baby beggar, was borne back in triumph to Hamp-
shire Hog Lane, #
CHAPTER III.
IT would be tedious work for the reader, did we chronicle every
event of the long life of little St. Giles from the hour that he was
snatched from Short's Gardens, until time beheld him in the
mature manhood of seven years old. A long life in sooth, that
six years and a half; for how much had St. Giles accomplished in
it ! What a stride had he made in existence, passing over
childish days—childish ignorance ; exempt, by fortune of his
birth, from all the puerilities, the laughing thoughtlessness of
babyhood. He was now a suckling, and now a dwarfed man.
There was no dallying pause, no Iniddle space for him, to play
with life, knowing not his playmate—no bit of green Sward, with
flowers for toys. Oh, no he was made, with sudden violence, to
know life. He saw not the lovely thing life, through golden
shadows, roseate hues; he looked not at it through the swimming
eyes of childhood; a glorious thing to be approached through
what seem beauties numberless, that gradually fade and fade as
we advance upon the green uplands of time, unveiling to us by
degrees the cold, hard, naked truth—the iron image, life. St. Giles
had no such preparation. Suddenly, and with the merciless
strength of want, he was made to look on life in its fiercest, foulest
aspect. He saw at once the grim idol he had to serve, and all
unconsciously, he served it. Unconsciously, too, he carried in his
look, his air, his speech, a premature wisdom. He had learned,
as at once, his whole task; but the suddenness of the teaching
had wiped out childhood from his face : he had paid at one
sum, although he knew it not, the price of life, for life's worst
knowledge. h
How very differently did young St. James con his lesson, life
In reality, only six months younger than his squalid brother—for
in this story St. Giles and St. James must fraternise—he was still
the veriest babe. Why, it was gladness to the heart to look at
him—to hear his blithe voice—to see him, in that happy freedom
of infancy, when children play in the vestibule of life—as children
sometimes play with flowers picked from graves in a church-porch;
heedless whence they pluck their pleasures, thoughtless of the
mystery of mysteries taught within. And what prophecies—with
C
~$º-
18 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
what “sweet breath composed”—were uttered to his glorifica-
tion | What a man he would make | What a blessing he would
prove to his begetters | What a treasure to the world at large
And so, young St. James, fed with the sweetest and the best,
clothed with the softest and the richest—fondled, kissed, caressed
—was, in truth, a glorious creature. There was happiness, deli-
cate beauty, in his soft pink and white cheek—innocence, intelli-
gence, in his large, laughing eyes. All he knew of the world was,
that it was one large play-place filled with many-sorted toys; with
battledores, humming-tops, and rocking-horses. Compared with
young St. Giles, how very ignorant -
In something more than the six years elapsed since our last
chapter, St. Giles had made more profitable use of time. But then
he had had the sharpest teachers—and so many opportunities
Hunger and cold were his tutors, and rapid and many are the
degrees of human knowledge conferred by them, albeit their
scholars are not prone to brag of their learning. Young St. James
was bounded by the garden, or the parks; or when he saw and
heard the hurry and roar of London, he took his imperfect lessons
through a carriage-window. Now, St. Giles—the matured, seven
years’ adult—was a busy merchant on the great mart of men. Every
day he carricq some new lie to market, played some new part, in
obedience to the fiend in his bowels, that once a day at least cried,
“Eat, eat.” And sometimes, too, the fiend would vary his cry,
and after long grumbling, long suffering, too, would mutter, “Steal,
steal.” And what was there in the word to appal St. Giles'
Nothing ; he had heard it so early : it was to him an old familiar
sound—a household syllable. True it is, he had heard that it was
wrong to steal: he had heard many other things, too, that were
wrong ; many that were right. But somehow they were jumbled
in that little active brain of his. He could not separate them.
He supposed there were some people whose business in the world
it was to steal ; just as there were some people born to fine houses
and fine clothes, whilst some were only born to cellars and rags.
And so, wicked St. Giles would pilfer—such is human iniquity—
with no more conscience than a magpie. -
With this preface, touching the advanced years and various
accomplishments of our heroes, let us now take up our broken
narrative.
One of the seven airiest and finest streets that compose the
Seven Dials—for we care not to name the exact spot—boasted the
advent of a tradesman, who employed the whole vigour of his mind,
and he himself thought not meanly of its power, on the manufacture
of muffins. At the time of our present chapter, Mr. Capstick
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, 19
had only lived a twelvemonth, under the protection of St. Giles;
paying the Saint due parish rates, for such advantage. Where
Mr. Capstick came from, nobody knew. It was plain, he was
one of those people who now and then drop from the sky into a
neighbourhood, for no other end than to adorn and dignify it.
Any way, it was plain that Mr. Capstick thought as much ; and
he was not a manto disguise his thoughts when they at all tended
to his self-glorification. True it was, muffins had been known in
St. Giles's, ere Mr. Capstick lighted his oven there. But what
muffins ! How, too, were they made—where vended ? Why, as
Mr. Capstick would observe, they were made as if they were bad
halfpence—and they were quite as hard to chew—in guilt and
darkness. Nobody knew what they were eating. Now, all the
world might see him make his muffins. Indeed, he would feel
obliged to the world if it would take that trouble. To be sure, he
was throwing his muffins to swine—but he couldn't help that. It
wasn't his nature to do anything that wasn’t first rate: he knew
he was a loser by it ; all men who did so were ; nevertheless, a
man who was a true man would go on ruining himself for the
world, though he might hate the world all the time he was doing
it. His muffins were open to the universe. There was no mys-
tery in him, none at all. And then he would say, glowing at
times with a strange eloquence, “What a glorious thing it would
be for the world, if every man made his muffin—whatever that
muffin might be—in the open light of heaven; and not in a cup-
board, a hole, a corner . It was making muffins in secret, and in
darkness, that made three parts of the misery of mankind.”
When people heard Mr. Capstick discourse after this fashion,
they would confidentially declare to one another, that it was plain
he was born above his business: he was a broken-down gentleman;
perhaps come of a Jacobite family, and made muffins to hide his
disgrace. True it was, there was a pompousness, a Swagger, an
affected contempt of the people with whom he turned the penny,
that gave some warranty for these opinions. Notwithstanding,
Mr. Capstick, with all his consequence, all his misanthropy, and
he wore his hatred of mankind as he would have worn a diamond
ring, a thing at once to be put in the best light and to be very
proud of—was a great favourite. The cellars of St. Giles's echoed
his praises. He was, in his way, a great benefactor to his poorest
neighbours. “You see, Mary Anne,” he would say to his wife,
“what a blessing there is in corn. When muffins are too stale to
sell, they’re always good enough to give away.” And these re-
mainder muffins he would frequently bestow upon the veriest
needy, accompanied with phrases that spoke his contempt of
human nature, his own particular nature included.
C 2
20 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEs.
Such was Mr. Capstick—such was the self-important muffin-
maker—whom we have now to introduce to the reader. The time
was about two o'clock on a gusty March afternoon; and Mr. Cap-
stick stood erect behind his counter, evidently strung for some
important task. There was a weight of meaning in his broad,
White face ; and a big black cap, selected it would seem with an
eye to the picturesque, impending over his brow, imparted to it a
severity not to be lost upon vulgar beholders. Having thrust his
hands and half his arms into his breeches pockets—as though to
place himself firmly on his centre—the muffin-maker proceeded to
interrogate a child before him, speaking very loud, and frowning
very significantly the while. The child, reader, was young St. Giles,
You left him when he was a nursling; and the boy man stands
before you. He is puny and dwarfed; a miserable little chit in
his anatomy; but his sharp, fox-like face—his small black eyes,
now looking bashfulness, and now brightening with impudence
—his voice, now coaxing, and now drawling—prove him to be an
almost equal match for his burly questioner, the clever, pompous,
World-knowing muffin-maker. -
“So ; you are the little dog that came begging of me in Bow-
street : * growled Capstick.
“I’m the werry dog, sir,” answered St. Giles, in no way
daunted by Capstick's thunder.
“Don’t you know that boys oughtn't to beg? Don't you know
that I could have sent you to gaol for begging Eh! Don't
you know that ?” asked the magnificent muffin-maker very
loudly.
“Yes, sir; I knows it, sir,” replied the child, with a wonderful
knowledge of law.
“And if you know better, why don’t you do better?” said
Capstick.
“Don’t know what better is, sir,” returned St. Giles, looking
down at the floor, and shuffling his feet.
“Humph 1” mused Capstick, and then he somewhat gently
asked, “should you like to learn it, my little boy 7°
“Isn't it werry hard, sir?” inquired St. Giles. “Don’t like
hard learning, sir.”
“What, you’ve tried, have you ? You have been to school,
eh You can write a little, St. Giles, and read a little 7" said
the muffin-maker. .
“No, sir; never went to school; never had time, sir. Besides,
sir, father always used to say, school was so werry dummy.”
“Dummy | What's dummy?” cried the muffin-maker.
Young St. Giles leered up in Capstick's face, and then giving
himself a twist, as though enjoying the tradesman's ignorance,
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 21
said—“Not know what dummy is ' Why, sir, if you please,
dummy's flash.”
“Oh then you know flash # * asked Capstick.
“I know a little, sir,” replied St. Giles, very modestly : “know
more, when I grows bigger.”
“I dare say you will,” cried the muffin-maker, pityingly,
“And tell me, what’s your father doing now * *
“He’s a doing nothing now, sir.”
“No l’” said Capstick.
“No, sir, he's dead,” said St. Giles; but whether in sim-
plicity or jest, the muffin-maker did not discover.
“And you’ve never been taught to do anything Poor little
wretch 1 ° cried Capstick.
It was plain that young St. Giles rejected the compassion of
the muffin-maker; for he immediately, with much volubility,
asserted : “I knows a good many things, sir; sometimes, sir,
goes singing o' ballads with Tom Blast : was to have gone with
him to-day ; only Tom's so precious hoarse, crying dying speeches
yesterday. Then I knows how to sell matches, and hold osses,
and do a many things, sir, as I forget now.” -
Capstick looked at the urchin for a few moments, then leaning
over the counter, and beckoning St. Giles closer, he said to him,
in a tone of tenderness, “You’d like to be a good boy, wouldn't
you ?”
“A course, sir,” answered St. Giles, with stolid face.
“And so be a good man; and so at last get a nice shop, such
as this, eh? You'd like it, eh?”
“Wouldn’t I though 1” cried St. Giles, playing with his hair
and grinning.
“Instead of wandering about the streets—and singing ballads
—and going along with boys, that at last may lead you to be
hanged 7”
“I saw Bill Filster hung, yesterday,” cried St. Giles sharply,
and his eyes sparkled as with the recollection of the treat.
“Oh Lord 1 oh Lord ' " groaned the muffin-maker. “You
little rascal who took you ?”
“Went with some big boys,” answered the unabashed St.
Giles. “I give Phil Slant a happle to let me set upon his
shoulders. Bill Filster used to live in our lane. Poor Bill ! It
was so prime.”
The muffin-maker spasmodically whipped his cap from his
head, and drawing a long breath, wiped his brows; the while he
looked at young St. Giles with pity, and something like bitter-
ness. The next moment he cried to himself, “Poor little wretch!
Poor little animal : ” -
22 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEs.
“I know’d Bill Filster. Once he lived in our lane, Oh,
couldn’t he sing a song ! He teached me one about Dick Turpin.
Sometimes,” said St. Giles, bending his small quick eyes on
Capstick, “sometimes people have given me a penny to sing it.”
The muffin-maker made no reply ; but with a lofty waving of
the hand—immediately understood by St. Giles—commanded
silence. Then did Mr. Capstick walk up and down behind his
counter, self-communing. Fix his flying thoughts in words,
and they would read somewhat as follow —“A little scoundrel !
Poor wretch, how can he help it ! What's he been taught !
Wrong, wrong; nothing but wrong. There’s a manner in the
little villain, too, that promises something better. He’s but a
babel Poor miserable thing ! and what a knowing little rascal
Well, it won’t ruin me—thank God!—it can’t ruin me.” And
then Mr. Capstick again laid himself across the counter, and said
a little sternly to young St. Giles—“Come here, you sir.”
“Yes, sir,” said St. Giles, stepping up to the muffin-maker,
and looking confidently in the face of his patron.
“If I was to be your friend, and try to save you from being
hanged—there, don’t cry”—for St. Giles affecting sensibility had
already raised his arm to his eyes—“If I was to save you from
being hanged, for else you’re pretty sure to come to it, would you
be a good boy, eh?” -
“Oh, wouldn't I, sir!” cried St. Giles. “I jest would then.”
“Well—do you think you could sell muffins 7 ° And this
question Mr. Capstick put in a low, cautious voice, with his eye
turned watchfully towards the back parlour, as though he feared
some sudden detection.
“I should like it so!” cried young St. Giles, rubbing his hands.
Capstick was evidently taken with the boy's alacrity for the
profession, for he quickly said—“Then I'll make a man of you.
Yes; I’ll set you up in business.” With these words Capstick
produced a small basket from behind the counter. “Be a good
boy, now,” he said, “an honest boy, and this basket may some
day or the other grow into a big shop. Understand ; you can
understand, I know, for you’ve a lot of brains of some sort in
your eyes, I can see. Understand, that if you’re civil and pains-
taking, your fortune’s made. This is the best chance you ever
had of being a man. Here’s a basket and a bell,”—for in the
days we write of, the muffin-bell was not unmusical to legislative
ears—“ and two dozen muffins. You’ll get two shillings for 'em,
for they’re baker's dozens. Then come here to-morrow ; I'll
set you up again, and give you a lumping profit for yourself.
There's the goods;” and Capstick, with exceeding gravity,
placed the basket in one hand of St. Giles, and a small metal bell
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, 23
in the other. “Tell me, my boy, did you ever see Lord Mayor's
show !”
“Yes, sir; many times,” said the seven-year-old St. Giles.
“And the Lord Mayor in his gold coach, and the trumpeters
before him, and all that ? Now, attend to me”—and the muffin-
maker became still more grave. “Attend to me. There’s many
a Lord Mayor who never had the start you have—who never was
so lucky to begin life upon muffins. So, when bad boys come
about you, and want you to idle and play with 'em, and do worse
than that it may be—just think of the Lord Mayor, and what
you may come to.” , t r *
“Yes, sir, I will, sir,” said young St. Giles, impatient to begin
business. - -
“Then go along with you,” cried Capstick; “and mind people
don’t call me a fool for trusting you. There, go,” said the trades-
man, a little pompously—“ cry muffins, and be happy l’’
St. Giles jumped from the step into the street, and rang his
bell, and chirped “muffins” with the energy of a young enthu-
siast. Capstick, with complacency upon his face, looked for a time
after the child; he then muttered—“Well, if it saves the little
wretch, it’s a cheap penn'orth.”
“At your old doings again " cried Mrs. Capstick, who from
the dark nook of a back parlour had watched, what she often
called the weakness of her husband.
“My dear Mary Anne,” chuckled Mr. Capstick, as though
laughing at a good joke—“’tis the little rascal that, I told you,
set upon me in Bow-street. I’ve given him a few of the stale ones
—he's rogue enough to pass 'em off I know. Ha! haſ I like to
see the villany of life—it does me good. After, as you know,
what life’s done for me, it's meat and drink to me to see crops of
little vagabonds coming up about us like mustard-seed—all of 'em
growing up to cheat and rob, and serve the world as it should be
served ; for it's a bad world—base and brassy as a bad shilling.”
And with this ostentatious, counterfeit misanthropy, would the
muffin-maker award to his best deeds the worst motives. And
Mrs. Capstick was a shrewd woman. She suffered herself to seem
convinced of her husband's malice of heart, knowing as she did
its thorough excellence. But then the muffin-maker had been
bitterly used by the world. “His wine of life,” he would say,
“had been turned into vinegar.”
“Well, you’ll be ruined your own way,” cried Mrs. Capstick.
“And that, Mary Anne,” said the muffin-maker, “is some com-
fort in ruin. When so many people would ruin us, it’s what
I call a triumph over the villany of the world to be ruined after
one's own pattern.”
24 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“Good afternoon, ma'am—why, you’re welcome as the flowers
in spring,” said Mrs. Capstick to a woman flauntily dressed, and
burning in red ribands, who suddenly entered the shop; a woman,
whose appearance did scarcely suggest the beauty and tenderness
of spring flowers. “I haven’t seen you these three months.”
“Oh lor no | * said the woman, “that court will be the dealli
of all of us.”
Let not the reader imagine that Kitty Muggs complained of the
tainted air or confined limits of any court in the neighbourhood.
No, indeed ; she spoke of no other court than the Court of St.
James.
“What Queen Charlotte will so often make you take tea with
her, eh?” said the muffin-man, with his severest sneer. “It’s
too bad ; she oughtn't to be so hard upon you.”
“Oh, there 's so much dining and dining—cabinet dinners, my
dear, they call 'em—for they always eat most when they've most
to do, that I might as well be in the galleys. However, they’re
all going to the play to-night, and—it 's a poor heart that never
rejoices—I’m going there myself.”
“Well, I don't know that you could do a better thing,” said
Capstick; “there's a good deal to be learnt at a play, if fools will
learn anything.”
“Oh a fiddle's end upon learning. I go for a nice deep
tragedy ; something cutting, that will do me good. There 's
nothing so refreshing as a good cry, when, my dear, you know
after all there 's nothing to cry about. Tears was given us to
enjoy ourselves with—that is, tears at the play-house.”
“They wash out the mind, like a dirty tea-cup,” said the
muffin-maker, “and give a polish to the feelings.”
“They always do with me, Mister Capstick,” said the woman.
“I never feel so tender and so kind to all the world as when I’ve
had a good cry; and, thank Heaven a very little makes me cry.
What we women should do, if we couldn’t cry, my dear, nobody
knows. We 're treated bad enough as it is, but if we couldn't
cry when we liked, how we should be put upon—what poor,
defenceless creturs we should be ”
“Nature’s been very kind to you,” said the muffin-maker.
“Next to the rhinoceros, there’s nothing in the world armed like
a woman. And she knows it.”
“I’m not talking of brute beasts, Mister Capstick,” said the
fair one, tossing her head; and then approaching the shop-door,
she looked intently down the street.
Mrs. Capstick, to change the conversation, carelessly observed
—“You are not looking for anybody, Kitty 2 °
“For nobody in particlar,” said Kitty, and she again gazed
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 25
very anxiously. “The truth is, one of our gentlemen is going to
the play with me. We didn't leave the house together, for you
know what foolishness people talk. I told him to meet me here.
I’m going to buy some muffins,” she quickly added, as a justifiable
trading excuse for the liberty she had taken.
“Never mind the muffins,” said Capstick; “if I can help you
to a husband in any lawful way, Kitty, why I owe the world such
a grudge, I’ll do anything to do it.”
Ritty, in her maiden confusion, unconscious of the muffin-
maker's satire, merely said, “LOr Mr. Capstick.”
“What sort of a gentleman is he 7” asked Mrs. Capstick.
“There, again,” said the muffin-maker, “if it is n’t droll !
There can’t be a woman ever so old, that, when she thinks she
smells a sweet-heart somewhere, does n 't Snigger and grin as if
her own courting days were come again. Well, you are a strange
lot, you women l’
“What sort of a gentleman is he, Kitty ?” repeated the un-
moved Mrs. Capstick. -
Kitty smiled very forcibly, and answered, “Oh, a-a dark
gentleman. And now, Mrs. Capstick, let me have a shilling's-
worth of muffins. Dear me ! Why don’t you come and live in
Pell Mell? Muffins is the only things that we haven’t tip-top at
the West-end. You ’re burying yourself here, in St. Giles’s ;
you are, indeed. If you ’d only come West-end—only do n’t let
it be known where you come from—I could put your muffins, as
I may say, into millions of families.”
“It’s worth thinking of,” said the sly Capstick. “I might be
appointed muffin-maker to the Royal Family. Might put up the
IRoyal Arms, with a gold toasting-fork in the lion's mouth.”
“To be sure you might,” said the sanguine Kitty; “and if
you ’ve a mind to do it, I’ll speak to the cook—he 's the best of
friends with the butler—the butler will speak to the valet—the
valet will speak to master—and master's only got to catch the
king in a good humour to do anything with him. Itell you what
do,” said Kitty, as struck by a brilliant thought : “send in a
couple of dozen muffins to-morrow, and I’ll manage to introduce
'em.”
“And you think his gracious Majesty's to be got at in this way,
through the kitchen " " asked Capstick.
“I’m certain sure of it; it's done every day; or what's the
good of having a master in what they call a cabinet There's
nothing like working up 'ards, Mr. Capstick—I know what the
court is, I'd have done a good deal for Jem—they call him
Bright Jem, but I could never see his brightness—only he 's
as proud as a peacock with a Sunday tail. I could have got him
26 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
—ah ! I don't know what I couldn’t have got him—only he 'd
never let me ask for it. Ha! if my foolish sister hadn’t married,
as I may say, in the gutter, she might have been quite as well off
as me.”
“She seems very happy, for all that,” said Mrs. Capstick.
“Poor thing ! she doesn’t know no better,” said Kitty; “she
Oughtn't to be happy though. I’m going to tea with her, and to
take them muffins; for though she has married a low tradesman,
I can’t forget she's my sister; and yet you should hear how I
do get laughed at about it, sometimes in our house. But feelings
is feelings, Mr. Capstick. Oh!” added Kitty with much vivacity,
and an affected flutter—“here comes the gentleman. Now, think
of what I’ve said, Mr. Capstick; there's the shilling.” And
Ritty, taking the muffins, turned out of the shop, meeting a black
footman—black as guilt—as he was about to enter. “Here I am,
Cesar,” said Kitty; and taking an ebony arm, she walked with
‘him away.
“Why, bless me! She's never going to marry a nigger l’”
cried the muffin-maker's wife. “She’ll never do such a thing !
Eh, Mr. Capstick?”
“Why, Mary Anne,” said the misanthrope, “Miss Kitty is a
long way the other side of a chicken. And when women of her
time of life can’t snow white, they'll snow black.”
CHAPTER IV.
WE must again solicit the company of the reader to the lodging
of Bright Jem, Short's Gardens. It is the same clean, dull room,
as shown in our second chapter: one of the many nooks in which
the care and industry of woman do somehow make poverty and
snugness half friends; in which penury has at least the cheerful
hue of cleanliness. Bright Jem again smoked at the fire-place.
Though more than six years had passed, they had run off his face
like oil. Here and there his stubbly hair was dredged with grey;
his broad back was bent a little, nothing more. Indeed, Jem's
was one of those faces, in which time seems at once to do its best
and worst. It grew a little browner with years like walnut-wood;
but that was all.
We cannot say—and in truth it is a ticklish question to ask of
those who are best qualified to give an answer—if there really be
not a comfort in substantial ugliness: in ugliness that, unchanged,
will last a man his life; a good granite face in which there shall
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES- 27
be no wear and tear. A man so appointed, is saved many
alarms, many spasms of pride. Time cannot wound his vanity
through his features; he eats, drinks, and is merry, in despite of
mirrors. No acquaintance starts at sudden alteration, hinting in
such surprise, decay and the final tomb. He grows older with no
former intimates—churchyard voices !—crying, “Bow you 're
altered . " How many a man might have been a truer husband,
a better father, firmer friend, more valuable citizen, had he, when
arrived at legal maturity, cut off—say, an inch of his nose. This
inch—only an inch l—would have destroyed the vanity of the
very handsomest face; and so, driven the thoughts of a man from
a vulgar looking-glass, a piece of shop crystal,—and more, from
the fatal mirrors carried in the heads of women to reflect, heaven
knows how many coxcombs who choose to stare into them,-
driven the man to the glass of his own mind. With such small
sacrifice, he might have been a philosopher. Thus considered, how
many a coxcomb may be within an inch of a sage 1 True, there
was an age when wise men—at least a few of them—glorified in
self-mutilation, casting sanguinary offerings to the bird of wisdom.
But this was in the freshness and youth of the world ; in the
sweet innocence of early time. But the world grows old ; and
like a faded, fashionable beauty, the older it grows the more it
lays on the paint.
And the sum and end of this swelling paragraph is this. If,
O reader you are young and believe yourself handsome, avoid
the peril of beauty. Think of Narcissus, and—cut off your nose.
Only an inch And now let us descend to the hearth and home
of Bright Jem.
Mrs. Aniseed still shone, in comfortable looks, at the fire-side.
Her face was a little thinner, a little longer; but time had
touched her as though, for the good heart that was in her bosom,
he loved her.
A third person—a visitor—was present: a woman of any age.
Her face seemed bloodless—white as chalk—formed in sharp out-
line. She was poorly drest,-and yet it was plain she aimed at
a certain flow and amplitude of costume that should redeem her
from among the vulgar. Her head was armed with a white stiff
muslim cap, frilled and pointed: it seemed a part of her; a thing
growing upon her, like the crest of some strange bird. She sat
motionless, with her arms crossed, like an old figure in faded
tapestry. Poor soul! she seemed one of the remnants of another
age, that Time, as he clears away generations, forgets now and
then to gather up : or it may be, purposely leaves them for a while
as century posts of a past age. Miss Canary—such was her name
—was very poor; nevertheless, she had one sustaining comfort,
28 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
which—as though it were a cordial—she took to her heart twenty
times a day. It was this: “She was born a lady; nobody could
deprive her of that.” And it was this proud thought that, like
an armed knight, attended her in the gallery of Covent Garden
Theatre, where, condescending to poverty, she every evening
offered for sale apples and oranges, cider, and a bill of the play.
It was this thought of her born gentility that kept her taciturn
and stately amidst the free comments of apprentices, the wit of
footmen, and the giggling of holiday maids. The dignity of her
utterance, her stately bearing, had some years past obtained for
her the name of Lady Canary And she deserved it. For she
offered apples, oranges, cider, and a bill of the play, as though she
really invited the gods to the fruit of the Hesperides, to the very
choicest sort of nectar, and a new poem by Apollo. There was
no solicitation in her tone,—but a sort of disciplined condescen-
sion; and she took the money for her commodities with nothing
of the air of a trader, but of a tax-gatherer; or rather of a queen
receiving homage in the tangible form of halfpence. And all this
she owed to the constant thought that glorified her far beyond
the heroines upon the stage—(empresses for a night), to the
possessing idea that “she was born a lady; and nobody could
deprive her of that.” It was this family pride—from what
family she rose and declined she never told—that now engaged
her in, we fear, an unequal controversy with Bright Jem ; his
wife, oddly enough, taking no part in the debate, but sitting at
the fire, now Smiling and now nodding commendation of either
deserving party.
“No, Mr. James, no, I tell you, I was born a lady, and I
couldn't do it,” said Miss Canary. “You are a very good man,
a very kind creature, Mr. Aniseed; but excuse me, you don’t
know what high life’s made of.”
“Not all made o’ Sugar, I dare say,” said Jem, “no more than
our life's all made o' mud.”
“But I ought to know ; for I fell you again, I was born a lady,”
cried the playhouse Pomona
“Nonsense,” said Jem. “I tell you, Miss Canary, there isn't
sich a thing as a born lady in the world.”
“Why you never, Mr. James 1’’ and Miss Canary was scan-
dalised at the heresy
“Born lady!” repeated Jem, laughingly; and then moving his
chair towards his disputant, he touched her mittened arm with
his pipe, saying—“Look here, now. There's Mrs. Grimbles, at
number five, she had a little gal last week, -you know that ?
Well; Mrs. Grimbles is a clear-starcher. That you allow . And
for that reason—now tell me this, for that reason is her little
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 29
baby born a clear-starcher ? Eh! I should like to know as
much as that now . "
“Oh, Mr. James you’re a good person, but you know you’re
a low man; no, no ; you can’t understand these things.” And
Miss Canary smiled a pitying smile.
“I tell you,” said Jem, “there's no such thing as born ladies
and gentlemen. There's little bits of red girls and boys born if
you will,—and you may turn 'em into—now, look here,” said
Jem, “if there was to be some folks born gentlemen and some
not, -why wasn’t there two Adams and two Eves, for the high
people and the low ones' "
“Oh, Mr. James l’’ cried Miss Canary, half rising from her
seat—“For your precious soul's sake, I hope not ; but I do think
you’re an athist.”
“I can’t tell, I’m sure,” said Jem, not comprehending the con-
veyed reproach. “I don’t know ; but as for my soul, Miss
Canary, why, I try to keep it as clean and take as good care of
it as a soldier takes care of his gun, so that it may be always in
fighting order against the enemy.”
“You think so, Mr. James; but with your notions, it’s impos-
sible. Oh, Mrs. Aniseed, I do wonder at you ! How you can
hear your good man talk as he does, and still sit laughing in that
Way! Ha, I bless my stars, I’ve not a husband to be miserable
about.”
“Well, I’m sure, Miss Canary, I wish you had,” said Mrs.
Aniseed, laughing the more. “If you was only as miserable as I
am, what a deal happier you’d be People who live alone with
nobody but a cat, -I don’t know how it is, but they do get a
little like their company.”
“Susan,” said Jem; and taking the pipe from his mouth, he
looked full at his wife, and shook his head reprovingly. “I won’t
have it, Susan.”
“La, Jem 1 Mayn't I speak in my own house !” cried the
wife,
“It’s the very last place you ought to speak in, Susan, if you
can’t speak nothing that's comfortable. If you and Miss Canary
want a good bout together, why, I hope I know women too well
to be unreasonable. 'Point a place and take an early hour that
you may get it over in one day, and not at your own fireside, where
you ask a body to come and sit down cosily with you. It’s a mean
advantage. A wild Injun wouldn’t do it.”
“I’m sure, Jem, I meant nothing,” said Mrs. Aniseed.
“That’s it, Susan ; that's the shame and nonsense o’ the thing,
A man might bear a good deal of noise from you women—I don’t
mean you, Miss Canary—if there was half-an-ounce of meaning
30 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
in it. But when you get upon an argiment one with another, you
go at it like a monkey on a drum. It's all a row without a bit
of tune in it. And then, nine times out o' ten, after you’ve been
spitting and clawing at one another, you make it up you don’t
know why, and all of a sudden you’re sociable together as two
kittong at the salue Sarcer of milk. And now, Susan, my old
woman, get the tea.”
Mrs. Aniseed, with a sudden Smile on her face, called there by
the kindly tone of the conjugal mandate, said, “You ’re a queer
cretur, Jem,” and was about to quit the room. She paused a
moment at the door, and nodding significantly to Jem, said,
“ Muffins,” and then vanished. º
We know not whether the word reached. Miss Canary, but she
observed, with new cordiality, “She’s a dear woman, Mr. James;
and now she can’t hear me, I don’t mindsaying it—I love her like
any sister.”
Bright Jem said nothing, but sucked his pipe with a loudsmack.
“Nothing's a trouble to her. She's done many things for me,
that I couldn't have done myself; but then, as I say, Mr. James,
I was born a lady, and though I do sell fruit in the playhouse,
thank heaven I never forget myself.” •
“Not when your cat's a starving 7" said Jem, drily.
“Now, we won’t talk of that again, Mr. James. We 've talked
enough about that. You may say it 's weakness—I call it a
proper pride. I don’t mind going with a pie to the bakehouse—
don’t much mind answering the milk—but I can’t quite forget
what I came of no, nothing on earth should compel me to take
in the cat's-meat. Pride must stop somewhere ; and till my dying
day, I stop at cat's-meat.” -
“Well, I’m very glad, Miss Canary, I’m not your mouser-
that's all,” said Jem ; who was interrupted in further speech by
the sudden appearance of his wife, who, somewhat flustered, yet
with laughter playing about her mouth, bounced into the room.
“Jem,” she cried, “who do you think 's coming ' And who
do you think"—and here she approached her husband, and was
about to whisper in his ear, when Jem drew himself majestically
back.
“Mrs. Aniseed,” he said, somewhat sternly, “you’ve no more
manners than a poll parrot.”
“Don’t mind me,” said Miss Canary rising. “I’ll go upon the
landing for a minute.”
“Don’t stir a foot, ma'am,” cried Jem, jumping up and handing
her the chair; then turning to his wife—“And this is your
breeding, to whisper company out o' your room | What have
you got to say ' " º
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 31
“Well, then, nothing but this — Kitty’s down stairs, come
to tea. And she 's brought somebody with her,” said Mrs.
Aniseed.
“Well, poor soul | I hope it 's a sweetheart : she 's been a
long while looked over, and I hope her time ’s come at last.
Does he look like a sweetheart You women can tell that,”
said Jem.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” answered Mrs. Aniseed, and she
burst into a loud laugh. At the same moment, Kitty Muggs
entered the room all Smiles and good-humour, shaking hands
with Bright Jem, and her esteemed acquaintance, Miss Canary;
who, more than once, had sunk the recollection of her ladylike
origin, and visited the kitchen of St. James's as an especial guest
of Kitty’s.
“Inever saw you look so charming, Kitty—well,that bonnet does
become you,” said Miss Canary. “And what a sweet riband ſº
“Why, Kitty, there is mischief in the wind, I'm certain,” said
Jem. “You’ve got somebody tight at last, I can see that. Don’t
pucker your mouth up as Small as a weddin’ ring, but tell us who
it is. I’ll give you away with all my heart and soul.”
“Lor, Jem you are such a man. It’s only one of our gentle-
men corne with me ; we’re going to the play.” And then a foot-
step was heard on the stairs, and Kitty running to the door, cried
encouragingly, “Come up, Cesar.” Cesar obeyed the invitation,
and in an instant stood bowing about him on the floor. Jem was
twitched by a momentary surprise, but directly recovered him-
self. Laying down his pipe, he advanced with outstretched hand
to the negro.
“You’re welcome, my friend. Anybody as Kitty Muggs
brings here is welcome as she is.” Jem, turning his eye, detected
his wife painfully endeavouring to kill a laugh by thrusting her
apron corner into her mouth. Whereupon he repeated in a tone
not to be mistaken by his helpmate—“Quite welcome ; as wel-
come as she is.” Mrs. Aniseed, thus rebuked, with a great effort
swallowed her mirth, and immediately busied herself at the cup-
board. Cesar silently seated himself, and looked about him—
keenly relishing the cordiality of his reception—with a face lus-
trous as blackest satin. In his great contentment, he saw not
Miss Canary, who had risen from her chair, and stood still with
unclosed lips and wandering eyes, evidently feeling that all her
treasured gentility was quitting her for ever, drawn magnetically
from her by the presence of a negro. She could not stay in the
same room with a blackamoor—that was impossible. No ; she
was born a lady; and she would die rather than forfeit that
consolation. Bewildered, yet endeavouring to make a graceful
32 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
retreat, she still remained motionless, drawn taller, as pride and
death will draw people. + -
“There’s no need of ceremony, Miss Canary,” said Jem, moving
the chair to her, with an emphasis—“Come, sit down, and make
your life happy.” Without knowing what she did, Miss Callary
dropt in the clair; and then vehemently hated herself for the
docility. Nevertheless, she would not remain in the room with a
negro footman. A livery was bad enough ; but a livery with a
black man inside it ! There was no lie she would not tell to
escape the degradation. -
“You’re very good, Mr. James; very kind, but I’ve such a
headache,” said Miss Canary, “I do think my head will split
in two.”
“Well, two heads, they say, is better than one,” cried Jem, who
saw at once the cause of the sudden illness.
“Got a head-ache l’’ exclaimed Kitty. “Where’s my salts,
Cesar?” Immediately, Cesar taking a small bottle, warm from
his pocket, advanced towards Miss Canary, who tried to shrink
through the back of the chair, as the black approached her.
“Take a good smell at 'em,” said Kitty, “they’re fresh to-day;
I had 'em for the play to-night. I never go without 'em, since I
was taken out a fainting.”
“Never mind the salts,” said Mrs. Aniseed; “a cup of nice tea
will do you good.” And she set the tea-things on the table.
“Yes,” cried Kitty, “and I’ve brought you some real gun-
powder, some I got from our own canister.”
Kitty was about to consign the treasure to the tea-pot, when
Bright Jem snatched up the vessel. “Much obliged to you
Kitty, all the same, but you’ll keep your gunpowder. I don’t
make my bowels a place for stolen goods, I can tell you.”
“Stolen goods, Mr. Aniseed,” cried Kitty; “stolen, why, it
was only taken.” Jem, inexorable, shook his head. “Well, you
are such a strange man, and have such strange words for
things!”
“No, Kitty,” answered Jem ; “it’s having the right words for
things, that Imakes 'em seem strange to you. I’ve told you this
afore ; now, don’t you try it again.”
Mrs. Aniseed, to divert this little contest, bustled about with
unwonted energy! ringing the cups and saucers, and then calling
out loudly for a volunteer to toast the muffins. “Permit me,
marm,” said Cesar, with exuberant politeness; the while Mrs.
Aniseed drew back the toasting-fork, declaring she could by no
manner of means “allow of such a thing.”
“Let him do it; he toasts beautiful,” cried Kitty; and Cesar
gained his wish.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 33
“’Scuse my back, marm,” said Cesar, as, stooping to the fire,
he turned his shoulders towards Miss Canary.
“Always as he is now,” said Kitty in a whisper to Miss
Canary, “good-tempered as any dog.” And then she furtively
pressed the forbidden gunpowder tea upon the spinster, assuring
her that the queen didn't drink such. Reader, your indulgence
for human frailty. Miss Canary, forgetful of her ladyhood,
pocketed the stolen goods with the serenity of innocence.
“And so you’re a going to the play, Kitty, you and Mr. Cesar 7
Well, I think we shall have a good house. Of course, you go to
our shop 7" said Jem. “A deep tragedy to-night. All the better
for you, Miss Canary, isn’t it ! Well, I never could make it out;
that folks should suck more oranges, and drink more beer at a
tragedy, than any other thing.”
“It’s their feelings, Jem,” said Mrs. Aniseed.
“Well, I suppose it is. Just as folks eat and drink as they
do at a funeral. When the feelings are stirred up they must
have something to struggle with, and so they go to eating and
drinking.”
“Romeo and Juliet's always worth three shillings more to me
than any other play,” said Miss Canary, gradually reconciled to
the black by the gunpowder. “Oranges relieve the heart.”
“No doubt on it,” said Jem. “Though I don’t often look
inside the house, still I have seen 'em in the front row of the gallery
—a whole lot of full-grown women—sucking and crying, like
broken-hearted babbies.”
“We’re all a going to-night, Jem,” said Kitty, “that is, all our
people. My lord and my lady, and, for the first time in his life,
the dear child. Oh, what a love of loves that babby is. But
you remember him, Susan 7 you recollect the night he was born,
don’t you?” -
“I should think I did,” said Mrs. Aniseed. “That’s the night,
you know, Jem, I brought home that blessed infant.”
“Blessed infant l” groaned Jem. “Ha he was a blessed
infant. And what is he now 7 Why, he looks as if he had been
brought up by a witch, and played with nothing but devils. A
little warmint when he sometimes comes sudden upon me, he
makes me gasp again ; there does seem such a deal of knowing in
his looks. You might thread a needle with his head, it looks so
sharp. Poor little bit of muck Ha!” and again Jem groaned.
“Ha the Lord knows what will become of him,” cried Mrs.
Aniseed.
“I know what will become of him,” said Jem ; “the gallows
will become of him—that's as plain as rope.”
“Well, Mr. James,” said Miss Canary—“and if they will—a
ID
34 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
little more sugar, please—if they will, these little wretches, rush
to destruction, what's to be done with 'em 2 ”
“Rush to destruction 1 ° cried Jem indignantly—“pushed,
driven to destruction, you mean. Now, look at that little chap—
See what he's gone through. I wonder he isn’t as full of wrinkles
as a monkey. He wasn’t above six luonths old when we had
him. Well, they took him from us; to be sure we’d no right to
him ; there was his own mother, and—no matter for that. They
took him from us; and for a twelvemonth after that—I’ve seen
him now in one woman's lap, now in another's, with his pretty
plump face every week getting thinner and thinner—poor little
wretch !—as though, babby as it was, it knew something of the
wickedness that was going on about it, and days counted double
days upon it. There looked a something horrible sensible in the
child—a knowingness that was shocking, crowded as it was into
its bit of a farthing face, Well, so it went on for about two years.
And then, I’ve seen it barefoot in the mud, and heard it scream-
ing its little pipe like a whistle, a singing ballads. And then,
when it wasn’t four years old, I’ve seen the child with matches
in his hand ; and I’ve heard him lie and beg, and change his
voice up and down, and down and up—lord it has made my
blood turn like water to hear such cunning in a little cretur that
natur meant to be as innocent as heaven. Well, and now what
is he At seven years old, what is he Why, that little head
of his is full of wasps as July. Now and then, a sort of look
comes back upon his face, as if it was a good angel looking in it,
—and then, away it goes, and there 's a imp of wickedness,
grinning and winking at you.”
“I hope we shall be in time to get a good place,” said Kitty, to
whom the history of young St. Giles seemed a very low and
wicked business. “I want to get in the front row, because I do
want to see how that precious cretur, that dear angel, young
master, likes it. Sweet fellow ! They say he's so sensible—
shouldn’t wonder if he knows every bit about it to-morrow.
There never was such a child as that in the world.”
“What young St. James, eh? Well, he ought to be a nice
little chap,” said Jem. “He’s lived the life of a flower; with
nothing to do, but to let himself be nursed and coddled. He
hasn’t had nothing to iron the dimples out of him yet. How-
somever, I shall have a look at him to-night, when I call the
carriage.” tº
A few minutes more elapsed, and then there was a general move
towards the theatre. Miss Canary, having suffered a promise to
be tortured from her that she would visit Kitty at the West-end,
left Short's Gardens to prepare her basket in the gallery. Bright
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 35
Jem, having heartily shaken Cesar's hand—Cesar had remained
silent as night during his visit, though he looked and smiled
all kind of grateful eloquence—departed on his customary duty :
and Kitty had then nothing to do, but to persuade her sister
to accompany her and Cesar to the house. “I’ll pay for you,
Susan, so you needn't mind the expense,” said Kitty. -
“Oh, it isn't that.” said Mrs. Aniseed, “not at all that, but—”
“Well, then, what can it be Jem says you may go if you
like, and I can see nothing to pervent you.” -
No, Kitty; you cannot see. Your eyes are lost in your heart,
and you cannot see a footman of most objectionable blackness—a
human blot—an ignominious stain that the prejudices of your
sister, kind, cordial soul as she is, shrink from as from something
dangerous to respectability. You, Kitty, cannot see this. You
merely look upon Cesar Gum—the only creature of all the ten
thousand thousand men, who in your pilgrimage through life,
has ever proffered to you the helping of his arm, who has ever
stammered, trembled, smiled at your look, and run like a hound
at your voice—you merely see in him a goodness, a sympathy
that you have yearned for ; and, for the tint of the virtue, you see
not that : to you it may be either black, red, or white. Certainly,
so much has the fire of your heart absorbed the colour of your
slave, that to you black Cesar Gum is fair as Ganymede. Sweet
magician Love | Mighty benevolence, Cupid, that takes away
stains and blots—that gives the line of beauty to zig-zag, upturned
noses—that Smiles, a god of enchantment, in all eyes however
green, blinking, or stone-like—that gives a pouting prettiness even
to a hare-lip, bending it like Love's own bow ! Great juggler,
Cupid, that from his wings shakes precious dust in mortal eyes;
and lo! they see nor blight, nor deformity, nor stain ; or see
them turned to ornament ; even, as it is said, the pearl of an
Oyster is only so much oyster disease. Plutus has been called a
grand decorator. He can but gild ugliness; passing off the thing
for its brightness. But Love—Love can give to it the shape, and
paint it with tints of his own mother. Plutus may, after all, be
Only a maker of human pocket-pieces. Tſe washes deformity
with bright metal, and so puts it off upon the near-sighted ; now
Love is an alchemist, and will, at least to the eyes and ears of
Some one, turn the coarsest lump of clay to one piece of human
gold. And it was Love that, passing his rose-tipped, baby fingers
along the lids of Kitty Muggs, made her see white in black: it
was Love that, to her vision, turned ebony to ivory. -
“Didn't you hear Jem say you might go ''' again cried the
unconscious Kitty.
“Shall be most happy, assure you marm,” said Cesar, clasping
D 2
36 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
his hands, and raising them entreatingly. “Take great care of
you, nebber fear.”
“Well, I will go,” said Mrs. Aniseed, her repugnance conquered
by Cesar's good temper; and in a few minutes—for Mrs. Aniseed
possessed, perhaps, that highest and most valuable of all the
female virtuos, a vil Lue that Eve herself was certainly not born
with, she was a quick dresser—in a few minutes the three were
on their road to Covent Garden. Theatre. A few minutes more,
and they entered the gallery. All things portended a happy
evening, for they were early enough for the front row ; Mr. Cesar
Gum taking his joyful seat between the ladies.
“Mind the bottle, dear,” said Kitty in a low voice to Cesar,
who nodded; his eyes sparkling up at the tender syllable. “Such
a sweet drop of Madeary from our house, Susan ; haſ haſ never
mind Jem.”
The gallery filled with holiday-makers and gallery wits. Miss
Canary was soon hailed as an old acquaintance ; every possible
dignity being thrown, like roses, upon her. One apprentice begged
to inquire of her, “When the Emperor of Chaney was coming over
to marry her ?” Another asked her, “What she’d take for her
diamond ear-rings?” But beautiful was it to behold the num-like
seremity of Miss Canary. She moved among her scoffers, silent
and stately, as the ghost of a departed countess. “I mind 'em no
more,” she observed, as in the course of her vocation she approached
Mrs. Aniseed, “no more than the heads of so many door-knockers.”
Cesar mutely acquiesced in this wisdom ; and in an evil hour
for him, turning a wrathful face upon the revilers, he diverted
all their sport from Miss Canary to himself. “Bill,” cried one,
“isn’t it going to thunder ? It looks so very black.” “I wish I
was a nigger,” roared another, “then I’d be a black rose at ween
a couple of lilies, too.” And then other pretty terms, such as
“snowball,” “powder-puff,” were hurled at Cesar, who sat and
grinned in helpless anger at the green curtain. And then poor
Mrs. Aniseed she shifted on her seat, and felt as if that terrible
burning-glass which brings into a focus the rays of “the eyes of
all the world” was upon her, and she was being gradually scorched
to tinder. At length the tragedy, “George Barnwell,” began.
Ritty was now melted by George, and now put in fever-heat by
Millwood, of whom, leaning back to speak to Mrs. Aniseed, she
confidently observed, “I’d have such creturs tore by wild osses.”
To this Mrs. Aniseed, reciprocating the humanity, curtly replied,
“And so would I, dear.”
The second act passed, when Kitty exclaimed, in a spasm of
delight, “There he is ; there’s little master. Look at him, Susan
—a sweet Cretur,” and Kitty pointed out a beautiful child, whd,
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 37
with its mother and father, had just entered the boxes. The
child was superbly dressed, and when he entered wore a white
beaver hat, with a large plume of pink and white feathers.
“There he is,” again cried Kitty; “we must drink his health.”
Whereupon Cesar produced the bottle, and the health of young
St. James—he all the while unconscious of the honour—was drunk
in Madeira from his paternal dwelling.
The play proceeded, and Kitty wept and sucked oranges—and
wept, and snifted salts, and fifty times declared it was too deep;
she'd never come again—and then sucked another orange—and
then, when the play was over, said she was glad it was done,
though she had never enjoyed herself half so much. And then
she said, “After all, I think a good cry sometimes does us good;
it makes us remember we are human creturs. But oh, that
Millwood, Susan. When women are bad—to be sure it's so very
seldom!—I’m afraid they beat the men.” Every tear, however,
shed by Kitty at the play, was recompensed by a roaring laugh
at the farce. And, at length, brimful of happiness—all being
over—the party rose to go home. “Let’s see 'em get into the
carriage—they needn’t see us,” said Kitty; and hurriedly they
quitted the gallery, and ran round to the box-door.
Bright Jem was in the very heat of action; his mouth musical
with noblest names. Dukes, Marquesses, and Earls fell from his
lips, as he called carriage after carriage.
“Marquess of St. James's carriage,” at length he cried with
peculiar emphasis; and a superb equipage rolled to the door.
The Marquess and Marchioness entered the vehicle, and a foot-
man, lifting in the child, in his awkwardness knocked off the boy's
superb hat: it rolled along the stones, and—was gone.
There was a sudden astonishment, and then a sudden cry of
“Stop thief ’’ Constables, and Cesar, who with Mrs. Aniseed
and Kitty, had been looking on, gave chase; and in a few minutes
returned with the hat and the culprit, who, as it appeared,
darting from under the horses’ legs to the pavement, had caught
up the property.
“Here's the hat, my lord,” cried a constable, “and here's the
little thief.”
“Lord have mercy on us !” cried Mrs. Aniseed, “if it isn't
that wretched child !”
“I know’d it ! I always said it,” cried Jem, almost broken-
hearted. “I know’d he’d come to it—I know’d it !”
It was even so. Young St. Giles was the robber of young
St. James.
38 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
CHAPTER. W.
SHORT was the distance from Covent Garden Theatre to Covent
Garden watch-house; and, therefore, in a few minutes was young
St. Giles arraigned before the night-constable. Cesar Gum had
followed the offender as an important witness against him ; whilst
Bright Jem and his wife attended as sorrowing friends of the
prisoner. Kitty Muggs was of the party; and her indignation
at the wrong committed “on so blessed a baby”—we mean, of
course, St. James—would have burst forth in loudest utterance
had she not been controlled by the moral influence of Bright Jem.
Eſence, she had only the small satisfaction of declaring, in a low
voice, to her sister, “that the little wretch would be sure to be
hanged—for he had the gibbet, every bit of it, in his countenance.”
With this consolation, she suffered herself to be somewhat
painful. “The Lord help him 1" cried Mrs. Aniseed. “Well,
you ought to be ashamed of yourself to say such a thing !”
whispered Kitty Muggs.
Bright Jem was sad and silent. As Cesar, with unusual glib-
'ness, narrated the capture of the prisoner with the stolen property
upon him, poor Jem, shading his eyes with his hand, looked
mournfully at the pigmy culprit. Not a word did Jem utter: but
the heart-ache spoke in his face.
“And what have you got to say to this 2° asked the night-
constable of St. Giles. “You’re a young gallows-bird, you are ;
hardly out of the shell, yet. What have you got to say?”
“Why, I didn't take the at,” answered young St. Giles, fixing
his sharp black eyes full on the face of his interrogator, and
speaking as though he repeated an old familiar lesson, “I didn't
take it : the at rolled to me; and I thought as it had tumbled out
of a coach as was going on, and I run arter it, and calling out, if
nobody had lost a at, when that black gentleman there laid hold
on me, and said as how I stole it. How could I help it, if the at
would roll to me ! I didn’t want the at.”
“Ha 1" said the constable, “there’s a good deal of wickedness
crammed into that little skin of yours—I shall lock you up.
There—go in with you,” and the constable pointed to a cell,
the door of which was already opened for the reception of the
prisoner.
And did young St. Giles quail or whimper at his prison
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. - 39
threshold | Did his young heart sink at the gloomy dungeon
Oh no. Child as he was, it was plain he felt that he was acting
a part : he had become in some way important, and he seemed
resolved to rise with the occasion. He had listened to tales of
felon fortitude, of gallows heroism ; and ambition stirred within
him. He had heard of the Tyburn humourist, who, with his
miserable jest in the jaws of death, cast his shoes from the cart,
to thwart an oft-told prophecy that he would die shod. All
these stories St. Giles had listened to, and took to his heart as
precious recollections. While other children had conned their
books—and written maxim copies—and learned their catechism,
—St. Giles had learned this one thing—to be “game.” His
world—the world of Hog Lane had taught him that ; he had
listened to the counsel from lips with the bloom of Newgate on
them. The foot-pad, the pickpocket, the burglar, had been his
teachers: they had set him copies, and he had written them in
his brain for life-long wisdom. Other little boys had been taught
to “love their neighbour as themselves.” Now, the prime ruling
lesson set to young St. Giles was “honour among thieves.” Other
boys might show rewarding medals—precious testimony of their
schooltime work; young St. Giles knew nothing of these ; had
never heard of them ; and yet unconsciously he showed what to
him was best evidence of his worth : for at the door of his cell, he
showed that he was “game.” Scarcely was he bidden to enter
the dungeon, than he turned his face up to the constable, and his
eyes twinkling and leering, and his little mouth quivering with
scorn, he said—“You don’t mean it, Mister; I know you don’t
mean it !”
“Come, in with you, ragged and sarcy l’’ cried the constable.
“Well, then,” said the urchin, “here goes—good night to you,”
and so saying, he flung a summerset into the cell: the lock was
turned, and Bright Jem—fetching a deep groan—quitted the
watch-house, his wife, sobbing aloud, and following him.
“What can they do to the poor child '''' asked Mrs. Aniseed of
Jem, as the next morning he sat silent and sorrowful, with his
pipe in his mouth, looking at the fire.
“Why, Susan, that's what I was thinking of What can they
do with him He isn't old enough to hang; but he 's quite big
enough to be whipped. Bridewell and whipping ; yes that's it,
that 's how they'll teach him. They’ll make Jack Ketch his
Schoolmaster; and nicely he 'll learn him his lesson towards
Tyburn. The old story, Susan—the old story,” and Jem drew
a long sigh.
“Don’t you think, Jem, something might be done to send
him to sea He’d get taken away from the bad people about
| ??

40 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES
him, and who knows, might after all turn out a bright man.”
Such was the hopeful faith of Mrs. Aniseed.
“Why, there's something in that to be sure. For my part,
I think that 's a good deal what the sea was made for—to take
away the offal of the land. He might get cured at sea; if we
could get anyhody as would take him. I 'm told the sea does
wonders, sometimes, with the morals of folks. I’ve heard of
thieves and rogues of all sorts, that once aboard ship, have come
round 'straordinary. Now, whether it ’s in the salt water or the
bo’swains, who shall say . He wouldn’t make a bad drummer,
neither, with them little quick fists of his, if we could get him in
the army.”
“Oh, I’d rather he was sent to sea, Jem,” cried Mrs. Aniseed,
“then he 'd be out of harm’s way.”
“Oh, the army reforms all sorts of rogues, too,” averred Jem.
“Sometimes they get their morals pipeclayed, as well as their
clothes. Wonderful what heroes are made of, sometimes. You
see, I suppose, there 's something in some parts of the trade that
agrees with some folks. When they storm a town now, and take
all they can lay their hands on, why there's all the pleasure of
the robbery without any fear of the gallows. It's stealing made
glorious with flags and drums. Nobody knows how that little
varmint might get on.”
Bere Jem was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a
woman hung with rags and looking prematurely old. Misery
and vice were in her face, though the traces of evil were for the
time softened by sorrow. She was weeping bitterly, and with
clasped, trembling hands, ran into the room. It was the wretched
mother of young St. Giles; the miserable woman who more
than six years before had claimed her child in that room ; who
had borne her victim babe away to play its early part in
wretchedness and deceit. She had since frequently met Jem,
but always hurried from him. His reproofs, though brief, were
too significant, too searching, for even her shame to encounter.
“Oh, Jem Jem : " she cried, “save my dear child—save my
innocent lamb.”
“Ha and if he isn’t innocent,” cried Jem, “whose fault ’s
that, '' ''
“But he is—he is,” screamed the woman. “You won’t turn
agin him, too ! He steal anything ! A precious cretur ! he might
be trusted with untold gold | *
“Woman,” said Jem, “I wouldn't like to hurt you in your
trouble ; but havn't you no shame at all 7 Don't you know what
a bit of truth is, that even now you should look in my face, and
tell me such a wicked lie ' "
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 41
“I don’t, Jem—I don’t,” vociferated the woman. “He is as
innocent as the babe unborn.”
“Why, so he is, as far as he knows what's right and what’s
wrong. He has innocence: that is, the innocence you’ve taught
him. Teach a child the way he should go,” cried Jem, in a tone
of some bitterness, “and you’ve taught him the way to Newgate.
The Lord have mercy on you ! What a sweet babby he was,
when six year and a half ago you took him from this room, and
what is he now 7 Well, well, I won’t pour water on a drowned
mouse,” said Jem, the woman crying more vehemently at his
rebuke, “but how you can look in that child's face, and arterwards
look up at heaven, I don’t know.”
“There 's no good, not a ha'porth in all this preaching. All we
want to know is this. Can you help us to get the young’un out
o' trouble.” This reproof and interrogation were put in a hoarse,
Sawing voice by a man of about five-and-thirty, who had made
his appearance shortly after St. Giles's mother. He was dressed
in a coat of Newgate cut. His hat was knowingly slanted
over one eyebrow, his hands were in his pockets, and at short
intervals he sucked the stalk of a primrose that shone forth
in strong relief from the black whiskers and week’s beard sur-
rounding it.
“And who are you ?” asked Jem, in a tone not very encou-
raging of a gentle answer.
“That’s a good un, not to know me. My name's Blast—Tom
Blast ; not ashamed of my name,” said the owner, still champing
the primrose.
“No, I dare say not,” answered Bright Jem. “Oh, I know
you now. I’ve seen you with the boy a singing ballads.”
“I should think so. And what on it ! No disgrace in that,
eh I look upon myself as respectable as any of your folks
as sing at your fine play-house. What do we all pipe for but
money? Only there's this difference; they gets pounds—and
I gets half-pence. A singer for money's a singer for money,
whether he stands upon mud or a carpet. But all's one for that.
What's to be done for the boy 7 I tell his mother here not to
worry about it—twont be more than a month or two at Bride-
well, for he's never been nabbed afore : but it's no use a talking
to women, you know ; she won't make her life happy, no how
So we’ve come to you.”
“And what can I do?” asked Jem—“I’m not judge and jury,
am I ?”
“Why, you know Capstick, the muffin-man. Well, he’s a
householder, and can put in a good word for the boy with the
beak. I suppose you know what a beak is " " said Thomas Blast,
49 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
with a satirical twist of the lip. “Not too fine a gentleman to
know that " ''
“Why, what does Capstick know of little St. Giles " " asked
Jem. -
“Oh, Jem,” said the woman, “yesterday ho stood luis friend.
IIe 's a strange cretur, that Capstick; and often does a poor soul
a good turn, as if he'd eat him up all the while. Well, yesterday
arternoon, what does he do but give my precious child—my
innocent babe—two dozen muffins, a basket and a bell.”
“I see,” cried Jem, with glistening eyes, “set him up in trade.
God bless that muffin-man l’”
“That’s what he meant, Jem ; but it wasn't to be—it wasn’t
to be,” cried the woman with a sigh.
“No-it warn’t,” corroborated Mr. Blast. “You see the
young un—all agog as he was—brought the muffins to the lane.
Well, we hadn’t had two dinners, I can tell you, yesterday; so
we sells the basket and the bell for sixpenn'orth of butter, and
did’nt we go to work at the muffins.” And Mr. Blast seemingly
spoke with a most satisfactory recollection of the banquet.
“And if they’d have pisoned all of you, served you right,”
cried Jem, with a look of disgust, “You will kill that child—
you won’t give him a chance—you will kill him body and soul.”
“La, Jem how can you go on in that way ?” cried the
mother, and began to weep anew. “He’s the apple of my eye,
is that dear child.”
“None the better for that by the look of 'em,” said Jem.
“Howsomever, I’ll go to Mr. Capstick. Mind, I don’t want
neither of you at my heels; what I’ll do—I’ll do by myself.”
and without another word, Bright Jem took his cap, and uncere-
moniously passing his visitors, quitted the room. His wife,
looking coldly at the new comers, intimated a silent wish that
they would follow him. The look was lost upon Mr. Blast, for
he immediately seated himself; and seizing the poker, with easiest
familiarity beat about the embers. Mrs. Aniseed was a heroic
woman. Nobody who looked at her, whilst her visitor rudely
disturbed her coals, could fail to perceive the struggle that went
on within her. There are housewives whose very heartstrings
seem connected with their pokers; and Mrs. Aniseed was of
them. Hence, whilst her visitor beat about the grate, it was at
once a hard and delicate task for her not to Spring upon him,
and wrest the poker from his hand. She knew it not, but at that
moment the gentle spirit of Bright Jem was working in her ;
subduing her aroused passion with a sense of hospitality.
“A sharp spring this, for poor people, isn't it, Mrs. Aniseed 7”
observed Mr. Blast. “It seems quite the tail of a hard winter,

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 43
doesn’t it !” Mrs. Aniseed tried to Smile a smile—she only
shivered it. “Well, I must turn out, I’spose ; though I havn't
nothing to do till night—then I think I shall try another murder:
it’s a long while since we’ve had one.”
“A matter of two months,” said the mother of St. Giles, “and
that turned out no great things.”
“Try a murder,” said Mrs. Aniseed, with some apprehension,
“what do you mean?”
“Oh, there’ll be no blood spilt,” answered Mr. Blast, “only a
bit of Grub-street, that's all. But I don't know what’s come to
the people. They don't snap as they used to do. Why, there's
that Horrible and Particular Account of a Bear that was fed
upon Young Children in Westminster: I’ve known the time
when I’ve sold fifty of 'em afore I’d blown my horn a dozen
times. Then there was that story of the Lady of Fortin that
had left Twins in the Cradle, and run off with her Husband's
Coachman—that was a sure crown for a night's work. Only a
week ago it didn't bring me a groat. I don't know how it is ;
people get sharper and sharper, as they get wickeder and
wickeder.”
“And you don’t think it no harm, then,” said Mrs. Aniseed,
“to make bread of such lies }''
“What does it signify, Mrs. Aniseed, what your bread's made
on, so as it's a good colour, and plenty of it ! Lord bless you !
if you was to take away all the lies that go to make bread in this
town, you’d bring a good many peck loaves down to crumbs,
you would. What's the difference at ween me and some folks in
some newspapers? Why this: I sells my lies myself, and they
sell 'em by other people. But I say, Mrs. Aniseed, it is cold,
isn’t it, , ”
Mrs. Aniseed immediately jumped at the subtle purpose of the
guestion ; and only replied—“It is.”
“A drop o' something would’nt be bad such a mornin as this,
would it !” asked the unabashed guest.
“La Tom,” cricq St. Giles's mother, in a half-tone of
astonishment and deprecation.
“I can't say,” said Mrs. Aniseed : “but it might be for them
as like it. I should suppose, though, that this woman—if she’s
got anything of a mother's heart in her—is thinking of some-
thing else, a good deal more precious than drink.”
“You may say that,” said the woman, lifting her apron to her
unwet eye.
“And, there's a good soul, do—do when you get the dear child
home again—do keep him out of the streets; and don’t let him
go about singing of ballads, and—”
44 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“That’s all mighty fine, Mrs. Aniseed,” said Mr. Blast, who
foiled in his drink, became suddenly independent in his language,
—“all mighty fine: but, after all, I should think singing ballads
a little more genteel than bawling for coaches, and making dirty
money out of fogs, and pitch and oakum. A ballad-singer may
lold his head up with a linkman any day—and so you may tell
Jem, when you see him. Come along,” and Mr. Blast twitched
the woman by the arm—“ come along : there’s nothing to be got
here but preaching—and that will come in time to all of us.”
“Don’t mind what he says,” whispered St. Giles's mother to
Mrs. Aniseed, “he’s a good cretur, and means nothing. And
oh, Mrs. Aniseed, do all you can with Mr. Capstick for my inno-
cent babe, and I sha’n’t say my prayers without blessing you.”
With this the unwelcome visitors departed.
We must now follow Bright Jem to the house of the muffin-
man. Jem had already told his errand to Mr. Capstick ; who,
with evident sorrow and disappointment at his heart, is endea-
vouring to look like a man not at all surprised by the story related
to him. Oh dear no he had quite expected it. “As for what I
did, Mr. Aniseed”—said Capstick—“I did it with my eyes open.
I knew the little vagabond was a lost wretch—I could read that
in his face ; and then the muffins were somewhat stale muffins—
so don’t think I was tricked. No : T looked upon it as some-
thing less than a forlorn hope, and I won't flatter myself; but
you see I was not mistaken. Nevertheless, Mr. Aniseed, say
nothing of the matter to my wife. She said—not knowing my
thoughts on the business—she said I was a fool for what I did :
so don’t let her know what’s happened. When women find out
they’re right, it makes 'em conceited. The little ruffian | * cried
Capstick with bitterness—“to go stealing when the muffins might
have made a man of him.”
“Still, Mr. Capstick,” urged Jem, “there’s something to be
said for the poor child. His mother and the bad uns in Hog Lane
wouldn’t let him have a chance. For when St. Giles ran home—
what a place to call home !—they seized upon the muffins, and
turning the bell and basket into butter, swallowed 'em without
so much as winking.”
“Miserable little boy l’” exclaimed the softened Capstick,-and
then he groaned, “Wicked wretches 1’’
“That’s true again,” said Jem : “and yet hunger hardly
knows right from wrong, Mr. Capstick.”
Capstick made no answer to this, but looking in Jem's face,
drew a long breath.
“And about the boy 7" said Jem, “he’s but a chick, is he, to
go to gaol '!”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 45
“It’s no use—it’s all no use, Mr. Aniseed; we’re only throw-
ing away heaven's time upon the matter ; for if the little rascal
was hanged at once—to be sure, he is a little young for that—
nevertheless I was about to say,”—and here the muffin-man,
losing the thread of his thoughts, twitched his cap from his head,
and passed it from right hand to left, and from left to right, as
though he thought in such exercise to come plump again upon the
escaped idea—“I have it,” at length he cried. “I was about to
say, as I’ve an idle hour on hand, I’ll walk with you to Lord
St. James, and we’ll talk to him about the matter.”
Now Bright Jem believed this of himself; that in a good cause
he would not hesitate—at least not much—to speak to his
Majesty, though in his royal robes and with his royal crown upon
his head. Nevertheless, the ease, the perfect self-possession, with
which Capstick suggested a call upon the Marquess of St. James
obtained for him a sudden respect from the linkman. To be
Sure, as we have before indicated, there was something strange
about Capstick. His neighbours had clothed him with a sort
of mystery ; hence, on second thoughts, Bright Jem believed it
possible that in happier days the muffin-man might have talked
to marquesses.
“Yes,” said Capstick, taking off his apron, “we’ll see what
can be done with his lordship. I'll just whip on my coat of
audience, and—hush —my wife,” and Mrs. Capstick stirred in
the back parlour. “Not a word where we’re going. Not that I
care a straw ; only she'd say I was neglecting the shop for a pack
of vagabonds: and perhaps she's right, though I wouldn’t own it.
Never own a woman’s right ; do it once, and on the very conceit
of it, she’ll be always wrong for the rest of her life.” With this
apophthegm, the muffin-maker quitted the shop, and immediately
his wife entered it.
“Glad to see your sister looking so well, Mr. Aniseed,” said
Mrs. Capstick, somewhat slily.
“Oh what, you mean Kitty Why, she looks as well as she
can, and that isn’t much, poor soul,” said Jem.
“She was here yesterday, and bought some muffins. A dark
gentleman was with her,” said Mrs. Capstick.
“You mean the black footman,” observed Jem, dropping at
Once to the cold, hard truth.
“Well,” and Mrs. Capstick giggled, as though communicating
a great moral discovery, “well, there's no accounting for taste, is
there, Mr. Aniseed . "
“No,” said Jem, “it was never meant to be accounted for, I
suppose; else there 's a lot. of us would have a good deal to answer
about. Taste, in some things, I suppose, was given us to do what
46 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
we like with ; but, Mrs. Capstick, now and then we do Sartainly
ill-use the privilege.”
“Lor, Mr. Capstick where are you going so fine !” asked his
spouse of the muffin-maker, as he presented himself in his best
coat, and swathed in a very voluminous neckcloth. “Going to
court, , ”
“You See,” said Capstick, “a man—a wretch, a perjurer, is to-
day put in the pillory.”
“And what’s that to you, Mr. Capstick º’ asked his wife.
“Why, Mary Anne, as a moral man—and, therefore, as a man
who respects his oath, I feel it my duty to go and enjoy my egg.”
With this excuse—worthy of a Timon—did the muffin-maker take
his way towards the mansion of Lord St. James. “It’s a hard
thing,” said Capstick on the road, “a hard thing, that you can't
always tell a wife the truth.”
“I always tell it to my old woman,” observed bright Jem.
“You’re a fortunate man, sir,” said Capstick. “All women
can’t bear it : it’s too strong for 'em. Now, Mrs. Capstick is an
admirable person—a treasure of a wife—never know what it is to
want a button to my shirt, never—still, I am now and then
obliged to sacrifice truth on the altar of conjugal peace. It makes
my heart bleed to do it, Mr. Aniseed: but sometimes it is done.”
Bright Jem nodded as a man will nod who thinks he catches a
meaning, but is not too sure of it. “And what will you say ?”
asked Jem, after a moment's pause—“what will you say to his
lordship, if he'll see you ?”
Mr. Capstick cast a cold, self-complacent eye upon the link-
man, and replied—“I shall trust to my inspiration.” Jem softly
whistled—unconscious of the act. Mr. Capstick heard, what he
deemed a severe comment, and majestically continued: “Mr.
Aniseed, you may not imagine it—but I have a great eye for gin-
gerbread.” - -
“No doubt on it, Mr. Capstick,” said Jem, “it’s a part of your
business.”
“You don’t understand me,” replied the muffin-maker with a
compassionate Smile. “I mean, my good man, the gingerbread
that makes up so much of this world. Bless your heart; I pride
myself, upon my eye, that looks at once through all the gilding—
all the tawdry, glittering Dutch metal—that covers the cake, and
goes at Once to the flour and water.”
“I don’t see what you mean, by no means,” said Jem ; “that
is, not quite.”
“Look here, sir,” said Capstick, with the air of a man who had
made himself up for an oration. “What is that pile of brick
before us ; ”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 47
“Why that you know as well as me,” answered Jem ; “it’s
St. James's Palace.”
“And there lives his gracious Majesty, George the Third.
Now, I dare say, Mr. Aniseed, it’s very difficult for you to look
upon his Majesty in what I shall beg leave to call a state of
nature ?”
“Whal like an injun ?” asked Jem. “Well, I must say, I
can hardly fancy it.” , *
“Of course not. When you hear of a king, he comes upon
you in velvet and fur, and with a crown upon his head—and
diamonds blazing upon him—and God knows how many rows of
lords about him—and then all the household guards—and the
state coach—and the state trumpets, and the thundering guns,
and the ringing bells—all come upon your mind as a piece and
parcel of him, making a king something tremendous to consider—
something that you can only think of with a kind of fright. Is
it not so 7 ° asked the muffin-maker.
Jem merely answered—“Go on, Mr. Capstick.”
“Now I feel nothing of the sort, I know the world, and despise
it,” said the muffin-maker.
“I’ll take your word for anything but that,” cried Jem. “But
go on.”
“I tell you, sir, I hate the world,” repeated Capstick, proud of
what he thought his misanthropy: “ and of sweet use has such
hatred been to me.” *
Bright Jem cast an incredulous leer at the muffin-man. “I
never heard of the sweetness of hatred afore. I should as soon
looked for honey in a wasp's nest.”
“Ha! Jem, you know nothing; else you 'd know how a con-
tempt for the world sharpens a man’s wits, and improves his eye-
sight. Bless you ! there are a thousand cracks and flaws and
fly-spots upon everything about us, that we should never see
without it,” said Capstick.
“Well, thank God! I’m in no need of such spectacles,
Bright Jem.
“And for that very reason, Jem,” said the muffin-maker, “you
are made an every-day victim of—for that reason your very soul
goes down upon its knees to things that it 's my especial comfort
to despise. You haven’t the wit, the judgment, to separate a man
from all his worldly advantages, and look at him, as I may say,
in his very nakedness—a mere man. Now Jem, that is the power
I especially pride myself upon. Hence,” continued the muffin-
maker, and he brought himself up fronting the palace, and
extended his right arm towards it—“hence I can take an emperor
from his crowd of nobles—his troops—his palace walls—his royal
’ said
48 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
robes, and set him before me just as God made him. As I'd
take a cocoa-nut, and tear away the husk, and crack the shell,
and pare the inner rind, and come at once upon the naked kernel,
—so, Mr. Amiseed, can I take, aye the Great Mogul, and set
him in his shivering flesh before me.”
“And you think Llle knack to do this does you good?” modestly
inquired Bright Jem.
“It's my solace, my comfort, my strength,” answered the
muffin-maker. “And this knack, as you have it, is what I call
seeing through the gold upon the gingerbread. Now, isn’t it
dreadful to think of the thousands upon thousands who every day
go down upon their knees to it, believing the gilded paste so much
solid metal Ha, Mr. Aniseed we talk a good deal about the
miserable heathen : the poor wretches who make idols of croco-
diles and monkies, but Lord bless us ! only to think in this
famous city of London of the thousands of Christians, as they
call themselves, who after all are idolaters of gilt gingerbread l’”
“Poor souls l’” said Jem, in the fulness of his charity, “they
don’t know any better. But you haven’t answered what I asked ;
and that 's this. What will you say to his lordship if he 'll see
you ?” -
“Say to him " I shall talk reason to him. Bless you ! I shall
go straight at the matter. When some folks go to speak to rich
and mighty lords, they fluster, and stammer, as if they couldn’t
make themselves believe that they only look upon a man made
like themselves; no, they somehow mix him up with his lands
and his castles, and his heaps of money, and the thought 's too
big for 'em to bear. But I will conclude as I began, Mr. Aniseed.
Therefore I say I have a great eye for gilt gingerbread.” -
This philosophical discourse brought the talkers to their desti-
nation. Jem stooped before the kitchen-windows, prying curiously
through them. “What seek you there, Jem 7" asked Capstick.
“I was thinking,” answered Jem, “if I could only see Kitty,
we might go in through the kitchen.”
Mr. Capstick made no answer, but looking a lofty reproof at
Jem, he took two strides to the door, and seizing the knocker,
struck it with an assertion of awakened dignity. “Through the
hall, Mr. Aniseed; through the hall; no back-stairs influence for
me.” As he made this proud declaration, the door was opened;
and to the astonishment of the porter, the muffin-maker asked
the porter, as coolly as though he was cheapening pippins at an
apple-stall—“Can we see the Marquess?”
The porter had evidently a turn for humour: he was not one
of those janitors who, seated in their leathern chairs, resent
every knock at the door as a violation of their peace and com-
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 49
fort. Therefore, curling the corners of his mouth, he asked in a
tone of comic remonstrance,—“Now what do you want with the
Marquess?”
“That the Marquess shall be benefited by knowing,” answered
Capstick. “There is my name;” and the muffin-maker, with
increasing dignity, handed his shop-card to the porter.
“It’s no use,” said the porter, shaking his head at the card,
“not a bit of use. We don’t eat muffins here.”
At this moment, Cesar Gum, the African footman, appeared
in the hall, and with greatest cordiality welcomed Bright Jem.
“Come to see Kitty —she delight to see you—come down
tairs.”
“Will you take this to the Marquess 2" and twitching his card
from the porter's fingers, Capstick gave it to Cesar. The black
felt every disposition to oblige the friend of Kitty’s brother, but
raised his hands and shook his head with a hopeless shake.
“Stop,” said Capstick. He took the card, and wrote some words
on the back of it. He then returned it to the porter.
“Oh ſ* cried the porter, when he had read the mystic
syllables. “Cesar, I’spose you must take it,” and Cesar departed
on the errand.
CHAPTER VI.
Now, we hope that we have sufficiently interested the reader,
to make him wish to know the magic words which, operating
On the quickened sense of a nobleman's porter, caused him
suddenly to put a marquess and a muffin-maker in communication.
What Open Sesame could it be, that written by a St. Giles,
should be worthy of the attention of St. James' Great is the
power of letters | Whirlwinds have been let loose—fevers
quenched, and Death himself made to drop his uplifted dart—by
the subtle magic of some brief lea, scripta, solue wbracadabra that
held in the fluid some wondrous spirits, always to be found like
motes in the Sunbeams, in a magician's ink-bottle. Mighty is the
power of words ! Wondrous their agency—their volatility.
Otherwise how could Pythagoras, writing words in bean-juice
here upon the earth, have had the self-same syllables printed
upon the moon | What a great human grief it is that this secret
should have been lost Otherwise what glorious means of pub-
lication would the moon have offered Let us imagine the news
of the day for the whole world written by certain scribes on the
E
* Pºrºs
50 ST. GILES AND ST, JAMES.
next night's moon—when she shone ! What a blessed boon to
the telescope-makers How we should at once jump at all
foreign news How would the big-hearted men of America
thereon publish their price-current of slaves—the new rate of
the pecunia viva, the living penny in God's likeness—as the
market variod : Aud France, too, would sometimes with bloody
pen write glory there, obscuring for a time the light of heaven,
with the madness of man. And Poland, pale with agony, yet
desperately calm, would write—“Patience, and wait the hour.”
And the scribes of St. Petersburgh would placard “God and
the Emperor”—blasphemous conjunction —And the old Pope
would have his scrawl—and Indian princes, and half-plucked
nabobs—and Chinamen—and Laplanders—and the Great Turk—
and—
No—no Thank heaven the secret of Pythagoras—if indeed
he ever had it, if he told not a magnificent flam—is lost ; other-
wise, what a poor scribbled moon it would be ; its face wrinkled
and scarred by thousands of quills—tattooed with what was once
news—printed with playhouse bills and testimonials gracefully
vouchsafed to corn-cutters No. Thank God | Pythagoras
safely dead, there is no man left to scrawl his pot-hooks on the
moon. Her light—like too oft the light of truth—is not darkened
by quills.
And after this broomstick flight to the moon, descend we to
the card of Capstick, muffin-maker. The words he wrote were
simply these—“A native of Liquorish, with a vote for the
borough.” -
Now, it is one of the graceful fictions of the English consti-
tution—and many of its fictions no doubt pass for its best
beauties, in the like manner that the fiction of false hair, false
colour, false teeth, passes sometimes for the best loveliness of a
tinkered face,—it is one of these fictions that the English peer
never meddles with the making of a member of the House of
Commons. Not he. Let the country make its lower House of
senators as it best may, the English peer will have no hand in
the matter. He would as soon, in his daily walks, think of lifting
a load upon a porter's back, as of helping to lift a commoner into
his seat. We say, this is a fiction of the constitution; and
beautiful in its influence upon the human mind, is fiction. Now,
the Marquess of St. James had in his father's lifetime repre-
sented the borough of Liquorish. He was returned by at least a
hundred and fifty voters as independent as their very limited
number permitted them to be. The calumny of politics had said
that the house of St. James carried the borough of Liquorish in
its pocket, as easily as a man might in the same place carry a
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 51
rotten apple or a rotten egg. Let the reader believe only as much
of this as his charity will permit.
Now it oddly enough happened that, at the time when Capstick
sought to approach the Marquess, parliament was near its disso-
lution, The wicked old hag was all but breathing her last, yet—
case-hardened old sinner!—she expressed no contrition, showed
no touch of conscience for her past life of iniquity; for her wrongs
she had committed upon the weak and poor; for the nightly rob-
beries upon them who toiled for the especial luxury of those who,
like the tenants of a cheese, lived and crawled upon unearned
pensions; she repented not of the blood she had shed in the
wickedness of war; never called about her soft-hearted, tearful,
most Orthodox bishops, to assuage the agony of her remorse,
and to cause her to make a clean breast of all her hidden
iniquity. No. Parliament was about to expire—about to follow
her sinful predecessors (what horrid epitaphs has history written
upon some of them () and she heard no voice of conscience; all
she heard was the chink of guineas pursed by bribery for her
Successor.
Even the Marquess's porter felt the coming of the new election.
His fidelity to his master and his patriotism to merry England
had been touched by a report that the borough of Liquorish was
about to be invaded by some revolutionary spirit, resolved to
snatch it from the time-honoured grasp of the house of St. James,
and, at any cost, to wash it of the stain of bribery. Somebody
had dared to say that he would sit for the independent borough
of Liquorish though every voter should have a gold watch, and
every voter's wife a silver tea-pot and diamond ear-rings. This
intelligence was enough to make all true lovers of their country
look about them. Therefore did the porter consider Mr. Capstick,
although a muffin-man, a person of some importance to the
Marquess. Capstick was a voter for the borough of Liquorish—
that was bought and sold like any medlar—and consequently, to
the mind of the porter, one of the essential parts of the British
constitution: therefore, the porter was by no means astounded
when Cesar returned with a message that Mr. Capstick was to
follow him.
The muffin-maker passed along, in no way dazzled or astonished
by the magnificence about him. He had made his mind up to
be surprised at nothing. Arabian splendours—it was his belief
—would have failed to disturb the philosophic serenity of his
Soul. He had determined, according to his own theory, to extract
the man from the Marquess—to come, as he would say, direct at
humanity divested of all its worldly furniture. Bright Jem
meekly followed the misanthrope, treading the floor with gentlest
E 2
52 ST. GII,ES AND ST. JAMES.
tread; and wondering at the freak of fortune that even for a
moment had enabled him, a tenant of Short's Gardens, to enter
such an abode. Bright Jem could not help feeling this, and at
the same time feeling a sort of shame at the unexpected weak-
ness. He had believed himself proof to the influence of grandelir,
—nevertheless, he could 110, help it; he was somewhat abashed,
a little flurried at the splendour around him. He was not ashamed
of his poverty; yet he somehow felt that it had no business
to intrude itself in such a paradise.
In a few minutes, the muffin-maker and Jem found themselves
in a magnificent library. Seated at a table was a short, elderly
little man, dressed in black. His face was round as an apple.
IHe had small, sharp, grey eyes, which for a few moments he
levelled steadily at Capstick and Jem, and then suddenly shifted
them in a way that declared all the innermost and dearest
thoughts of the muffin-maker to be, in that glance, read and duly
registered. “Pray be seated,” said the gentleman ; and Capstick
heavily dropped himself into a velvet chair, Bright Jem, on the
contrary, settled upon the seat lightly as a butterfly upon a damask
rose; and like the butterfly, it seemed doubtful with himself,
whether every moment he would not flutter off again. Capstick
at once concluded that he was in the presence of the Marquess.
Jem knew better, having seen the nobleman; but thought possibly
it might be some earl or duke, a friend or relation of the family.
However, both of them augured well of their mission, from the
easy, half-cordial manner of the illustrious gentleman in black.
His words, too, were low and soft, as though breathed by a flute.
He seemed the personification of gentleness and politeness.
Nevertheless, reader, he was not of the peerage; being, indeed,
nothing more than Mr. Jonathan Folder, librarian—and at times
confidential agent—to the Marquess of St. James. He had just
received the orders of his lordship to give audience on his behalf,
to what might be an important deputation from the borough of
Liquorish ; hence, Mr. Folder, alive to the patriotic interest of his
employer and friend—as, occasionally, he would venture to call
the Marquess—was smiling and benignant.
“Mr. Capstick—I presume you are Mr. Capstick?”—and Mr.
Folder with his usual sagacity, bowed to the muffin-maker—“we
are glad to see you. This house is always open to the excellent
and patriotic voters of Liquorish. There never was a time, Mr.
Capstick, when it more behoved the friends of the Constitution
to have their eyes about them. The British Constitution—”
“There is no constitution likeit,” observed the muffin-maker drily.
“That's an old truth, Mr. Capstick,” said Mr. Folder, “and,
like all old truths, all the better for its age.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 53
“No constitution like it,” repeated the muffin-maker. “I
don’t know how many times it hasn’t been destroyed since I first
knew it—and still it 's all alive. The British Constitution, my
lord, sometimes seems to me like an eel; you may flay it
and chop it to bits; yet for all that, the pieces will twist and
Wriggle again.”
“It is one of its proud attributes, Mr. Capstick,” said Folder,
—doubtless he had not heard himself addressed as my lord—
“one of the glories of the Constitution, that it is elastic—pecu-
liarly elastic.”
“And that’s, I suppose, my lord,”—surely Mr. Folder was a
little deaf-‘that's why it gets mauled about so much. Just as
boys don't mind what tricks they play upon cats—because, poor
devils, somebody, to spite 'em, has said they 've got nine lives.
But, I beg your pardon, this is my friend—Mr. James Aniseed,
—better known as Bright Jem,” and Capstick introduced the
linkman.
Mr. Folder slightly rose from his chair, and graciously bowed
to Jem ; who, touched by the courtesy, rose bolt upright ; and
then, after a moment's hesitation, he took half-a-dozen strides
towards Mr. Folder, and—ere that gentleman was aware of the
design—shook him heartily by the hand. Then, Jem, smiling
and a little flushed, returned to his chair. Again taking his seat,
he looked about him with a brightened, happy face, for Mr. Folder
—the probable nobleman—had returned the linkman's grasp
with a most cordial pressure.
“And, Mr. Aniseed,” said Folder, “I presume you have also a
voice in the constitution ; you have a vote for—”
“Not a morsel, my lord,” answered Jem. “I hav’n’t a voice
in anything ; all I know about the constitution is that it means
taxes; for you see, my lord, I’ve only one room and that's a little
un—and so, you see, my lord, I’ve no right to nothing.” Whilst
Jem pursued this declaration, Mr. Folder, doubtless all uncon-
sciously, rubbed his right hand with his handkerchief. The
member Illight, possibly, have caught some taint from the shake
of a low man without a vote.
“Nevertheless, Mr. Capstick, we are happy to see you,” said
Folder, with a strong emphasis upon the pronoun. “Public
morality—I mean the morality of the other party—is getting
lower and lower. In fact, I should say, the world—that is, you
know what part of the world I mean—is becoming worse and
worse, baser and baser.”
“There is no doubt of it, my lord,” answered Capstick,-‘for
if your lordship—”
Capstick had become too emphatic. It was therefore necessary
54 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
that Folder should correct him. “I am not his lordship. No, I
am not,” he repeated, not unobservant of the arched eyebrows of
the muffin-maker: “I am deputed by his lordship to receive you,
prepared to listen to your wishes, or to the wishes of any of the
respectable constituents of the borough of Liquorish. We ale 110t
ullaware, Mr. Capstick, of the movements of the enemy. But we
shall be provided against them. They, doubtless, will be prepared
to tamper with the independence of the electors, but as I have
said,” and Folder let his words fall slowly as though they were so
many gems, “as I have said, there we can beat them on their
own dirty grounds.”
“Thoro is no doubt whatever of it,” said Capstick, “none at
all. And then in these matters, there's nothing like competition,
—nothing whatever. For my part, I must say, I like to see it—
it does me good : an election, such an election as we have in
Liquorish, is a noble sight for a man who, like myself, was born
to sneer at the world. At such a time, I feel myself exalted.”
“No doubt—no doubt,” said Mr. Folder.
“Then I feel my worth, every penny of it, in what is called the
Social scale. For instance, now, I open the shop of my conscience,
with the pride of a tradesman who knows he 's got something in
his window that people must buy. I have a handsome piece of
perjury to dispose o 29
“Mr. Capstick | Perjury | * cried Folder, a little shocked.
“Why, you see, sir,” said Capstick, “for most things, there 's
two names—a holiday name, and a working-day name.”
“That’s true,” said Jem—and then he added, with a bow to
Folder, “saving your presence, sir: quite true.”
“Yes, I’m a voter with a perjury jewel to sell,” said Capstick,
“and, therefore, isn't it delightful to me, as a man who hates
the world, to have fine gentlemen, honourable gentlemen,_yes,
titled gentlemen, coming about me and chaffering with me for
that little jewel—that, when they've bought it of me, they may
sell it again at a thumping profit The Marquess isn't that sort
of man 22
“I should hope not, Mr. Capstick,” said Folder, with a smile
that seemed to add—impossible.
“Certainly not. But isn’t it, I say, pleasant to a man-hater
like me, to see this sort of dealing—to know that, however mean,
and wicked, and rascally, the voter is who sells his jewel—he is
taught the meanness, encouraged in the wickedness, and more
than countenanced in the rascality, by the high and lofty fellow
with the money-bag'ſ Oh in the school of corruption, ar’n’t there
some nice high-nob ushers ?”
“Never mind that, Mr. Capstick,” said Bright Jem, who began
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 55
to fear for the success of their mission, if the muffin-maker thus
continued to vindicate his misanthropy. “Never mind that. We
can’t make a sore any better by putting a plaster of bad words
to it : never mind that ; but, Mr. Capstick,” said Jem, earnestly,
“let’s mind something else.”
“Then I am to understand,” said Mr. Folder, who, in his
philosophy, had been somewhat entertained by the philippics
of the muffin-maker, “I am to understand, that your present
business in no way relates to anything connected with the
borough 7"
“Not at present,” said Capstick, “only I hope that his lordship
Won't forget I have a voice. Because 22
At this moment, the door flew open, and a child—a beautiful
creature—gambolled into the room. It was young St. James.
The very cherub, as Kitty Muggs would have called him, robbed
by the iniquitous, the hopeless St. Giles. Truly he was a lovely
thing. His fair, fresh young face, informed with the innocence,
purity, and happiness of childhood, spoke at once to the heart of
the beholder. What guilelessness was in his large blue eyes—
what sweetness at his mouth—what a fair, white expanse of brow
—adorned with clustering curls of palest gold ! His words and
laughter came bubbling from the heart, making the sweetest
music of the earth ; the voice of happy childhood A sound that
Sometimes calls us from the hard dealing, the tumult, and the
weariness of the world, and touches us with tender thoughts,
allied to tender tears.
“What a beautiful cretur ! ” whispered Jem to the muffin-
maker. “He 's been kept out of the mud of the world, hasn’t
he 2 I say ; it would be a hard job to suppose that blooming
little fellow—with rags on his back, matches in his hand, and
nothin’ in his belly, eh? Quite as hard as to think young St. Giles
was him, eh? And yet it might ha’ been, mightn't it !”
“Here is the future member for Liquorish,” said Mr. Folder,
the child having run up to him, and jumped upon his knees.
“Here, sir, is your future representative.” -
“Well, if he keeps his looks,” said Jem, aside to Capstick,
“you won't have nothing to complain of.”
“Of course, the borough will be kept warm for the young gen-
tleman,” said the muffin-man. “He may count upon my vote—
yes, I may say, he may depend upon it. In the meantime, sir,
I come upon a little business in which that young gentleman is
remotely concerned.”
“You don’t mean the shameful robbery last night !” said Mr.
Folder. “A frightful case of juvenile depravity . Another proof
that the world's getting worse and worse.”
56 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“No doubt of it,” said Capstick; “worse and worse; it’s
getting so bad, it must soon be time to burn it up.”
“The poor little boy who did it, sir,” said Bright Jem, very
deferentially, “didn’t know any better.”
“Know no better Impossible ! Why, how old is he 7”
asked Mr. Folder,
“Jist gone seven, sir, not more ;” answered Jem.
“And here 's this dear child not yet seven And do you mean
to tell me that he doesn't know better . Do you mean in your
ignorance to insinuate that this young gentleman would do such
a thing—eh 7" demanded Folder of the abashed linkman.
“Bless his dear, good eyes, no”—said Jem, with some emotion
—“sartinly not. But then he 's been taught better. Ever since
he could speak—and I dare say almost afore—every night and
day he was taken upon somebody’s knees, and teached to say his
prayers—and what was good and what was bad—and besides
that, to have all that was quiet and happy and comfortable about
him—and kind words and kind looks that are almost better than
bread and meat to children—for they make 'em kind and gentle
too—now, the poor little boy that stole that young gentleman's
hat—”
“I don’t want the hat ”—cried the child, for he had heard the
story of the wicked boy at the playhouse—“I don’t want it—he
may have it if he likes—I told papa so.”
“Bless you, for a sweet little dear,” said Jem, brushing his
eyes.
“The truth is, sir, I came here,” said Capstick, “I came as a
voter for the independent borough of Liquorish—to intercede with
the magnanimity of the Marquess for the poor little wretch—the
unhappy baby, for he 's no more—now locked up for felony.”
“What's the use ? " asked Mr. Folder, dancing the scion of
St. James upon his knee;-‘what's the use of doing anything for
such creatures? It's only throwing pity away. The boy is sure
to be hanged some time—depend upon it, when boys begin to
steal, they can’t leave it off—it’s impossible—it's against nature
to expect it. I always give 'em up from the first—and, depend
upon it, it’s the shortest way in the end: it saves a good deal of
useless trouble, and I may say false humanity. As for what
children are taught, and what they’re not taught—why I think
we make more noise about it than the argument 's worth. You
see, Mr. Capstick, there is an old proverb: what’s bred in the
bone, you know—”
“Why, sir, saving your presence, if wickedness goes down from
father to son, like colour—the only way I see to make the world
better is to lay hold of all the bad people, and put 'em out of it
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES - 57
at once ; so that for the future,” concluded Jem, “we should
breed nothing but goodness.”
“Pray, my good man,” asked Mr. Folder, “are you the father
of the thief ? "
“No, sir, I’m not. I wish I was, with all my heart and soul,”
cried Jem with animation.
“Humph, you’ve an odd taste for a father,” shortly observed
Mr. Folder.
“What I mean, sir, is this,” said Jem, “I’ve the conceit in me
to think that then the boy wouldn't have been a thief at all. He’d
then been better taught, and teaching's everything. I'd have
sent him to school, and the devil hasn’t such an enemy nowhere
as a good schoolmaster.” Even now I should like to try my hand
upon him, if I could have him all to myself, away from the wick-
edness he was hatched in.” . “Nº. .
“I dare say you mean very well, my man, no doubt of it,”
said Mr. Folder. “Still, I think if the boy had a little taste of the
jail, *
“A little taste,” groaned Jem, “if he has ever so little, he 's
pisoned for life ; I know that, I’ve seen it afore.”
“And so, sir,” resumed Capstick, “I am come as a petitioner,
and as a voter for the borough of Liquorish, to ask his lordship's
compassion for this wretched child.”
“Well, I’m sure, Mr. Capstick, I’ll see what 's to be done,
I’m sure I will. Now will you,”—and Mr. Folder addressed him-
self Smilingly to the child,—“will you ask papa, for your sake, to
forgive the naughty boy that ran away with your hat ?”
“Oh, yes, that I will,” answered the child eagerly. “You
know I don’t care about the hat, I’ve plenty of hats. I’ll run to
papa now,” and the child jumped from Folder's knee, and bounded
from the room.
“There, my man,” said Folder, with a smile of triumph to
Bright Jem, “there you see the spontaneous work of a good
nature.”
“With good teaching,” said Jem. “I know'd the little cretur
that's now locked up—I know’d him when he was a babby, and
if he'd only had fair play he'd ha’ done the same thing.”
“Let us hope he ‘ll improve if he 's forgiven,” said Mr. Folder,
2
* I will not say a village schoolmaster is a more important person in
the state than he who is peculiarly entrusted with the education of the
Prince of Wales, though I think he is a far more important personage
than the highest state officer in the King's household. The material he
has to deal with is man, and I think it would be rather rash to venture to
limit his range or capacities.—Lord Morpeth at the York Diocesan Nationa?
Education Society. [All honour to such mobility J
58 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“I will, however, go to his lordship, and know his fate.” With
this, Folder quitted the apartment on his benevolent mission.
“What a capital thought it was of you, Mr. Capstick, to come
here ; it had never entered my head,” said Jem.
“Nothing like approaching the fountain source,” said Capstick,
serenely “Bodides, I know an election is near at hand; and as
an election approaches, you can’t think how it takes the stiffness
out of some people. There’s no accounting for it, I suppose, but
So it is.”
“A great many books here, Mr. Capstick,” said Jem, looking
reverentially at the loaded shelves; “I wonder if his lordship 's
read 'em all !”
“You see,” answered the scoffing muffin-maker, “it ’s not so
necessary to read a library; the great matter's to get it. With
a good many folks heaps of books are nothing more than heaps of
acquaintance, that they promise themselves to look in upon
some day.”
“Well,” said Jem, his eyes glistening, “I never see books all
in this fashion, without thinking that the man as has 'em is a kind
of happy conjuror, that can talk when he likes with all sorts of
good spirits, and never think a flea-bite of half the rubbish in the
world about him.”
Jem had scarcely uttered this hopeful sentence, when young
St. James ran in, quickly followed by Mr. Folder. “Yes, yes,”
cried the child, all happiness, “papa says I must forgive him, as
we ought always to forgive one another; and you ‘re to tell him
from me that he 's to be a good boy and never do so again.”
“Bless your sweet heart 1" cried Bright Jem, and the tears
sprang to his eyes. The muffin-maker said nothing, but coughed
and bowed.
“There, I think, Mr. Capstick,” said Folder in a low voice,
“there, I think, is a future treasure for the borough. I trust
you’ll not let this little story be lost on the good folks of Liquorish.
Nobody will appear against the culprit, and therefore take him,
and if you can, among you, make a bright man of him. Good
morning, Mr. Capstick—good morning,” and Folder bowed the
visitors from the room. Bright Jem paused at the door, and look-
ing back at the child, cried, “God bless you every day of your
life.”
Jem and the muffin-maker were about to quit the house, when
they were accosted by Cesar Gum in the hall. In a confidential
whisper he said—“Come and take some turkey and wine for
lunch : prime Madeary—den we can go to jail for tief: dreadful
ting, taking oder people's goods—come and hab some wine.”
And then in a still lower tone—“Give you bottle for youself.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 59
To this invitation, Capstick made no answer; but having looked
up and down at the black, strode to the door. Bright Jem
modded, uttered a brief good morning, and followed his companion
into the street, leaving Cesar Gum, who had wholly forgotten
Jem's previous indignation at the peculated gunpowder, in asto-
nishment at his rejected hospitality.
“We’ll now go to Bow-street,” said Capstick; and fast as they
could walk, they took their way to that abode of justice. They
arrived there only a few minutes before the arraignment of young
St. Giles at the bar; where he stood, in his own conceit, a
miniature Turpin.
“Where are the witnesses—who makes the charge ' " There
were no witnesses. Again and again his worship put the ques-
tion. And then he said, “No one is here who knows anything
of the matter. The prisoner must be discharged. Boy, don’t let
me see you here again.” Young St. Giles put his thumb and
finger to his hair, jerked a bow, and in a few moments was free,
aye, freer than the air of Hog-lane.
Jem and Capstick followed him into the street. The muffin-
maker seizing him, roared—“You little rascal What do you
say for your lucky escape l’”
“Say !” answered young St. Giles—“Why, I know’d it was all
gammon—I know'd they could prove nothin’ agin me.”
CHAPTER VII.
As it is our hope, in the course of this small history, to chronicle
many great achievements of our hero of the gutter, St. Giles,
we shall not follow him year by year through the humble yet
industrious course, in which, to his own satisfaction and strengthen-
ing conceit, he became profoundly knowing ; subtly learned in
every way of petty peculation ; whether he plundered the Orange-
baskets of Covent Garden market, or whether, with finest skill,
he twitched the tempting handkerchief from the pocket of the
lounger. Nor was this, his lowly career, undignified by suffering.
No : for ere he was twelve years old, he had tasted the hospitality
of Bridewell; where, in truth, he had been inducted into the
knowledge of far dearer mysteries than he had ever hoped to
learn. In Bridewell, his young and ardent soul had expanded
with the thoughts of future fame, won by highway pistol, or
burglar's jemmy. And there, too, would he listen to fairy tales
of coining: would dream of easy, lasting wealth, acquired by
60 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
copper guineas. As for the lash bestowed upon him, the pain or
that did but burn into his mind his high resolves. He would
the more fiercely revenge the suffering upon everybody called
honest. He would steal with all his heart and all his soul; he
was born and bred to steal; he came into the world to do it, and
he wonld notably fulfil his mission. Such was the strengthened
belief of young St. Giles, when, at fourteen, and for the second
time, he came back to the world across the threshold of Bridewell.
Such was his creed : the only creed his world had taught him.
Nevertheless, our hero did not vaunt this belief, save among
those of his own Newgate persuasion. On the contrary, he
assumed the character of a tradesman, that under his commercial
aspect he might the more securely plunder the innocents who
dealt with him. True it is, he had not the security of a shop ;
he could not, like his patron the dealer in marine stores, despoil
across a counter; but he carried a basket ; and whilst, to the
unsuspecting eye, he seemed only the Arcadian vendor of chick-
weed, groundsel, and turf for singing-birds—for the caged minstrels
of the poor—he was, in every thought, a robber.
It was a fine morning early in spring, and Plumtree-street
resounded with the sharp tradesman cry of young St. Giles.
Pausing at a door-step, and looking up to the second-floor win-
dows, he pitched his commercial note with a peculiar significance,
as though giving notice of his whereabout to an expected cus-
tomer. “Chickweed for singing-birds,” cried St. Giles, in a shrill,
prolonged voice, as though he would send the glad tidings up to
the garret casement, where hopped and fluttered some solitary
linnet, some lonely goldfinch, that feeling the breath of spring,
albeit through prison bars, sang a song of hope and cheerfulness.
“Chickweed for singing-birds,” cried St. Giles, with increasing
volume and impatience. Then again he looked up at the window,
and then muttered “The old un can’t be dead, can she 7” As he
thus speculated the window was raised, and a woman looked
down into the street. “Is it you, my poor boy 7" she cried ;
“stop a minute :” and instantly disappeared. “Thought the old
un couldn't be dead,” said St. Giles, self-communing; and then he
began to hum a tune and shuffle a dancing-step upon the pave-
ment. The door was opened by a girl, who, with no very cordial
looks, muttered,—“Mrs. Simmer—well, she 's a droll cretur, she
is 1–Mrs. Simmer says you’re to come up. You can leave your
basket here, can't you ?”
“In course, my beauty,” said St. Giles, “’cause, you see,
there's only these two bunches left ; and them I can carry in my
hand without breaking my back.” With this, St. Giles, rapidly
placing his basket against the wall, gave a saucy wink to the
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 61
servant, and bounded like a kid up stairs. In a moment he was
with his patroness, Mrs. Simmer.
“My poor child, I thought you was lost,” said the dame in the
kindest voice. “What makes you so late 2*
“Why, do you know, mum, I can’t tell what's come to the
chickweed : it doesn’t grow no how, now. If I wasn’t at five in
the morning in Hampstead fields, a hunting in every edge, and
haven’t got above three penn'orth. Chickweed, mum, as Tom
Blast says, seems a perishin' from the face of the earth, and only
to spite poor people as lives by it. I don’t know how much I
couldn’t ha” sold this mornin’; but I says to myself—no, there's
Mrs. Simmer's blessed little linnet, and her darlin’ gooldfinch
as draws his own water, they sha’n’t go without, whosomever
does.”
“Poor dear child good little boy,” said Mrs. Simmer, looking
with softened looks upon the wily trader.
“And to hear how all the birds did seem to call to me from
their cages—I'm blessed if they didn’t, mum, as I come along
—but no, says I to 'em, it's no use, my little cockies, no use to be
gammonin’ me—this here chickweed’s for Mrs. Simmer's Bob
and Tit, and for nobody else whatsomever.” And after this
fashion was the simplicity of two-score and ten talked to and
duped by precocious fourteen.
But dear Mrs. Simmer seemed to be one of those good old
people who strangely enough carry their hearts in their heads.
She had not been above a fortnight in London at the time of this
interview with St. Giles, whom she had met in the street, and
whose pathetic tale of destitution, delivered with the cunning of
an actor, had carried away her sympathies. St. Giles, however,
had another claim upon her. He was, she said, such a pretty
boy. Dear Soul she could no more read a human face than she
could read Sanscrit. She only saw the bright, glittering eyes of
St. Giles, and not the fox that looked from them ; she praised
his eyes and face, as she might have praised a handsome hieroglyph,
wholly unconscious of its subtle meaning. A great master has
said, “there is something in true beauty that vulgar Souls cannot
admire.” And sure we are, there is something in the truest
rascality, that simple benevolent Souls cannot detect. They have
no eye for the worst counterfeit countenance; have no ear for a
false voice, let it ring ever so brassily. Now, dear Mrs. Simmer
was one of these : hence was she at fifty but a babe, an innocent,
in the hands of young St. Giles.
“Now, my poor child”—she said, “take some tea. I’ve kept
it for you, with some toast ;” and Mrs. Simmer took a smoking
jug and a plate piled with toast from either hob, and placed them
62 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
on the table, before her guest. “Take as much as you can, my
child, and then you shall tell me all your story as you promised.
Poor lamb | Bless you, eat—it does my heart good to see you;”
and Mrs. Simmer, folding her hands, looked with almost maternal
tenderness upon St. Giles, who acknowledging the welcome with
a knowing nod, proceeded vigorously with his meal. Mrs.
Simmer thought she never saw so handsome a creature; what
St. Giles thought of Mrs. Simmer, we will not say. “And so
you’ve no father nor mother, my dear boy 7" after some time
asked Mrs. Simmer.
“Not one on 'em,” answered St. Giles, rapidly moving his
buttered chin. “Not one on ‘em.”
“The Lord help you !” cried Mrs. Simmer: “and no uncle,
no aunt, no”
“No nothin', mum,” said St. Giles; and he gulped his tea.
“All on 'em died, mum, when I was a babby.”
“Poor dear child l Bless my heart And how have you been
brought up 7 °
“Brought up, mum”—and St. Giles grinned and scratched his
head—“you said brought up, mum ? Don’t know, mum.”
“And where do you live, now, my poor boy 7" and Mrs.
Simmer melted with every question.
“Don’t live nowhere, reglar, mum. Poor boys, like me, why
we live—as Tom Blast says—like the rats, where we can. Then
o’ nights, mum, I sometimes sleeps in the market among the
baskets. Sometimes, though, don't they come with a stick, and
cut us out ! I b'lieve you !” and St. Giles seemed to speak with
a lively recollection of such incidents. “Cuts the werry breath
Out o' you,” he then significantly added.
“Cruel creatures 1 Gracious little lamb And I’m afraid
you meet with bad boys there, eh? Wicked boys, that may some
day tempt you to do something wrong Eh 1 ° asked simple
Mrs. Simmer,
“Believe you,” said St. Giles, with well-acted gravity. “Dots
On 'em wanted me to go picking pockets.”
“Heaven forbid " cried Mrs. Simmer, and the tears came to
her eyes.
“That's what I said, mum ; no, says I, no, I shall stick to
chickweed if I starves for it—I’m not a-going to be hanged to
please nobody; no, mum.”
“That such a precious flower should be thrown away !” cried
Mrs. Simmer to herself; and then to St. Giles: “You’re a good
boy; I’m sure you're a good boy. And tell me; I hope you go
to church ; ”.
“Oh, I should like it so | * cried St. Giles: “but you see, mum,
it ’s not to be done.”
| 22
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 63
“How so, my boy 7" asked Mrs. Simmer. *
“Look here, mum,” and St. Giles, with the coolness of a phi-
losopher, drew his feet up almost level with the table, and, with
his forefinger, pointed to his ten muddy toes, that showed them-
selves through the parted shoe-leather. “Parson wouldn’t have
'em, by no means. I did once try to go to church ; I did begin
to feel so wicked. Well, mum, if the beadle didn’t come up, mum,
and nearly cut me in two, mum.”
“How wicked—how barbarous !” said the ingenuous Mrs.
Simmer.
“And only for my bad shoes, and the oles in my coat ; but
that 's how they serves poor boys, mum. I don't think it's kind,
mum ; do you, mum ?” And St. Giles tried to look at once
injured and innocent.
Mrs. Simmer wiped her eyes, making an effort to be calm. She
then said, “I’ve been thinking, if I could get you a place in a
gentleman's house.”
“Wouldn’t that be prime !” cried St. Giles: and as he spoke,
there rang through the house a loud and hurried knock at the
street-door. Mrs. Simmer, without a word, jumped to her feet,
and ran to the window.
“Well, I declare if it isn't that blessed child ! if it isn’t his
lordship !” she cried.
Young St. Giles, at the word lordship, slid from his chair, and
looked slyly about him. Was it possible that a lord could be
coming into that room ? Could he imagine such a thing as to
See a real lord in such a place 7 Ere St. Giles had done
wondering, the room-door was flung open, and in ran young St.
James. St. Giles seemed to shrink into himself at the splendid
appearance of the new-comer. He wore a bright scarlet coat,
thickly ornamented with gold buttons: and a black beaver hat
with a large, heavy feather of the same colour, brought out in
strong contrast his flushed and happy face. For the moment,
young St. Giles felt himself overpowered, abashed by the magni-
ficent outside of the little stranger. He sidled into a corner of
the room, and looked at that scarlet coal as though it had been
Something dropt from the heavens. “Well, nurse,” cried St.
James, with a loud, ringing laugh, “I told you I'd come and
see you, and here I am. I went out riding with Mr. Folder.
Well, he stopt to talk to somebody, and so I just gave him the
slip, put Jessy into such a gallop, and was here in a minute.
I say, can’t that boy,” and St. James pointed his riding-whip
towards St. Giles—“ can’t that boy hold Jessy, instead of the
girl?”
“To be sure, my lord—to be sure,” cried Mrs. Simmer.
64 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“Sartinly, my lord—directly, my lord—I knows how to hold
osses, my lord,” said St. Giles, in a flutter.
“Just walk her up and down a little, will you, for she's hot,”
said St. James, with an early knowledge of horse-flesh.
“Yes, my lord—to be sure, my lord—walk her up and down,
my lord:” and St. Giles flew down the stairs, and relieved the
girl of her charge. Young St. James was then left to have his
gossip with Mrs. Simmer; from which gossip a stranger might
have learned that the good woman had, for years, been in the
service of the family of St. James; that she had been the
favourite nurse of his young lordship ; and that for the first time
in her life she had come to London from the country, where,
made comfortable by a pension granted to her by the marchioness,
after a short sojourn in the metropolis, it was her purpose to
return. She had been to the house in the square, where young
St. James had made his chivalrous promise to visit her; yes, at
all hazards, to seek Plumtree-street, out of pure love, and a little
frolic, to his old nurse. “Oh, I shall be at home now before Mr.
Eolder,” said young St. James, in answer to the fears of Mrs.
Simmer, alarmed at the escape of the young gentleman from his
tutor. However, we must leave them and descend to the pave-
ment to St. Giles.
With an air of becoming gravity, the boy led the pony up and
down before the door, his eyes riveted upon the beast; certainly
a creature of extreme beauty. She was jet black, of exquisite
delicacy of outline ; and her arched neck, quivering nostril, and
fiery eye, told something for the spirit and horsemanship of the
boy who rode her. Up and down St. Giles walked; and now
looking at the animal, now thinking of the boy lord, it appeared
to him that all the treasures of the world were concentrated in
that pony; that St. James was a sort of earthly angel ; a being
of altogether another kind to the boys St. Giles had ordinarily
met with. There was something so magnificent about the pony
and its rider, that only to have had his lordship to speak to him,
that only to hold the bridle of his steed, seemed in the confused
brain of St. Giles to redeem him from somewhat of his misery and
lowliness. He could not but think the better of himself for all
time to come. He had spoken to a lord—had held his horse!
Could any of his gutter companions boast such greatness? These
thoughts were busying the mind of St. Giles, when he heard
himself addressed by a familiar voice. “What my flower 7 °
was the greeting; and St. Giles, turning, beheld his friend and
tutor, Tom Blast. St. Giles, in his last retirement to Bridewell,
had had the advantage of Tom's tuition; and, to speak truly, the
teacher and pupil were worthy of each other. Tom was a
ST. GITIES AND ST. JAMES. & 65
scoundrel of most extensive experience; and had the happy art
of so simplifying his knowledge, that he made it available to the
meanest understanding. St. Giles, however, had no need of any
Such condescension : he could jump at a meaning, good or bad,
half-way. Hence, the teacher and the taught respected each
other for their mutual excellence. In fact, Tom Blast looked
upon Young St. Giles, as his Newgate son ; and St. Giles—in
default of another—considered Tom as the best of fathers.
“What have you got here 7° asked Tom, his eye sparkling all
Over the pony.
“Got a oss to hold,” said St. Giles, with an inquiring look at
Tom. Then he added, sinking his voice—“it belongs to a lord:
sich a little chap, and yet a lord.”
“Well, she’s a beauty,” said Blast : “make her walk a little
faster.”
“She is a beauty,” cried St. Giles, boldly venturing an opinion,
and quickening the animal’s pace.
“What a sweet trot ' " said Blast, “so light and so free : Why
she wouldn't break a egg-shell, would she 7"
“I should think not,” answered St. Giles, a little flattered that
his opinion was solicited.
“Come up !” cried Blast, urging the beast into a quicker pace.
“Come along, sweet-lips | *
“Stop, Tom ; stop !” said the prudent St. Giles, when he had
arrived in Bedford-square. “Blest if we don’t turn back, if they
won’t think we’re a going to steal her; and that wouldn't do, no
how, would it, Tom ?” asked the boy, and his eye encountered
Tom’s thoughtful look.
“Why, no,” answered Tom with some deliberation. “No ;
it wouldn't—turn her round agin; and walk her gently, Giles;
gently, pretty Cretur.” And as St. Giles complied, Tom turned
too, walking with meditative eye that now glanced at the boy and
now at the pony. Ambitious thoughts busied the brain of the
poor, timid thief, Tom Blast ; and he pondered on the means
whereby he could reap the profits of a stolen horse, still assuring
to himself exemption from the tragic penalty. For many years
Tom had from time to time eaten stolen bread ; nevertheless, he
had lived, as it were, upon the crumbs, the broken morsels of
crime. He had never had the courage to dare Tyburn that he
might dine, but he satisfied himself with the pickings of petty
larceny. No : he never promised to earn for himself either bio-
graphy or portrait in the Newgate Calendar. Hence, he was a
little perplexed at the temptation that would intrude itself
upon him as he glanced at Lord St. James's satin-coated pony.
Fortune seemed willing to make him a handsome present of
F
66 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
horse-flesh, if he had only the valour to accept it. No ; he would
not be tempted : he had resolved to die a natural death, and there-
fore he resolutely dismissed the demon that would destroy him.
Nevertheless, he thought it possible that policy might achieve what
courage failed to attempt. He might accomplish all by a stroke
of wit, profiting in security by the danger of another. St. Giles
might be made the robber, and Tom Blast, in happiest safety,
pocket the proceeds. Thus ruminating, Tom again reached
Mrs. Simmer's door. -
“Not wanted yet,” said St. Giles, looking from the door to the
window. “We’ll give her another trot, eh?” And at the word
the pony was turned towards Bedford-square. *
“Gently,” said Blast, “gently. Why don’t you have a ride
upon her ? The young lord wouldn’t know nothing of it. And
what if he did He couldn’t take the ride out of you again.
Only not so big, else she's the very pictur—yes the very moral of
Dick Turpin's Bess,” said Blast, looking critically, admiringly, at
Jessy. “Get up, and don’t be a young fool,” he added; and then
St. Giles—he hardly knew how it was accomplished—found him-
self in the saddle. “There, that's something like life, isn’t it !”
said the tempter suddenly, speaking from the whole breadth of
the pavement, and every other minute looking cautiously behind
him the while he mended his pace, and St. Giles jerked the pony
into a trot. “That’s something like living for, eh? and I should
like to know why you shouldn’t have it just as soon as any little
lord whatsomever ?”
“Ha! wouldn’t that be prime, Tom ?” cried St. Giles, his eyes
sparkling, and face glowing. “Wouldn't it be prime !”
“It’s nothing more than what you ought to have ; why you
ride as well as if you was born upon her back—give her her head a
little more—now down this way,” sharply added Blast ; and then
rapidly turning to the right, he ran on, St. Giles trotting hard
after him. Arrived at the east side of Russell-square, Tom
suddenly halted. “Now, St. Giles,” said he, “are you man
enough to make your fortin ''”
“I should think so,” said Giles, in high spirits with his feat of
horsemanship.
“Now listen to a friend, Giles—a friend as never yet deceived
you,” said Blast with sudden gravity. “Throw away this bit of
luck, and you may never get another. Take the pony and sell
it.” St. Giles stared. “Why not, you fool! you may as well”
—cried Blast—“you’ve stole it you know.”
“Stole it !” cried St. Giles.
“It’s all the same ; there’s nobody as would believe otherwise
—so I’ll stand your friend, and get you the money for the
ST. GILES AND ST JAMES. 67
22
bargain. Ha I see—you hav’n’t no pluck in you—not a bit,
said the taunting friend. -
“Ain’t I, though jist you see,” cried young St. Giles, deter-
mined to do anything.
“Well, then, as you’ve got yourself into a bit of trouble, I’ll
stand by you. Now, you listen ; just dash as hard as you can
through the fields, and then turn to the right—and so round and
round, until—you know the way—until you drop down upon
Smithfield. Then make for Long Lane; and then just afore you
get to the Blue Posts—get off and lead the pony up and down as
if you was holding her for somebody—and then in a crack I’m
with you. Now, look sly, and your fortin's made. Young
Turpin for ever ! Off with you !” And so saying, the Tyburn
monitor slapt the pony Smartly with his broad hand, and the
mettlesome creature bounded forth, young St. Giles with difficulty
keeping the saddle. Away went the pony up the Long Fields
and away towards Islington! The words “young Turpin" still
rang in the ears of St. Giles, as he cantered along. He felt that
he had already done something worthy the exalted name bestowed
upon him ; and as his blood mounted with the exercise, he ima-
gined future triumphs that would make him glorious. The
robbery of the horse was, for the time, altogether forgotten in
the increased importance that had fallen upon him. He dreamt
not of the punishment attending the theft; he only thought of
the hatful of guineas that the stolen property would produce him.
And then, as he rode, how petty and contemptible did his former
pickings and stealings appear to him ; he almost felt ashamed of
himself, comparing his past petty larcenies with this his crowning
achievement. From the moment he had taken leave of boyhood.
He had suddenly become a man, by the grace of daring felony.
Then, he thought, how should he ever be able to spend the
money : Would he not have a scarlet coat with gold lace to it,
ay, much finer than the little lord's 7 And would he not go to
the play every night, and have his hot supper afterwards ' And
would he not flourish money in a hundred ways that should make
all his old companions—the little dirty, paltry thieves of Hog
Lane—look up to him with devotion and astonishment 7
Still young St. Giles ambled along, and still the world seemed
changed to him. All things about him bore a brighter hue ; all
things sounded with a sweeter music ; his brain seemed on wings,
and his lightened heart danced in his bosom. And—poor wretch
—this ecstacy of ignorance arose from evil, from a crime whose
fatal effects, certain as death, would follow him. Still the very
houses, to his fancy, took a new and pleasant aspect ; wherever
he looked he saw a new face of happiness—whatever he heard
F 2
68 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
came toned with a new note of harmony. He saw not the
blackened stones of Newgate—heard not the freezing accents of
the death-dooming judge. Miserable, foolish wretch
Yet how often do men—in the ripeness of worldly wisdom—
imitate the folly, share the ignorance of young St. Giles | Elated
by the cominission of some profitable wrong, seeming secret, too,
as profitable—how often to them does Fortune seem to put on a
new and shining face, when at the very time she grasps the lash,
or drugs the bitter bowl that shall revenge the wickedness. For
a brief time does successful evil put a new tint of outside beauty
upon all the world ; and happy knavery rejoices in the cunning
that makes the world to him so beautiful. What a plodding,
leaden-eyed ‘fool is mere honesty ; what an oaf, an ass, compared
to him who squares his code of morals by his seeming interest !
And then full surely time advances, and the world, that looked
so fresh and smiling, is hollow-cheeked and ghastly—its beauty
wiped away, even as a harlot's paint. Successful knavery, dizzied
with its luck, sees suddenly delicious scenes—a paradise of
worldly joy and life-long rest—then, waking to the truth, beholds
around it burning, barren sand. If the mature pilgrims of the
world are sometimes so deceived, why not the boy St. Giles 7
Still the young, yes, and happy, felon trotted on, until he
entered Smithfield. He then walked the pony slowly up Long
Lane, and soon as he espied the Blue Posts, faithful to his orders,
he dismounted, looking anxiously around him for his friend and
instructor, Tom Blast. A quarter of an hour passed, and still he
came not. And then, and for the first time, he looked at the
stolen goods with lowering eyes, and his heart felt leaden, What
was he to do with the pony without Tom ? Nobody would buy
it of him. And then a deeper and a deeper shadow fell upon all
things; and, biting his lips, young St. Giles, with eyes—quick as
rats'—looked about and about him. What an ugly brute the
pony seemed to him | Yes; he knew what he would do : he
would jump upon the pony, gallop back to Plumtree-street, and
swear he had only been for a ride. Anything to be well clear of
the pony. With this thought St. Giles had his foot in the stirrup,
when he was tapped upon the shoulder by a man plainly and com-
fortably dressed in a dark-grey suit, wearing a light flaxen wig in
tight curls, surmounted by a large beaver hat, scrupulously sleek.
He had a broad, fat face, with a continual smile, laid like lacker
upon it. And, when he spoke, he spoke very gently and very
softly, as with lips of butter.
“My dear little boy,” said the stranger, patting St. Giles affec-
tionately on the back, “where have you been so long 2*
St. Giles looked—he could not help it—very suspiciously at the
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, 69
stranger ; then scratching his head, he observed, “Don’t know
you, sir.”
“I dare say not ; how should you, my dear ! But you will
know me, and for a friend. I’ve waited for you these ten
minutes.”
St. Giles said nothing: nevertheless his thoughts were never
more active. He by no means liked the appearance of his new
friend ; he felt afraid of him. He would fling himself into the
saddle, and gallop off. As he determined upon this, the stranger,
in the gentlest manner, twitched the bridle from his hand, and
gently said, “My little dear, it's all right.”
“All right !” cried St. Giles; and somehow he felt that
his stolen pony was about to be stolen from him—“what’s all
right !”
“You came from Plumtree-street.” St. Giles winced. “Now
you know you did ; don’t tell a lie, my little dear; for don’t you
know what comes of little boys who tell lies : I have seen your
friend, and paid him ; it’s all right ; but as you’re such a mice
little boy, here 's a guinea for yourself.” St. Giles's heart rose
somewhat at the guinea. “You’re to go into the house, and
wait for Mr. Blast.” St. Giles's eyes twinkled at the name:
of course, as the stranger averred, it must be all right. “Stop,
don’t change the guinea ; here's a shilling too, my little dear.
Now, go in—I don’t want to be thanked—only let me see you go
in, that you mayn’t come to any harm in the street.” St. Giles,
taking a last look at the pony, entered the Blue Posts. The
stranger and the pony went—who shall say whither ?
St. Giles meekly seated himself in a corner of the hostelry,
ordering for his refection two pennyworth of ale, and bread and
cheese. And when he had somewhat solaced his inward boy,
he began to wonder when Tom Blast would come. Hour after
hour passed, and still St. Giles remained alone. Again and again
he looked at the clock—again and again at the guinea. Never
before had he possessed such wealth : and the contemplation of
his riches in a great measure abated his anxiety for the arrival of
Tom ; even though he thought of him as the bearer of other
guineas, the purchase-money of the pony. Still, there was the
charm, the fascination of ready gold to comfort St. Giles; and
the glitter of the money held him like the eye of a Snake.
His only perplexity was how he could best spend the guinea.
He was deep in these thoughts when, the room having filled,
his attention was awakened by a man who, talking very loudly
—and with his clenched fist beating the table the while—about
what he called the abstract beauty of honesty, gradually hushed
all speakers into reverent listeners. The man was about the
70 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
middle-time of life, drest somewhat like a grazier. He seemed
prematurely bald, which questionable defect gave to his head an
outside look of wisdom, possibly not warranted by the contents.
He had one of those large clear faces, often called open, because
probably there is nothing positive in them. He was earnest and
voluble in his speech, as though his arguments welled up from
his heart, and would out.
“You have said, sir,” he cried, “that honesty is the best
policy. You have been pleased to call that a golden maxim '''
“I have,” answered a huge, dull-looking man, in a butcher's
coat. “I have,” he repeated; sucking his pipe, and winking his
small eyes.
“Sir,” cried the bald-headed orator, “I call it the maxim of a
rogue and a rascal.”
“Hallo Hallo 1 ° cried some, and “Prove it—prove it,”
shouted others. - -
“Prove it ! Why it’s as plain as the door of Newgate. Now,
listen, gentlemen, if you please. Honesty is the best policy,
that's what I have to tackle. Very well. What is honesty'ſ
I ask you that. Why, I suppose, it’s not to pick a man's pocket
—it's not to steal his purse, or his coat, or his sheep, or his
horse ?” Young St. Giles turned his eyes from the speaker.
“It’s not to put off bad money, or to give short measure, or light
weight 7”
“Stick to the pint,” cried a man with an apron, apparently a
small shopkeeper.
“I am sticking to it,” resumed the orator. “Now, I tell you
again that that maxim isn’t the maxim of a good man, but of a
rascal ; of a fellow that wants to be rewarded for not stealing—
for not passing off bad money—for not giving short measure.
He says, no says he, I’ll be honest, not because I love honesty
for itself, but because it's all to my advantage to be honest. No,
gentlemen. Make honesty not the best policy, and then show me
the man that loves it. That’s my man—that's the true heart,
gentlemen. But to follow honesty because it's the best policy—
why, I repeat it, it’s nothing more than the calculation of a sneak-
up—of a fellow that hasn’t the courage to be a rogue. No : give
me honesty naked as truth ; that's the honesty I love best. I
don’t want to be bribed for being honest Eh 7 ° and he gazed
triumphantly around him.
“I want you,” said a man, putting his head in at the door, and
looking with strange significance at the speaker.
“Damn it !” cried the orator, and immediately obeyed the
SUII]]]]].OIlS.
Oh, abstract honesty bleed for thy worshipper; for in less
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 71.
than three minutes was he handcuffed at the door on a charge of
street robbery.
To return to young St. Giles, an attentive, though unenlightened
listener to the lecturer upon honesty. St. Giles had heard of
honesty; had some dim notion of its meaning. It was a some-
thing especially made for people who had all things comfortable
about them : so much he knew of honesty: but for honesty in the
abstract, in that he was as ignorant, ay, as even some of his
betters.
The hours passed, and still Tom Blast came not. Evening
approached—night shut in—midnight came, and St. Giles, with a
heavy heart, though lightened somewhat by his guinea, turned
into the street. He could not go home—no ; at least, for a time,
Hog Lane must be to him a forbidden Paradise. No matter.
Had he not a guinea—a whole guinea—to himself? The thought,
even in the midnight street, fell like a sunbeam upon him ; he
sprang from the pavement with a shout, reckless with his wealth.
He would make a night of it—yes, he would have all things
glorious ! And with this hilarious wilfulness, he took to his
heels, and was speedily housed for the night within the very
shadow of the walls of Newgate.
CHAPTER VIII.
EoR more than a week did St. Giles live upon his guinea.
True it is, that for the first day or two he dined and supped in
the Apollo of an eastern cook-shop ; besides taking his luncheon
of fried fish in the Minories, for the which delicacy, the Hebrews
thereabout dwelling enjoy a just renown. But these days of
Carnival past, St. Giles economised, with a fine knowledge of the
resources of the metropolis. Twopence awarded to him the
Sweets of sleep beneath a roof; and a shilling saw him safely
through the day. However, let not the reader imagine that St.
Giles—like many a great genius—was made dull and inactive by
the golden reward of his ability; a circumstance to be so often
deplored in the case of great authors, great painters, and espe-
cially of great philosophers; wherefore, it is questionable, if the
world would not really gain more by them if it never rewarded
them at all, St. Giles was not one of these. No : he still kept
his eyes wide open at the doings of life; still hived, in that odd,
world-twisted little brain of his, all sorts of knowledge for the
future day. He especially employed part of his time, hanging
72 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
--sº
about the haunts of Tom Blast ; but, strange to say, that interest-
ing person never showed himself in any of his wonted places of
ease and recreation. Again and again did St. Giles travel Long-
Tane—again slink and spy into every haunt, in the fond and
foolish hope of once more meeting with the soft-spoken man who,
at the ruinous price of one guinea, one shilling, had purchased a
pony of incomparable Arab blood. St. Giles, with all his friend-
ship, all his gratitude for Tom, could not but feel that he had
been tricked, bamboozled by his tutor; and the nearer and nearer
he approached to his last shilling, the more intense was his indig-
nation—the more insatiable his appetite of revenge.
It was the ninth day of St. Giles's absence from his maternal
home, and the pilgrim of London stood before a house of humble
entertainment in Cow Cross. The time was moon; and St. Giles,
feeling the last threepence in his pocket—turning them over, one
by one—was endeavouring to arbitrate between pudding and bed.
If he bought a cut of pudding—and through the very window-
pane he seemed to nose its odour—he had not wherewithal to buy
a lodging. What of that ? London had many doorways—hos-
pitable stone-steps—for nothing ; and pudding must be paid for.
Still he hesitated ; when the cook-shop man removed the pudding
from the window. This removal immediately decided St. Giles.
He rushed into the shop, and laid down his last worldly stake
upon the counter. “Threepenn'orth o' puddin', and a good three-
penn'orth,” said St. Giles. With a look of half-reproof and half-
contempt the tradesman silently executed the Order ; and in a
few moments, St. Giles stood upon the king's highway, devouring
with great relish his last threepence. Whilst thus genially em-
ployed, he heard a far-off voice roar through the muggy air : his
heart beat, and he ate almost to choking, as he listened to these
familiar words:–“A most True and Particular Account of the
Aorrible Circumstance of a Bear that has been Fed upon Five
Young Children in a Cellar in Westminster /* It was the voice
of Blast ; and St. Giles swallowed his pudding, hurriedly used
the back of his hand for a napkin, and following the sound of
the crier, was in a trice in Peter-street, and one of the mob that
circled the marvel-monger of Hog-Lane. Nevertheless, though
Tom roared with an energy that very strongly declared his own
faith in the horror that he sought to vend for only one half-
penny, his auditors lacked credulity or coppers for the well-worn
enormity. Nobody purchased. Not even a timorous, sym-
pathising servant-maid advanced through the crowd to make the
mystery her own. Tom felt it. His standing in the world as a
tradesman was fast crumbling from beneath his feet. St. Giles
was hurrying up to his old and early friend, when, at a short
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. - 73
distance, he beheld his former patron, Capstick, the muffin-maker,
and Bright Jem. They looked, as he thought, somewhat curiously
at his friend Tom, and then seemed to take counsel of one another.
Under these circumstances, St. Giles thought that to accost Tom,
would be to call unnecessary attention to himself. He, therefore,
remained, shrunk down among the mob that every moment be-
came less and less. What, too, made it most discouraging to
Mr. Blast were the scoffs and loud laughter with which certain
new-comers would listen to the description of the horror sought
to be circulated, and then hurry off. “That cock won’t fight
now !” cried one. “A little late in the day for that. Get some-
thing new,” cried another. “Gammon ” shouted a third.
Nevertheless, be of good heart, Tom Blast ; take consolation
from this. You suffer in great society; you sink in most worship-
ful companionship. Very reverend, grave, authoritative persons
—men of the bench, even of the pulpit—who, for centuries, sold
to their exceeding profit, “ Most True and Particular Accounts”
of a horrid bear of some sort—whether of royal or feudal privi-
lege—of witchcraft—of popery—of sham rebellion—nay, fifty
bears and bugbears, all of horrid, ghastly nature, they, too, in
their turns, have outlived the profitable lie. And even in these
latter days, when some Tom Blast in higher places, nay, in the
highest—sounds his tin horn of bigotry, and would trade upon
Some bear apocryphal, he is assured in the like sense, although
in gentler phrase, that such cock will by no means fight—that the
day has passed for so foolish, vain a story—that, finally, his bear
is no bear at all, but briefly, yet intensely, gammon. Has not
history her catch-pennies, even as the archives of Seven Dialsº
Mr. Blast was somewhat of a philosopher. He could have
borne the laughter and scoffing of the crowd, if any of them
had bought his ware ; but his philosophy was not of that tran-
scendental kind to endure outrage, unmitigated by any sort of
coin, even the smallest, current in the realm. He therefore, with a
Sotto voce expression of the deepest contempt for his hearers, broke
from the crowd, passing on, and then—his legs evidently walking
in a passion—turning, he strode still onwards until he entered
Cow Lane. Here, St. Giles, hanging at his skirts, came up
with him.
“Well, if it isn't a sight for bad eyes to see you !” said the
unabashed Tom. “But don’t let 's talk in the street.” And
Tom made for an opposite public-house, one of his customary
places of call, unknown to St. Giles. Stalking through the pas-
Sage, followed by his young friend, he made his way into a small,
dark, low room. “I thought there 'd be nobody here,” said
Tom ; and then in a tone of great tenderness and anxiety, looking
74 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
straight in the eyes of St. Giles, he asked, “Well, and where have
you been They’re mad about you in the Lane. Where have you
been 7 °
“Why, I've been looking for you,” said St. Giles, moodily
nodding his head. “You must have know'd that.”
“And that 's, I suppose, why we didn’t happen to meet,” re-
plied Tom ; possibly recollecting that his chief care had been to
keep out of the boy's way. “Why, what's the matter? you
, look plaguy sarcy J What are you looking so black at, you
young devil 7” cried Tom, with sudden ferocity; but St. Giles
felt his injuries, and was not to be browbeaten.
“Why, I'm a looking at you, and not much to look at
neither,” shouted St. Giles, with answering vigour. “You 're
not a goin’ to frighten me, I can tell you. Why didn’t you come
as you promised you would You're a good un, you are ”
“Now, what does ail the boy 7" said Tom, coaxingly ; though
evidently ill at ease: for his fingers worked ; and he bit his
lip as he gazed on the boy, who, with sullen, defying air, returned
his stare.
“Why, this ails me. Didn't you tell me to take that pony to
Tong Lane—and then didn’t you tell me to wait for you ?”
“I know it, Giles; I know it ; but you see, as I went along, I
thought agin over the matter. I thought, you see, it might lead
you into trouble, if I come ; so I thought I’d stay away, and
you’d bring the pony home agin, and then, mayhap, after a little
breeze, there'd be an end of the matter. That’s it, Giles,” said
cautious Mr. Blast. *
“Then, why did you send the man as give me a guinea, and
took the pony away? Him as said, too, that he'd made it all right
with you, and 22
Here St. Giles was interrupted in his volubility by Mr. Blast ;
who performed—and an admirable performance it was—a look of
immense astonishment, at the same time whistling very vehe-
mently. At length, mastering his wonder, he cried—“Why,
Giles you've never sold the pony'ſ "
“No. I never sold it—but you did ; the gemman told me so.
You sold it ; and after that 22 -
Mr. Blast could scarcely contain himself, so big, so swelling
was his compassion for the injured boy. “Oh, Giles,” he cried—
“poor little fellow ! You're done, Giles; you ’re done.”
“And who 's done me ! Why, you have,” screamed the
youngster in a paroxysm of passion. All childhood vanished
from his face; so suddenly was it convulsed with rage. He
stood, for a moment, breathless with anger; and forgetful in
his fury of the bulk and strength of his former teacher, he
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 75
clenched his little fist, and grinding his teeth, advanced towards
Blast, who, for a moment, recoiled from the small assailant.
Then, recovering himself, he laid his hands upon his knees, and
with an effort to be calm, contemptuous, said, “And this, you
little warmint, is your thanks to me ; to me, you scorpin, as has
been better than a father to you ! To me, who’s taught you
ballad-chanting, and everything as is decent you know ; to me, as
has laid awake in my bed thinkin’ what I could do for you in the
mornin’; to me, who's always looked on you as a rasher of my
own flesh And you’ll shake them little mawleys at me !” The
picture of ingratitude was almost too much for Mr. Blast. He
was nearly melted in his own tenderness.
“None o’ that—that won’t do for me, no how,” cried St. Giles.
“You made me steal the pony—you sold it, and now—”
The charge was too much for the indignant virtue of Mr. Blast.
With an exclamation of disgust, he aimed a blow at his accuser,
that but for his agility, would have laid him senseless on the
floor. Bobbing his head and doubling himself up with wonderful
elasticity, St. Giles escaped the meditated punishment, and the
next moment saw him fastened on Tom ; clasping him round the
waist, and kicking with all his might and malice at his bene-
factor's shins. Tom, mad with pain and vexation, sought to fling
the urchin off; but he held to his prey like a stoat. For some
moments the boy heroically suffered the worst punishment that
his master in iniquity could inflict, returning it with unequal
powers. At length, Blast unclasping the urchin's hold, seized
him in his arms, and threw him violently off. The boy fell,
stunned, against the wainscot. The infuriate savage, his passion
raging, was about to deal a blow—it would have been the last—
upon the prostrate boy, when Capstick, Bright Jem, and a couple
of officers burst into the room. Blast immediately divined their
business, and with masterly coolness observed, pointing to St. Giles
lying in the corner a senseless heap—“There's your young OSS-
stealer for you; and a nice job I’ve had to nibble him. A varmint
of a pole-cat as he is . .”
“The young un and the old un, too,” said one of the officers.
“Why this is better luck than we bargained for.”
Jem lifted the boy between his knees; he was still pale and
senseless. “Mr. Capstick,” said Jem, “for God's sake, some
water | * Then turning an indignant look upon Blast, he added,
“Why, what a paving-stone you must have for a heart, to use a
poor child like this.”
“A child !” cried Blast, “a young devill”
“And if he is,” said Jem, “who's made him one 7 Murder
why it’s the worst of murders; to take and kill all the good in a
76 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
child's soul, and then to fling him into the world to do his worst,
and answer for 't.”
“There, there, never mind, Jem,” cried Capstick, who was
turning himself round, and shuffling about, visibly affected by the
miserable condition of the child, yet struggling to maintain lis
outward misanthropy. “All wretches; all alike, worthless
animals | * And then he roared at the waiter as he entered—
“Why don’t you bring some water—some brandy—anything,
everything for this poor creature—this miserable—helpless—
forlorn—unhappy little boy 7" Again Capstick turned his face
in a corner, and violently blew his nose, and coughed, and vowed
he never had such a cold in all his life.
“There, there,” said one of the officers, as Jem bathed the
boy's face, “he’ll come round again, never fear.”
Jem groaned, and shook his head. “Yes, he will come round,”
he said. “If it wasn’t that blood would be on somebody’s head,
it would be a good thing, if he never did. Lord! Lord!” cried
Jem, “to think that this is the babby's face I once knew ”
“Pooh–pooh –nonsense,” said Capstick; “we’ve nothing to
do with that ; nothing at all. The ends of justice—the ends of
justice, Mr. Aniseed,”—and again the muffin-maker coughed; he
had such a cold.
However, whilst Jem—with his heart running at his eyes—is
solacing young St. Giles, we will, as briefly as we may, inform the
reader of the cause that has brought the muffin-maker and the
link-man to Smithfield.
Ever since the conclusion of our sixth chapter—which the
urbanity of the reader will consider to be no less than six years
ago—fortune Smiled upon Capstick. True it is, she often smiles
upon the strangest lumps of men—is oft a very Titania enamoured
with an ass's head—nevertheless, she showed good judgment in
the favours she bestowed upon the muffin-maker. So fortune
made interest with her good sister fame to play a flourish on her
trumpet in praise of Capstick’s muffins ; that in time rejoiced
Imany hearths without the circle of St. Giles's. In a word, Capstick
soon built an enduring reputation upon muffins; and therefore
had a better chance of his name going buttered down to posterity
than has the name of every monarch duly buttered in birth-day
Ode. Well, the calls upon Capstick's oven were so increasing,
that his wife suggested he should forthwith start a horse and
very genteel cart. She, good woman had no eye to a Sunday
drive—the vanity never entered her head; all she thought of
was business : which she had no wish whatever to adulterate
with even a drop of pleasure. Mr. Capstick was somewhat
twitted with himself that such proposal emanated from his wife:
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 77
it was so good, so reasonable, it ought to have been his own.
However, he would say, the woman had caught something like
judgment by living with him. At once, then, Mr. Capstick con-
sented to the vehicle; and that purchased a bargain, he took his
way—in pestilent hour for him—to Smithfield, to buy a horse.
Now, Mr. Capstick knew no more of the points of a horse than of
a unicorn. As, however, he had little faith in human nature,
and none whatever when mixed up with horse-flesh, he said to
himself that he might as well be cheated at first hand as at
second; therefore, went he alone to buy a steed. Arrived in the
market, full soon was he singled out by a benevolent, yet withal
discerning dealer, who could see in a twinkling the very sort
of thing that would suit him. “Anice little cretur that would eat
nothing, and go fifty miles a day upon it.” In brief, the worthy
man sold to the muffin-maker, sold to him for an old song—
to be sure, he could afford to let it go thus cheap—the black pony
which only two days before had been the valued possession of Lord
St. James. For four-and-twenty hours only did the muffin-man
rejoice in his purchase ; for on his very first allerupt to degrade
the high-blooded animal to a cart—it was quite as fit to draw
St. Paul's—the creature, although its flowing tale and mane
had been ruthlessly docked and cropped—was identified by Cesar
Gum, on his way with a sisterly message to Short's Gardens.
Never before had Mr. Capstick known the full value of a good
character. His story of the transaction was received as truth ;
and though he lost the ten pounds—the value of the old song—
he had given for the animal, he maintained his untarnished repu-
tation. Of course, St. Giles was soon known as the horse-stealer.
It also came out, that Mr. Thomas Blast had been seen in very
earnest conversation with the boy, as he led the pony. Every
search was made for Tom ; and as, with a modesty not usual to
him, he seemed wholly to have withdrawn himself from his
native parish, curiosity to learn his whereabout was the further
quickened. , Mr. Capstick felt his judgment, his pocket, too, some-
what involved in the transaction. He felt that he stood fair and
upright in the eye of the world, nevertheless it would be to him
a peculiar satisfaction could he detect Mr. Thomas Blast, or the
benevolent, simple-spoken tradesman who—for the price of an old
song—had sold the pony. With this wish thumping at his heart,
Capstick every day visited Smithfield and its neighbourhood;
taking with him Bright Jem, whom he had accustomed himself to
think an honest, worthy fellow, and his particular friend; that is,
so far as the misanthropy of the muffin-maker would acknowledge
the possible existence of such a treasure. It was strange, however,
that Capstick, in his thoughts of revenge, had no thought of
78 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
young St. Giles. No : all the vehemence of his wrath was roused
against the boy's tutor.
We have now, we trust, sufficiently explained the course of
accidents that brought the muffin-maker and Jem to Porter-
street, and so made them hearers of the unprofitable oratory of
Tom Blast. Fearful that they might be recognised by him, they
employed a third party to watch him to his haunt, whilst they
secured the attendance of officers. Hence, they saw not St. Giles,
who, as we have before observed, kept himself close among the
mob. They were the more astonished to find the ill-used boy in
the same room with his Schoolmaster.
“There, now—he 's all right,” cried one of the officers, as
St. Giles—restored by the efforts of Bright Jem—looked about
him. However, no sooner was he conscious of the presence of
Capstick and his fast friend Jem, than his face glowed like a
coal. He hung down his head, and burst into tears: there was
no sham whimpering—no taught effort of sorrow—but the boy's
heart seemed touched, melted, and he wept and writhed con-
vulsively. A recollection of the goodness—the disregarded kind-
ness of the men before him—thrilled through his soul, and
though he knew it not, he felt the yearnings of a better nature.
There was anguish—penitence—in the sobs that seemed to tear
his vitals.
“Thank God for that l” cried Jem ; and the poor fellow wept,
too. “I like to hear that, eh, Mr. Capstick 7 °
Mr. Capstick felt an odd queasiness in his throat, and could
say nothing. He therefore again threw himself upon his pocket-
handkerchief. Then, conscious that he had a great duty to per-
form for the ends of justice—a fact that, when otherwise puzzled,
he had more than once insisted upon—he turned to the officers,
and pointing his thumb towards Blast, observed with peculiar
loftiness, “You will be good enough to handcuff that man.”
“Handcuff me !” cried Mr. Blast. “They’ll do it at their
peril.”
“IIa Iny good man—I beg your pardon—you desperate
scoundrel !” said Capstick with withering urbanity, “they’re
accustomed to do a great deal at their peril; thanks to such
rascals as you. Handcuff him l’’
“They darn’t do it—they darn’t do it,” shouted the struggling
Blast ; and in a moment afterwards his wrists were locked in
iron. “I’ll make you pay for this—never mind; it’s no matter
to me—but I’ll make you pay for this,” he said ; and then, like
a Tyburn philosopher, Tom became suddenly reconciled to his
manacles.
We will not dwell upon the details of the examination of the
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 79
prisoners. It will be sufficient for the reader to know that, after
certain preliminaries, a sitting alderman committed St. Giles and
his tutor for horse-stealing. Both scholar and master awaited
their trial in Newgate.
It was not until after the culprit's first examination, that
Capstick felt the full annoyance of his position. When Jem
would shake his head, and look dumpish on the matter, Capstick
would talk loud, and beg him to think of the ends of justice;
but when the boy was committed on the capital charge, the
muffin-maker's public spirit wholly forsook him. Evidence had
brought the accusation quite home to the boy; however legal
proof might fail to criminate his tempter. “They’ll never—
never think of much hurting the boy—a child, you know—a mere
child?” said Capstick to Jem, as they left Guildhall together.
“Humph : I don’t know what you call hurting, Mr. Cap-
stick,” said Jem, moodily. “But I shouldn’t think hanging
nothin’,” -
Capstick turned pale as flour, and he could scarcely articulate
the words—“Impossible—ridiculous—they couldn’t do it.”
“Ha!” cried Jem, “when hanging's the thing, you don’t
know what they can do. Well, I’d rather ha’ been in bed, with
a broken limb, than had a finger in this matter. I shall have
that poor child always about me: I know I shall. When he’s
killed and gone, I shall never take my pipe without seeing his
face in the fire. And then my poor old woman She that still 's
so fond of him—poor orphan thing ! for his mother’s worse than
lost to him—she’ll lead me a nice life—that is, though she won't
say anything outright, she’ll always be a crying about him.
We've done a nice thing, Mr. Capstick, to make our lives pleasant
as long as they last !”
“Pooh, pooh-folly, Jem ; all folly. I suppose property must
be protected. I suppose you won't deny that, eh?” asked
Capstick.
“I deny nothing,” answered Jem hopelessly; and then he
groaned “God help us ! Why didn't he die in the frost and
snow * Why did I warm him, when a babby, at my own fire,
only to help to hang him arterwards : *
“Hang him | Nonsense ! I tell you, Jem, you’re a fool—an
old, butter-hearted fool—and you know nothing. Here have you
lived all your life with the worst of people about you—not but
what folks at the very best are great rascals, every one of 'em—
but here you have been up to your ears in villainy—and yet you
look upon everybody about you as innocent as shepherds and
shepherdesses in white china. I’m ashamed of you, Jem ; be a
man, and think of the world as its rascality deserves. For, Lord!
80 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
what a lump of roguery it is . How that the blessed sun should
ever condescend to smile upon such a lot of wretches as We are,
I can’t tell ”
“No more can I,” answered Jem : “but since the Sun, as you
say, does demean himself to show a good face to us, I think it's
as little as we can do to try to do the same to one another.”
Capstick, taken somewhat aback, looked suddenly round upon
Jem ; and then, feeling himself wholly unable to controvert this
opinion, he simply said, “Jem, you’re a fool.”
A week passed, and the trial of St. Giles approached. It was
strange to Mr. Capstick that so many of his customers would
ask him about his health. “Why, what can ail the people " " he
would say. “I was never better—never in all my life. I eat
like a pig, and sleep like a dormouse ; can any man do better
than that ?” But Mr. Capstick was not well. The biped pig
made poor meals; the human dormouse had restless mights; and
when dreaming, dreamt horrid visions of death and Newgate.
It wanted some ten days of the trial, when Bright Jem pre-
sented himself at Capstick's house. “You see,” said Jem,
“they’re getting some money in the Lane so that they may have
a lawyer for poor St. Giles. Well, they’re a bad lot, I dare say;
but you should only know what some of the poor souls have
done.”
“And what have they done 7" asked Capstick, with what he
meant for a sneer.
“Why, some as had two blankets have sold one on 'em ; some
with two gowns have pawned one o’ them. It would make you
bless yourself, Mr. Capstick, to see besides what things they’ve
made twopences and threepences of kettles, sarcepans, anything.
It 's wonderful to see how they do stick by one another.”
“Crime, Mr. Aniseed, crime is a brazen cord—and certainly
does hold rogues together,” said Capstick.
“You may say what you like,” said Jem, “but whenever I’ve
looked up that horrid Lane, and seen men and women like devils,
and children—poor creturs—like devils’ little ones, I never could
have thought that in that dismal place there was after all a sort
of good, that the very best of us wouldn't be any worse for having
more of it.”
“Very like; very like,” said Capstick. “And I am to under-
stand, that the people want to fee a lawyer ?”
“That's it,” replied Jem. “There's a Mr. Tangle, somewhere
in Clifford's Inn ; he’s a sharp un. They say he'd get a chap
out o' Newgate ; get him out through a flaw no bigger than a
key-hole. Weii, I’ve been thinking—not that I can do much—
but I’ve been thinking, that as we helped to get the boy into
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 81
Newgate, if we was to give what money we could to help to get
him out.”
“And so defeat the ends of justice 7" cried Capstick, and he
frowned severely. -
“Oh, I dare say it’s wrong,” said Jem ; “nevertheless, if we
could only get the boy safe off, he might be a good un after all.
Didn't you hear how he cried ? Oh, there's heart in him yet,
I’m sure there is. Well, then, you see—”
“I see perfectly,” said Capstick, “you've come to ask me to
subscribe to the fund for the lawyer 7 °
“Well, that's jest it,” assented Jem. .
“Forgetful of my serious responsibility as a witness—forgetful
of the ends of justice—forgetful of what I owe to society—
forgetful—”
“Forgetful,” cried Jem, with animation, “ of everything except
of saving a child from the gallows.”
“Mr. Aniseed,” said Capstick very decidedly, “I am sorry to
refuse you anything, but you must not let your feelings blind you:
you mean well, but you have yet to learn that the best meaning
men are those who often do the most mischief. In a word, sir,
I can have nothing to say to this business.”
Bright Jem made no answer, but with a moody nod was about
to leave the shop, when the muffin-maker called to him. “I
think you said this attorney’s name was Wrangle 7 °
“Tangle,” said Jem, shortly.
“Tangle, Lyon's Inn?” said Capstick.
“Clifford’s-Inn,” cried Jem, a little sulkily, and then he darted
from the shop.
It is most true that Mr. Tangle deserved the high reputation
bestowed upon him by Jem. His office in Clifford’s-Inn was
considered a private outlet from Newgate. Many and many a
time, when the fatal halter seemed inevitable, had Tangle, by some
deft device, turned the running into a slip-knot, and the hang-
man been defrauded by the quibbler. Many a gentleman had
Mr. Tangle restored to the road, none at all the worse for durance.
Many a highwayman, on his solitary midnight watch, might think
with gratitude of the master-spirit of Clifford’s-Inn.
It was the evening of the day on which Bright Jem Solieited
Capstick, and Mr. Tangle sat in the solitude of his chambers.
He was sunk in profound study; possibly, pondering how to find
or make a flaw: how to give to the line of right a zig-zag, pro-
fitable bend for some consulting client shut in Newgate stones.
His clerk was out : therefore, his knocker being struck, he rose
himself and opened the door. A tall, bulky man, wrapped in a
great-coat, a hat slouched over his face, tied by a handkerchief
Gł
82 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
that almost covered his features, stalked into the room. Mr.
Tangle was not at all surprised : not at all. So many odd people
—so strangely appointed—every sessions called upon him.
“You are Mr. Tangle,” said a voice that most assuredly
belonged to Capstick, the muffin-maker. Mr. Tangle UUwed.
“You are interested in the case of a boy, one St. Giles?”
“I have been consulted,” said Tangle in his dry way. “A
bad case; confessedly, a bad case ; still, something may be done.
You know ’till a man’s hanged, there’s always hope ; that is, if
there’s always 25
“Money.” Mr. Tangle smiled and nodded. Mr. Capstick
took a small leathern bag from his pocket, from which he counted
out ten guineas. “I am not a rich man, Mr. Tangle,” said
Capstick.
“I am sorry for it,” said Tangle (and evidently with a feeling
of sincerity): “otherwise the ten might have been fifty.”
“But do what you can for that wretched boy—only save him
from hanging, and there's twenty more.”
“Thirty pounds,” said Tangle; “it’s doing it—if indeed it’s
to be done at all—very cheap ; too cheap. Nevertheless, as you’re
not a rich man, I’ll not refuse money. What name 7 °
“Never mind that,” said Capstick. “I think I’ve given you
enough to show that I’m in earnest. Now, only save the child,
and as God’s in heaven you shall have the other twenty.”
“We’ll see what can be done,” said Tangle, showing Capstick
to the door—“I have hopes; great hopes.”
And the trial came on, and St. Giles and Thomas Blast were
arraigned for stealing a pony of the value of fifty pounds, the
property of the Marquess of St. James. Nothing could be clearer
than the evidence against the boy, as delivered by young St.
James, Mrs. Simmer, and her servant. But legal proof was
wanting against Blast. True, he had been seen talking to St.
Giles, as the boy led the pony; but nothing more. There was
no doubt that the Iſlan who had taken the animal from St. Giles
in Ilong Lane was an accomplice of Blast's, but he was not to be
found—there was no proof. Whereupon, Thomas Blast was
acquitted ; and young St. Giles found “Guilty, Death.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 83
CHAPTER IX.
“GUILTY,-DEATH !”
What familiar syllables were these in the good old times—the
time of our history ! In those happier days, how many goods and
chattels, live stock and dead, were protected, watched by Death !
Death was made by law the guardian of all things. Prime agent,
great conservator of social right —grim keeper of the world’s
moveables. Death, a shepherd, avenged the wrongs of stolen
mutton; Death stood behind every counter, protector of chapman's
stock; Death was the day and night guard of the highway
traveller against the highway thief; Death watched ox and ass;
the goose on the common, the hen on the roost. Even at the altar,
Death took his cautious stand, that Hymen might not be scoffed,
defrauded by wicked bigamist. De minimis curabat Mors. Turn
where he would, the rogue's path was dug with graves. Never-
theless, the world grew no better ; made no visible return to
that happy state, ere hemp was made a sovereign remedy for wrong.
And so by degrees Death lost somewhat of his reputation with the
great ones of the world ; and by degrees many things were taken
out of his charge. It was found that sheep were stolen, trades-
men's goods lifted, pockets picked, hen-roosts forced—and maids
wickedly married by men already bound,-it was seen that these
abominations continued and increased, aye, in the very face of the
great ghastly bugbear Death, and so his watch and ward were
Imade a lighter task; he was gradually relieved of many of his
social duties; the world, to the astonishment of some folks, still
spinning on its axis, though the life of immortal man was not, as in
the good old times, offered to stolen colt, to the king's gracious face
unlawfully stamped in counterfeit metal, to a hundred other
sins all made mortal by the wisdom of untaught humanity.
Truly, justice, turning back the leaves of the gaol calendar,
might sit awhile in sackcloth and ashes, penitent for past trans-
gressions—past wrongs committed in her moral blindness : The
Sword of justice An awful weapon truly; a weapon, working
out the will of highest Providence; a solemn instrument which
man solemnly acknowledges. This has been, and may be. Yet,
thinking of the world’s mistakes; of the cruel blunders worked
by law on man, the sword of justice—of so-called Christian justice
robed and ermined—may sometimes seem to the eye of grieved
G 2
84 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
humanity as terrible as the blood-dripping tomahawk of the wild
revengeful savage. The sword of justice 1 May not the time
come—it will come, as surely as the sun of far-off years—when
justice shall lay down her sword 7 when with better wisdom, she
shall vindicate her awful mission to mankind, yet shed no drop
Uſ bluvul?
Let us return to St. Giles; to the boy in his fifteenth year,
spawned upon the world and reared by daily wrong and igno-
rance, a morsel for the hangman: now, a condemned thief, pal–
sied and aghast with terror, upon the very threshold of the world;
to be flung therefrom, an offering to the majesty of offended law.
Grim majesty—ghastly Moloch Stately wickedness, with robes
dyed in the blood of sinning ignorance . A majesty, that the
principle of all evil may too often Smile upon as its working genius
here on earth. A majesty as cold and pulseless as the idol whose
wooden nostrils know not the sacrifices its darkened worshippers
prepare it. But St. Giles will now know there is a government
—a knot of the wise and good, whose harmonious souls combined
make up the music of the state; the moral melody that softens
and refines the rugged, dull-eared mass. He will now know this;
the hangman will teach it him. A sharp, short lesson ; the first
and last prepared him by a paternal state.
“Guilty—death !” Such was the verdict. Tom Blast
breathed heavily, and a faint Smile flickered at his lips as he felt
assured of his escape. Still he durst not turn his eye towards his
boy-victim in the dock. Conscience was at the felon's heart; and
seared, withered as it was, it felt the sudden horror of remorse.
EHis features grew pale, then dark; were for a moment convulsed;
then instantly—daring no look at St. Giles—he disappeared from
the dock. The boy stared about him with a foolish gaze; and
then began to sob. There was no terror—no anguish in his face.
It was the grief of a boy doomed to a whipping, not the gibbet :
and it was such sorrow—such seeming childish ignorance of the
impending horror—that to those who looked upon him made his
condition more terrible. And then again it seemed impossible
that the sentence so sonorously uttered, should be carried out.
Could it be that such an array of judges, such wisdom, such
learning, such grave and reverend experience, should be opposed to
a miserable child, of no more self-accountability than a dog'
Appalling odds ! Could it be thought that the scene was a fright-
ful reality of daily, breathing life Was it not a grim farce—
a hideous, foolish mockery Could the wise hearts of men, fathers
of well-taught, well-tended, happy children, doom that child to
death That miserable item of human ignorance, that awful
reproach to those who made laws to protect property, but left the
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 85
outcast poor a heedless prey to their own unbridled instincts
Nevertheless, the law would hang St. Giles; and grave, respect-
able church-going men, in the very cosiness of their ignorance,
would clasp their hands, and raise their eyes, and pity and wonder
at the wickedness of the new generation
A turnkey in the dock took St. Giles by the hand, and in a
moment the boy had disappeared. “Good God | * cried a voice,
convulsed with grief. “Silence in the court ” exclaimed the
crier; and immediately another wretch took his place at the bar,
and the terrible course of law continued. It was Capstick, whose
exclamation had called down the official rebuke ; it was really
Capstick, although even the wife of his bosom might have paused
ere she acknowledged him ; so suddenly and frightfully had the
brief business of the trial wrought a change in him. His flesh
seemed jaundiced, and his black eyes, violently dilated, rolled
restlessly about. His face appeared of a sudden sharpened like
the face of a sick man; and his arm shook, palsied, as with his
nails he grasped the arm of Bright Jem.’ “Let us go,” said Jem,
chokingly, “we can do no good here ; ” and Capstick, staring
stupidly about him, suffered himself to be led from the court. In
a few moments they stood in the Old Bailey. It was a lovely
spring night. The breath of May, even in the Old Bailey, came
sweet and odorous, carrying freshness to the heart and brain.
The moon shone with brightest, purest lustre: all the stars of
heaven seemed visible ; all looking down in their bright tender-
ness, as though they looked upon a kindred sphere of purity and
light, and loved it. Capstick gazed at the magnificence, and the
tears thick and fast fell from him. Then in a subdued, a com-
forting voice, he said, “No, Jem, no ; it’s a wickedness to think
it ; there's a God in heaven, and they can’t do it.”
“Hadn't we better see Tangle, the lawyer ?” asked Jem.
“He hasn’t done much, to be sure ; still he may yet do some-
thing. I didn’t see him nowhere in the court—saw nobody but
his clerk.”
“Yes, we’ll see him—we’ll see him,” said Capstick. “Be 's
a scoundrel; but then he's fitter for the world. For the truth
is, Jem, we’re all scoundrels.” Jem made no answer to this
charitable creed. “All scoundrels: and I’m about the poorest,
meanest, shabbiest villain of the lot. And yet you’ll see how
I shall carry it off. They 'll hang this wretched boy—oh, never
doubt it, Jem they’re bad enough for anything—they’ll hang
him. And I shall still go on sleek and smooth in the world;
making muffins and laying by the pennies; paying rent and
taxes; owing no man a shilling, and so easily and pleasantly
earning a good name, and being mightily trumped up for doing it.
86 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEs.
I shall go on being called a respectable man ; and I shall grin
and smile at the lie, and show a satin cheek to the world, as if
the lie was true as gospel truth. And then I shall die and be
buried with feathers: and Mrs. Capstick will put a stone over me
—I know her pride, Jem ; I know she’ll do it—a stone with a
bouncing flam upon it; all lies—lies to the last. Oh, Jem,” cried
Capstick, groaningly, “if the devil ever takes churchyard walks,
how he must chuckle and rub his brimstone hands, when he reads
Some of the tombstones 1 Eh 7 How he must hold his sides at
the ‘loving husbands,” “affectionate fathers,’ ‘faithful friends,’ and
‘pious Christians,’ that he sees advertised there ! For he knows
better, Jem ; eh? He knows better,” cried the muffin-maker with
increasing bitterness.
“Well,” said Jem, “I can’t say; who can 7 But I should hope
the devil knows nothing at all about the matter. Howsomever,
be that as it may, he has nothing to do with the business that 's
brought us out to-night.” - -
“I wish he hadn’t, Jem,--I wish he hadn’t,” cried Capstick,
with stifled emotion. “But here, walking as we are, down this
blessed Fleet-street—oh, lord 1 doesn’t it seem strange after what
we've just left, to see the sight about us?—walking here, do you
think the devil isn’t pointing his finger at me, and saying with a
grin to one of his imps, ‘There goes the respectable muffin-maker
that's sold a boy's blood for ten pounds.’”
“How can you talk in that way ?” said Jem : “the devil's the
father of lies, and only keeps up his character if he says so.”
“Not a bit ; it's the devil that speaks truth of our lies; that
turns us inside out, and shames sanctified faces with the black
hearts that were under 'em. I say, I have sold the boy—put the
rope about his neck. And for what ? for ten pounds. What a
fine fellow I thought myself when I stirred in the matter | What
a lump of virtue—what a wonderful bit of public spirit I thought
I was, when, day after day, I neglected my muffins and the
partner of my hearthstone, to go thief-catching. And I believed
I was doing a fine thing—and so, you know I did, I crowed and
cackled about the ends of justice. All a sham—all a brave
flashy cloak to hide a rascal dirtiness. It was the thoughts of
the ten guineas, Jem, the ten guineas, that called all the poison
out of my heart, and has made me hang a wretched, untaught
beggar-boy. Yes, I'm a pretty respectable scoundrel—a fine
public-spirited miscreant, I am.”
Bright Jem, used to the muffin-maker's humour, made no
further answer to this self-reproach ; but again urged the neces-
sity of consulting Tangle. “It can’t be done to-night—but we’ll
at him the first thing to-morrow.” said Capstick.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. $7
“To-morrow's Sunday,” said Jem.
“What of that " " asked Capstick. “People come into the
world on Sundays, so it can’t be unlawful to help to save 'em from
going out of it—look there, Jem,” and Capstick pointed to a
carriage rolling rapidly past.
“That's the Marquess's—come from the trial. There's young
St. James in it; well, he's going to better comfort than a stone
cell. Howsomever, he’s a fine fellow—a kind, good heart is in
that little chap, I’m sure of it. How nicely he give his evidence,
didn't he And how kindly he seemed to look at St. Giles in the
dock; as much as to say, “Poor fellow, I wish I could get you out
o' that ' ' He'll make a true man, that boy will,” said Jem ; and
then he mournfully added, “and so would poor St. Giles, Ha! if
when Susan brought him home out o' the snow, if he and young
St. James had been made to change berths, eh? There 'd have
been a different account of both of 'em, I should think. And yet
you see how the poor's treated; just as if they come into the
world with wickedness upon 'em ; a kind of human natur vermin
—things born to do all sorts of mischief, and then to be hung up
for doing it.”
“We’ll go to Tangle to-morrow—early to-morrow,” said Cap-
stick; who, buried in his compunctious grief, had given no ear to
the reflections of Jem. “Good night; early to-morrow.” And
the muffin-maker suddenly broke from his companion, and strided
home—a miserable home to him, whose acute sensibility re-
proached him as unworthy of the household comforts about him.
He looked upon the part he had taken with intense remorse.
The would-be misanthrope loathed himself for what he deemed
his selfishness of heart—his cruelty towards wretchedness and
ignorance. Within a few steps of his door, he paused to call up
—with all the power he had—a look of serenity, of decent com-
posure. Somehow, he felt uneasy at the thoughts of meeting his
wife. At length he prepared himself, and, with a tolerably suc-
cessful face of tranquillity, crossed his threshold. He exchanged
but one look with his wife; it was enough : it was plain she knew
the fate of St. Giles. How should it be otherwise A score of
neighbours, customers, had thronged the shop with the mortal
intelligence; and some ventured to hope that Mr. Capstick
wouldn't sleep the worse for his day's work—others begged to ask
if the muffin-maker thought the hanging of a poor child would
bring a blessing on him—and some hinted an opinion that those
who were so sharp after evil-doers had commonly not the cleanest
consciences themselves. These interrogatives and inuendos had
to be severally answered and warded by the muffin-maker's wife,
who, to give her due credit, was not slow at any kind of reply,
88 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
and was truly a very respectable mistress “ of fence.” Never-
theless, the exercise would heat a temper never prone to coldness,
and in the present instance raised to boiling heat, by what she
deemed the malice of her neighbours. And yet, it would have
made Capstick's conjugal heart glad again, had he heard how
eloquently, how magnificently his acts were defended by his wife :
for Mrs. Capstick most volubly and vehemently begged to assure
her neighbours, “that there was not a man in the parish fit to
wipe her husband's shoes,”—“that he was only wrong in being
too honest,”—“that a better soul, or kinder-hearted creature,
never walked,”—and that, in short, in the depth of her charity,
she “only wished that those who spoke a word against him had
half such a husband: the neighbourhood would be all the quieter
for it, that 's what she knew, if they had.” All this did honour
to Mrs. Capstick, and would doubtless have solaced the wounded
bosom of her lord, could he only have known it; but Mrs. Cap-
stick had too much humility to vaunt her own virtues, therefore
she breathed no word of the matter to her well-defended husband.
Not that, the shop being closed, and the wedded couple seated at
the fireside, Mrs. Capstick was silent ; certainly not ; for, whilst
the muffin-maker tried to solace himself with a pipe, his wife thus
declared herself:-
“Well, Mr. Capstick, now I hope you’re satisfied ? I hope
you've made a nice day's work of it ! A pretty name you’ve
got in the parish There’ll be no living here—I’ll not live here,
I can tell you. All the world will point at you, and say, ‘There
goes the man that hanged that wretched little child ’”
Capstick suddenly took the pipe from his mouth, and stared at
his wife. It was strange : he had himself said something of the
kind to Bright Jem. He then renewed his smoking, speaking
no syllable in answer to his spouse ; and yet eloquently replying
to her philippics by pooh-poohing the smoke from him, now in
short, hasty, irascible puffs, and now in a heavy volume of
vapour. There was a majesty in his manner that seemed to
quietly defy the assaults of his better moiety. There seemed, too,
to be no getting at him for the clouds in which he industriously
involved himself.
“And I should like to know what your satisfaction will be for
what you ’ve done ! Why, you'll never have another happy
moment ; you can’t have That poor child will always be before
your eyes. And, then, what a beautiful business you’ll lose ; for
nobody will deal with you. Ha nice airs the Gibbses will give
themselves, now.” (The Gibbses, be it known, were new-come
muffin-makers, struggling in hopeless rivalry with the muffins of
Capstick.) “Everybody will go to them : I’m sure I don’t think
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 89
'twill be any use our opening the shop on Monday. And all about
ten guineas Ha, they’ll be a dear ten guineas to you—better
have lost 'em ten times over. And so young a child—only four-
teen To hang him I Don’t you think, Mr. Capstick, his ghost
will follow you ?”
Capstick made no answer; but his eye, turned Ominously upon
his wife, began to glow like a coal, and he puffed at the smoke
like a man labouring with himself. Beautiful philosophy | Full
soon the muffin-maker's eye shone with its old tranquil light,
and again he smoked calmly—desperately calmly. Still Mrs.
Capstick continued the punishment of her tongue; but Capstick
had conquered himself, and still replied not. At length in the
very heat and fullest pitch of her complaint, Capstick rose, and
softly laying down his pipe, said, “Mary Anne, I’m going to
bed.” Poor Capstick | He came home with his heart bleeding ;
and a little tenderness, a little conjugal sympathy, would have
been a value to him ; but—as people say of greater matters—it
was not to be.
Capstick rose early ; and, speedily joined by Bright Jem, both
took their way to Mr. Tangle's private mansion, Red Lion Square.
It was scarcely nine o'clock, when the muffin-maker knocked at
the lawyer's door. It was quite impossible that Mr. Tangle should
be seen. “But the business,” cried Capstick to the man-servant
—a hybrid between a groom and a footman—“the business is
upon life and death.”
“Bless you,” said the man, “that makes no difference what-
ever. We deal so much in life and death, that we think nothing
of it. It's like plums to a grocer, you know. Mr. Tangle never
can be seen of a Sunday before half-past ten ; a quarter to eleven
he goes, of course, to church. The Sabbath, he always says,
should be a day of rest.” And Tangle—it was his only self-
indulgence—illustrated this principle by lying late in bed every
Sunday morning to read his papers. Nevertheless, with smoothly
shaven face, and with an all-unworldly look, he was, ere the
church-bell ceased, enshrined in the family pew. There was he,
with his wife, decorously garnished with half-a-dozen children,
sons and daughters, patterns of Sabbath piety ; of seventh-day
Christianity. “After six days’ hard work, what a comfort it
was,” he would say, “to enjoy church of a Sunday !” And
Tangle, after his fashion, did enjoy it : he enjoyed the respect-
ability which church-going threw about him ; he enjoyed his
worldly ease and superiority, as manifested in his own cosily-
furnished pew. Looking upon the pauper worshippers on the
benches, and then contemplating the comforts of his own nook,
he felt very proud of his Christianity. And in this way did Mr.
90 ST. GII,ES AND ST. JAMES.
Tangle attend church. It was a decent form due to society, and
especially to himself. He went to church as he went to his office
—as a matter of business; though he would have been mightily
shocked had such a motive been attributed to him.
“I’ll come at half-past ten,” said Capstick, “for I must see
him.” The servant looked stolidly at the muffin-maker, and,
without a word, closed the door. “He can then tell us,” said
Capstick to Jem, “when he can see us in the afternoon. And
now, Jem, we can only stroll about till the time comes.” And so
they walked on silently; for both felt oppressed with the belief
that their errand to the lawyer would be fruitless; yet both were
determined to try every means, however hopeless. They walked
and sauntered, and the church-bells rang out, summoning Chris-
tian congregations to common worship. “There's something
beautiful in the church-bells, don't you think so, Jem 7” asked
Capstick, in a subdued tone. “Beautiful and hopeful;-they
talk to high and low, rich and poor in the same voice ; there's a
sound in 'em that should scare pride, and envy, and meanness of
all sorts from the heart of man ; that should make him look
upon the world with kind, forgiving eyes; that should make the
earth itself seem to him, at least for a time, a holy place. Yes,
Jem ; there's a whole sermon in the very sound of the church-
bells, if we have only the ears to rightly understand it. There's
a preacher in every belfry, Jem, that cries, “Poor, weary, strug-
gling, fighting creatures—poor human things take rest, be quiet.
| Forget your vanities, your follies; your week-day craft, your
heart-burnings And you, ye human vessels, gilt and painted ;
believe the iron tongue that tells ye, that, for all your gilding, all
your colours, ye are of the same Adam’s earth with the beggar at
your gates. Come away, come, cries the church-bell, and learn
to be humble; learning that, however daubed and stained, and
stuck about with jewels, you are but grave clay ! Come, Dives,
come ; and be taught that all your glory, as you wear it, is not
half so beautiful in the eye of Heaven as the sores of uncomplain.
ing Lazarus! And ye poor creatures, livid and faint—stinted
and crushed by the pride and hardness of the world,—come,
come, cries the bell, with the voice of an angel, come and learn
what is laid up for ye. And learning, take heart, and walk among
the wickednesses, the cruelties of the world, calmly as Daniel
Walked among the lions.’” Here Capstick, flushed and excited,
Wrought beyond himself, suddenly paused. Jem stared, astonished,
but said no word. And then, Capstick, with calmer manner,
said, “Jem, is there a finer sight than a stream of human creatures
passing from a Christian church 1”
“Why,” said Jem, “that's as a man may consider with him-
'-º'----------> -- ....
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 91
self. It may be, as you say, a very fine sight—and it may be,
what I call a very sad and melancholy show, indeed.”
“Sad and melancholy!” cried Capstick; “you’ll have a hard
task to prove that.”
“Perhaps so, only let me do it after my own fashion.” Cap-
stick nodded assent. “Bless you ! I’ve thought of it many a time
When I’ve seen a church emptying itself into the street. Look
here, now. I’ll suppose there's a crowd of people—a whole mob of
'em going down the church-steps. And at the church-door, there
is I don't know how many roods of Christian carriages, with
griffins painted on the panels, and swords, and daggers, and battle-
axes, that, as well as I can remember, Jesus doesn't recommend
nowhere: and there's the coachmen, half-asleep, and trying to look
religious; and there’s footmen following some and carrying the
Holy Bible after their misusses, just as to-morrow they’ll carry a
Spanel,-and that’s what they call their humility. Well, that's
a pleasant sight, isn't it? And then for them who're not ashamed
to carry their own big prayer-books, with the gold leaves twinkling
in the sun, as if they took pains to tell the world they’d been to
church,-well, how many of them have been there in earnest ?
How many of them go there with no thought whatsoever, only
that it's Sunday, church-going day ? And so they put on what
they think religion that day, just as I put on a clean shirt. Bless
You ! sometimes I’ve stood and watched the crowd, and I’ve said
to myself, ‘Well, T should like to know how many of you will
remember you're Christians till next week How many of you
go to-morrow morning to your offices, and counting-houses, and
stand behind your counters, and, all in the way of business, all
to Scramble up the coin—forget you’re miserable sinners, while
every other thing you do may make you more miserable, only
you never feel it, so long as it makes you more rich! And so
there's a Sunday conscience like a Sunday coat; and folks who’d
get on in the world, put the coat and the conscience carefully by,
and only wear'em once a week. Well, to think how many such folks
go to worship, why, then I must say it, Master Capstick, to stand
inside a church and watch a congregation coming out, however
you may stare, may be—I can’t help, after my fashion, thinking
so—a melancholy sight indeed. Lord love you, when we see what
some people do all the week, -people who're staunch at church,
remember—I can’t help thinking, there's a good many poor souls
who're only Christians at morning and arternoon service.”
Capstick looked earnestly at Jem and said, “My dear fellow,
it's all very well between you and me to say this; but don’t say
it to the world; don’t, Jem, if you wouldn't be hunted, harried,
stoned to death, like a mad dog. Folks won't be turned inside
*-- ----------— *-*-
92 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
out after this fashion, without revenging the treatment with all
sorts of bad names. Very pure folks won’t be held up to the
light and shown to be very dirty bottles, without paying back
hard abuse for the impertinence. Jem, whatever coat a man may
wear, never see a hole in it. Though it may be full of lules as a
net, never see 'em ; but take your hat off to the coat, as if it was
the best bit of broad-cloth in the world, without a flaw or a thread
dropt, and with the finest bits of gold lace upon it. In this world,
Jem, woe to the man with an eye for holes | He’s a beast, a
wretch, an evil-speaker, an uncharitable thinker, a pest to be put
down. And Jem, when the respectable hypocrites make common
cause with one another, the Lord help the poor devil they give
chase to 1 °
“I always speak my mind,” said Jem.
“It’s an extravagance that has ruined many a man,” said the
muffin-maker. “But enough of this, Jem ; it’s just the time to
catch Tangle before he goes out.” A few moments brought them
to the lawyer's door. Ere, however, the muffin-maker could touch
the knocker, the door opened, and Mr. Tangle, his wife, his two
sons and two daughters presented themselves, all, the females
especially, being dressed for church. Yes; dressed for church ;
carefully, elaborately arrayed and ornamented, to sustain the
severest criticism that, during the hours of devotion, might be
passed upon them by sister sinners.
“Mr. Tangle,” said Capstick, “I won’t keep you a minute : but
when can I call on 22
“Nothing secular to-day, sir,” said Tangle, and he waved both
his hands.
“But, Mr. Tangle, there's life and death, sir,”—cried Capstick,
but Tangle interrupted him.
“What’s life and death, sir? What are they, sir, that we
should do anything secular to-day ?”
“But, Mr. Tangle, it’s the fate of that poor wretched boy; and
there isn’t a minute to lose,” urged the muffin-maker.
“I shall be very glad to see you in the way of business, to-
morrow,” replied Tangle, labouring to appear very placid; “but
I beg of you, my good man, not to disturb the current of my
thoughts—of my Sabbath feelings—with anything secular to-day.
To me the world is dead on Sundays.”
“But won’t you do good on Sundays?” cried Capstick—“Your
religion doesn’t forbid that, I suppose ""
“My good man, let me have none of your free-thinking ribaldry
here. This is my door-step, and don’t defile my threshold with
your profanity. I have given you my answer. Nothing secular
to-day.” Saying this with increased vehemence, Mr. Tangle was
ST. GII,ES AND ST. JAMES. 93
bustling from the door after his family—who, looking wondering
looks at Capstick and Jem, had walked statelily on, when a
carriage rapidly turned the square, and in a moment stopped at
Tangle's door. Instantly, Mr. Tangle brought himself up ; and
cast, certainly, a look of secular curiosity towards the carriage-
windows. In an instant, young Lord St. James alighted, and was
followed by his tutor—worn somewhat since we last met him—
Mr. Folder. Mr. Tangle immediately recognised the young noble-
man, and although it was Sunday, advanced towards him with
pains-taking respect. “Your wife told us you were come here,
Mr. Capstick,” said his lordship to the muffin-maker.
“Pray, sir, can we consult you upon a business that is some-
what urgent 7" said Folder to the attorney.
“Certainly, sir; anything for his lordship. Excuse me one
moment ; ” and Tangle, with unwonted agility, skipped after his
wife and family. They must go to church without him. A lord,
a young lord, had called upon him—that sweet young gentleman
in the sky-blue coat and lace-collar—and, the business was immi-
ment. He, the husband and father, would join them as soon as
he could. With many backward, admiring looks at the lovely
little nobleman, did Mr. Tangle's family proceed on their way to
church, whilst Tangle—the groaning victim to secular affairs—
ushered young St. James and Mr. Folder into his mansion. “We
can do nothing without you,” said St. James to Capstick and
Bright Jem ; who thereupon gladly followed, the attorney mar-
velling at the familiarity of the boy nobleman.
“What can I have the honour to do for his lordship 7 ° asked
Mr. Tangle, with a smile dirt cheap at six and eight-pence.
“We should not have troubled you to-day,” said St. James,
“only you see 22
“Don’t name it, my dear young lord l’exclaimed Tangle.
“Only,” chimed in Mr. Folder, “they talk about hanging on
Wednesday.”
“Very true,” said Tangle; “I believe the affair comes off on
Wednesday. A great pity, sir! Quite a child, sir; and with
good parts—very good parts. Nevertheless, sir, the crime of
horse-stealing increases hourly; and without some example is
made, some strong example is made 23
“Why, they hanged four for horse-stealing last sessions,” said
Capstick. -
Tangle looked round with astonishment at the interruption, and
then observed—“That only proves they don’t hang enough.”
“My opinion, Mr. Tangle ; quite my opinion. We want
stronger laws, sir; much stronger. If we were to hang for
everything, there’d be an end of crime altogether. It’s because
94 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
we only punish by halves—now hanging one, and now another—
that we have such a continual growth of vice. We ought to pull
up crime by the roots; now our present pruning system makes
it flourish the stronger. However, his young lordship doesn’t
think so. He has all the generosity of youth, and insists that
St. Giles shall not be hanged.” -
“God bless him 1" cried Capstick.
“Amen l’” said Bright Jem.
“I must request that we have no interruption,” said Tangle,
jooking loftily at the two offenders. “Perhaps, sir,” and the
lawyer turned to Folder, “perhaps, you will state your case.”
“Just a word in private,” said Folder; and Tangle immediately
led him into a small adjoining room, and closed the door. “You
see, Mr. Tangle,” said Folder, “I consider this to be a very
foolish, weak business; but the young gentleman is a spoilt
child, and spoilt children will have their way. In one word, his
lordship must be humoured, and therefore St. Giles—though it
would be much better for him to be put at once quietly out of
further mischief—must not be hanged. The Marquess has his own
notions on the matter; proper notions, too, they are, Mr. Tangle ;
notions that do honour to him as a legislator, and would, I verily
believe, let the law take its course. But, poor man what can
he do . "
“Do what he likes, can’t he 3’ asked Tangle.
“By no means. You see, it is with the boy as it was with the
boy Themistocles,” said Mr. Folder.
“Really 7° observed Tangle.
“One of Plutarch's own parallels. The boy rules the Mar-
chioness, and the Marchioness rules 22
“I understand,” said Tangle : “rules the Marquess. It will
happen so.”
“And therefore, the sum and end of it all is, the horse-stealer
must be saved. Bless you ! his young lordship has threatened to
fall sick and die, if St. Giles is hanged ; and has so frightened his
poor mother, who again has made the Marquess so anxious, that—
the fact is, we’ve come to you.”
“It’s a great pity that I didn’t know all this before. The
case, my dear sir, was a nothing—a very trumpery case, indeed ;
but then, to a man of my extensive practice, it was really not
worth attending to. Otherwise, and to have obliged the Mar-
quess, I could have made sure of an alibi. It's a great pity that
so noble a family should be so troubled, and by such riff-raff!”
said Tangle.
“It is, sir; it is,” said Folder—“you can feel for us. Now,
there’s no doubt that, in so trifling a matter, the Marquess has
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 95
more than sufficient interest to save a thief or two ; nevertheless,
I have suggested that a petition should be got up by the boy's
friends—if the wicked creature has any friends—and that so the
Marquess—you understand '''
“Perfectly,” replied Tangle: what would he not understand in
such a case ? “There is nothing more easy than a petition.
How many signatures would you like to it ! Any number—though
fifty will be as good as five hundred.” -
“Do you think the jury would sign º’’ asked Mr. Folder. “Not
that it's of any consequence; only for the look of the thing.”
“The foreman, I know, would not,” said Tangle. “Eſe lost a
colt himself three years ago, and isn't yet settled to the injury.
Nevertheless, we can get up a very tidy sort of petition; and with
the Marquess's interest—well ! that young St. Giles is a lucky
little scoundrel ! he 'll make his fortune at Botany Bay.”
“And now, Mr. Tangle, that we understand one another, we’ll
join, if you please, his lordship—Well, my lord,” said Folder,
returning, “I have talked the matter over with Mr. Tangle, and,
though he gives very little hope—”
“There’s all the hope in the world,” said Capstick, “for his
lordship says he’ll take the petition himself to the Minister, who's
his father's friend, and, if I may advise the Marchioness, his
mother 25
“My good man,” observed Mr. Folder, “we in no way need
your advice in the matter. Hold your tongue.”
“Shouldn’t mind at all obliging you, sir, in any other way,”
said the unruffled Capstick; “but, as his young lordship here, as
he tells me, has been to my shop and all to see me about the
matter, I think my tongue’s quite at his service.”
“To be sure it is, Capstick,” said young St. James, “go on.
Mr. Folder says they’d better hang St. Giles; and papa says so
too; but they sha’n’t do it for all that. Why, I should never
have the heart to mount a horse again.”
“A noble little chap !” whispered Bright Jem to Capstick.
“And so, as I told you, Capstick, I went to your house, as you
know all about the boy, and the boy's friend, to see about a petition;
for that’s the way, they tell me 22
“Give yourself no further trouble,” said Tangle, “the petition
shall be prepared, my lord. I’ll do it myself, this very day,
though the affair is secular. Nevertheless, to oblige your lord-
ship 22 -
“Your ‘re a good fellow,” said young St. James, patronising
the lawyer; and, all preliminaries being settled, the conference
concluded.
96 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
CHAPTER X.
AND young St. Giles lay in Newgate, sinking, withering under
sentence of death. After a time, he never cried, or clamoured;
he shed no tear, breathed no syllable of despair; but, stunned,
stupified, seemed as if idiotcy was growing on him. The ordinary
—a good, zealous man—endeavoured, by soothing, hopeful words,
to lead the prisoner, as the jail phrase has it, to a sense of his
condition. Never had St. Giles received such teaching ! Con-
demned to die, he for the first time heard of the abounding love
of Christianity—of the goodness and affection due from man to
man. The story seemed odd to him ; strange, very strange; yet
he supposed it was all true. Nevertheless—he could not dismiss
the thought, it puzzled him. Why had he never been taught all
this before ? And why should he be punished, hanged for doing
wrong; when the good, rich, fine people, who all of them loved
their neighbours like themselves, had never taught him what was
right 2 Was it possible that Christianity was such a beautiful
thing—and being so, was it possible that good, earnest, kind-
hearted Christians would kill him ;
St. Gilcs had scarcely eight-and-forty hours to live. It was
almost Monday noon, when the ordinary—having attended the
other prisoners—entered the cell of the boy thief. He had been
separated, by the desire of the minister, from his miserable com-
panions, that their evil example of hardihood—their reckless
bravado—might not wholly destroy the hope of growing truth
within him. A turnkey attended St. Giles, reading to him. And
now the boy would raise his sullen eyes upon the man, as he
read of promises of grace and happiness eternal: and now his
heart would heave as though he was struggling with an agony
that seemed to suffocate him—and now a scornful, unbelieving
smile would play about his mouth—and he would laugh with
defying bitterness. And then he would leer in the face of the
reader, as though he read some fairy tale, some pretty story,
to amuse and gull him. Poor wretch! Let the men who guide
the world—the large-brained politicians, who tinker the social
scheme, making themselves the masters and guardians of their
fellow-mem—let them look into this Newgate dungeon ; let them
contemplate this blighted human bud; this child felon, never
taught the path of right, and now to be hanged for his most
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 97
sinful ignorance. What a wretched, sullen outcast ! What a
darkened, loathsome thing ! And now comes the clergyman—
the state divine, be it remembered—to tell him that he is treasured
with an immortal soul; that—with mercy shed upon him—he
will in a few hours be a creature of glory before the throne of
God Oh, politicians ! Oh, rulers of the world ! Oh, law-
making masters and taskers of the common million, may not this
cast-off wretch, this human nuisance, be your accuser at the bar
of Heaven? Egregious folly! Impossible ! What—stars and
garters impeached by rags and tatters St. James denounced by
St. Giles Impudent and ridiculous ! Yet here, we say, comes
the reverend priest—the Christian preacher, with healing, honied
words, whose Book—your Book—with angelic utterance, says no
less. Let us hear the clergyman and his forlorn pupil.
“Well, my poor boy,” said the ordinary, with an affectionate
voice and moistening eyes: “well, my child, and how is it with
you ? Come, you are better; you look better; you have been
listening to what your good friend Robert here has been reading
to you. And we are all your friends, here. At least, we all want
to be. Don’t you think so 2°
St. Giles slowly lifted his eyes towards the speaker. He then
sullenly answered, “No, I don't.”
“But you ought to try to think so, my boy; it's wicked not to
try,” said the ordinary, very tenderly.
“If you’re all my friends, why do you keep me here 7" said
St. Giles. “Friends ! I never had no friends.”
“You must not say that ; indeed, you must not. All our care
is to make you quiet and happy in this world, that you may be
happier in the world you’re going to. You understand me,
St. Giles' My poor dear boy, you understand me? The world
you’re going to ?” The speaker, inured as he was to scenes of
blasphemy, of brute indifference, and remorseful agony, was
deeply touched by the forlorn condition of the boy; who could
not, would not, understand a tenderness, the end of which was to
Surrender him softened to the hangman. “You have thought,
my dear—I say, you have thought of the world”—and the minister
paused—“the world you are going to ?”
“What's the use of thinking about it !” asked St. Giles.
“I knows nothing of it.”
“That, my boy, is because you are obstinate, and I am sorry to
say it, wicked, and so won’t try to know about it. Otherwise, if
you would give all your heart and soul to prayer, 92
“I tel. You, sir, I never was learnt to pray,” cried St. Giles,
moodily; and what’s the use of praying '"
“You would find it open your heart, St. Giles; and though
IH
98 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
you see nothing now, if you were only to pray long and truly, you
would find the darkness go away from your eyes, and you’d see
such bright and beautiful things about you, and you’d feel as light
and happy as if you had wings at your back ; you would, indeed.
Then you’d feel that all we are doing for you is for the best ;
then, my poor boy,” said the Ordinary with growing fervour,
“then you’d feel what Christian love is.”
“Robert’s been reading to me about that,” said St. Giles, “but
I can’t make it out no-how. He says that Christian love means
that we shouldn’t do to nobody what we wouldn’t like nobody to
do to ourselves.”
“A good boy,” said the ordinary, “that is the meaning, though
not the words. I’m glad you’ve so improved.”
“And for all that, you tell me that I must think o' dying—
think of another world and all that—think of going to Tyburn,
and, and’”—here the boy fell hoarse; his face turned ash-colour,
and reeling, he was about to fall, when the ordinary caught him
in his arms, and again placed him on a seat. “It’s nothin’—
nothin’ at all,” cried St. Giles, struggling with himself—“I’m all
right; I’m game.”
“Don’t say that, child; I can’t hear you say that: I would
rather see you in tears and pain than trying to be game, as you
call it. That, my boy, is only adding crime to wickedness. Come,
we were talking of Christian love,” said the ordinary.
“I know nothin’ about it,” said St. Giles; “all I know is this,
—it isn’t true ; it can’t be true.”
“Tell me; why not Come, let me hear all you’d say,” urged
the clergyman tenderly. -
“’Cause if it means that nobody should do to nobody what
nobody would like to have done to themselves, why does anybody
keep me locked up here 7 Why did the judge say I was to be—
you know, Mister l’”
“That was for doing wrong, my boy: that was for your first
want of Christian love. You were no Christian when you stole
the horse,” said the ordinary. “Eſad the horse been yours, you
would have felt wronged and injured had it been stolen from you?
You see that, eh, my boy 7°
“Didn’t think o’ that,” said St. Giles gloomily—“But I didn't
steal it : ’twas all along o' Tom Blast ; and now he's got off;
and I’m here in the Jug. You don’t call that justice, no-how, do
you ? But I don't care; they may do what they like with me;
I’ll be game.”
“No, my dear boy, you must know better: you must, indeed—
you must give all your thoughts to prayer, and—”
“It’s of no use, Mister; I tell you I never was learnt to pray,

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 99
and I don't know how to go about it. More than that, I feel.
somehow ashamed to do it. And besides, for all your talk,
Mister, and you talk very kind to me, I must say, I can’t feel
like a Christian, as you call it ; for I can’t see why Christians
should want to hang me if Christians are such good people as you
talk about.”
“But then, my poor boy,” said the ordinary, “though young,
you must remember, you’re an old sinner. You’ve done much
wickedness.”
“I never done nothing but what I was taught ; and if you say
—and Bob there’s been reading it to me—that the true Christian
forgives every body—well then, in course, the judge and all the
nobs are no Christians, else wouldn’t they forgive me? Wouldn't
they like it so, to teach me better, and not to kill me? But I
don’t mind; I’ll be game; see if I don't be game—precious !”
The ordinary, with a perplexed look, sighed deeply. The Sad
condition of the boy, the horrid death awaiting him, the natural
shrewdness with which he combated the arguments employed for
his conversion, affected the worthy clergyman beyond all past
experience. “Miserable little wretch ' " he thought, “it will be
worst of murders, if he dies thus.” And then, again, he essayed
to soften the child felon, who seemed determined to stand at issue
with his spiritual counsellor; to recede no step, but to the gallows
foot to defy him. It would be his ambition, his glory—if he
must die—to die game. He had heard the praises bestowed
upon such a death—had known the contemptuous jeering flung
upon the repentant craven—and he would be the theme of eulogy
in Hog Lane—he would not be laughed, sneered at for “dying
dunghill.” And this temper so grew and strengthened in St.
Giles, that, at length, the ordinary, wearied and hopeless, left
his forlorn charge, promising soon to return, and hoping, in his
own words, to find the prisoner “a kinder, better, and more
Christian boy.”
“It’s no use your reading that stuff to me,” said St. Giles, as
the turnkey was about to resume his book; “I don't understand
nothin’ of it; and it's too late to learn. But I say, can’t you tell
us somethin’ of Turpin and Jack Sheppard, eh, – something
prime, to give us pluck 2 °
“Come, come,” answered the man, “it’s no use going on in this
way. You must be quiet and listen to me ; it’s all for your good,
I tell you : all for your good.” -
“My good Well, that’s pretty gammon, that is. I should like
to know what can be for my good if I’m to be hanged? Ha! haſ
See if I don't kick my shoes off, that 's all.” And St. Giles
would not listen ; but sat on the stool, swinging his legs back-
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100 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
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...wards and forwards, and singing one of the melodies known in Hog
Lane—poor wretch it had been a cradle melody to him,
whilst the turnkey vainly endeavoured to soothe and interest him.
At length the man discontinued his hopeless task ; and, in sheer
listlessness, leaning his back against the wall, fell asleep. And now
St. Giles was left alone. And now, relieved of importunity, did
he forego the bravado that had supported him, and solemnly think
of his approaching end ? Did he, with none other but the eye of
God in that stone cell upon him, did he shrink and wither beneath
the look ; and, on bended knees, with opened heart, and flowing,
repentant tears, did he pray for Heaven's compassion—God’s
sweet mercy No. Yet thoughts, deep, anxious thoughts were
brooding in his heart. His face grew older with the meditation
that shadowed it. All his being seemed compressed, intensified
in one idea. Gloomily, yet with whetted eyes, he looked around
his cell ; and still darker and darker grew his face. Could he
break prison 7 Such was the question—the foolish, idle, yet flat-
tering question that his soul put to itself. All his recollections of
the glory of Turpin and Sheppard crowded upon him—and what
greater glory would it be for him if he could escape He, a boy
to do this He to be sung in ballads—to be talked of, huzzaed,
and held up for high example, long after he should be dead—
passed for ever from the world ! The proud thought glowed within
him, made his heart heave, and his eyes sparkle. And then he
looked about his cell, and the utter hopelessness of the thought
fell upon him, withering his heart. Yet again and again, although
to be crushed with new despair, he gazed about him, dreaming
of liberty without that wall of flint. And thus his waking hours
passed ; and thus, in the visions of the night, his spirit busied
itself in hopeful vanity.
The Tuesday morning came, and again the clergyman visited
the prisoner. The boy looked paler, thinner—no more. There
was no softness in his eyes, no appealing glance of hope; but a
fixed and stubborn look of inquiry. “He didn’t know nothing of
what the parson had to say, and he didn’t want to be bothered.
It was all gammon | * These were the words of the boy felon,
then—such was the humanity of the law; poor law what a long
nonage of discretion has it passed —then within a day's span of
the grave.
As the hour of death approached, the clergyman became more
assiduous, fervent, nay passionate in his appeals to the prisoner;
who still strengthened himself in opposition to his pastor. “My
dear boy, my poor child—miserable, helpless creature —the
grave is open before you—the sky is opening above you !—Die
without repentance, and you will pass into the grave, and never
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ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 101
—never know immortal blessings Your soul will perish—perish
as I have told you—in fire, in fire eternal ’’
St. Giles swayed his head to and fro, and with a sneer asked,
“What's the good o' all this? Haven't you told me so, Mister,
agin and agin' "
The Ordinary groaned almost in despair, yet still renewed his
task. “The heavens, I tell you, are opening for you ; repent, my
child ; repent, poor boy, and you will be an immortal spirit, wel-
comed by millions of angels.”
St. Giles looked with bitter incredulity at his spiritual teacher.
“Well, if all that’s true,” he said, “it isn’t so hard to be hanged,
arter all, But I don’t think the nobs love me so well, as to send
me to sich a place as that.”
“Nay, my poor boy,” said the ordinary, “you will not, cannot,
understand me, until you pray. Now, kneel, my dear child,
kneel, and let us pray together.” Saying this, the ordinary fell
upon his knees; but St. Giles, folding his arms, so planted him-
self as to take firmer root of the ground ; and so he stood with
moody, determined looks, whilst the clergyman poured forth a
passionate prayer that the heart of the young sinner might
be softened; that it might be turned from stome into flesh, and
become a grateful sacrifice to the throne of God. And whilst
this prayer, in deep and solemn tones, rose from the prison-cell,
he for whom the prayer was formed, seemed to grow harder,
more obdurate, with every syllable. Still, he refused to bend his
knee at the supplication of the clergyman, but stood eyeing him
with a mingled look of incredulity, defiance, and contempt.
“God help you, poor lost lamb l’’ cried the ordinary, as he
I’OSé,
“Now, I hope we shall have no more o’ that,” was the only
answer of St. Giles.
The ordinary was about to quit the cell, when the door was
opened, and the governor of the jail, attended by the head turn-
key, entered. “My dear sir, I am glad to find you here,”—
said the governor to the ordinary. “I have a pleasing duty to
perform; a duty that I know it will delight you to witness.” The
Ordinary glanced at a paper held by the governor; his eyes
brightened ; and clasping his hands, he fervently uttered—-
“Thank God ”
The governor then turned to St. Giles, who suddenly looked
anxious and restless. “Prisoner,” he said, “it is my happiness
to inform you, that his gracious Majesty has been mercifully
pleased to spare your life. You will not suffer with the unfortunate
men to-morrow. You understand me, boy”—for St. Giles looked
suddenly stupified—“you understand me, that the good king,
102 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
whom you should ever pray for, has, in the hope that you will turn
from the wickedness of your ways, determined to spare your life?
You will be sent out of the country; and time given you that, if
you properly use it, will make you a good and honest man.”
St. Giles made no answer, but trembled violently from head to
foot. Then his face flushed red as flame, and covering it with his
hands, he fell upon his knees; and the tears ran streaming
through his fingers. “Pray with me; pray for me !” he cried, in
broken voice, to the Ordinary.
And the ordinary knelt, and rendered up “humble and hearty
thanks” for the mercy of the king.
We will not linger in the prison—St. Giles was destined for
Botany Bay. Mr. Capstick was delighted, in his own way, that
the ends of justice would be satisfied; and whilst he rejoiced with
the triumph of justice, he did not forget the evil-doer; for St.
Giles received a packet from the muffin-maker, containing Sundry
little comforts for his voyage.
“We shall never see him again, Jem,” said Mrs. Aniseed, as
she left Newgate weeping; having taken her farewell of the young
transport. “He’s gone for ever from us.”
“Not he,” said Bright Jem ; “we shall see him again another
feller quite—a true man, yet ; I’m sure of it.”
CHAPTER XI.
SOME nine years had passed since young St. Giles—the fortu-
nate object of royal mercy—was sent from England a doomed
slave for life. For life Hope, so far as man can kill it in the
heart of his fellow, was dead to the convict. He had sinned
against the law, and its offended majesty—for such was and is
the phrase—denied to the offender the reward of better conduct.
Man, in the loftiness of his own pure thoughts, in the besetting
consciousness of his own immaculate worth, deems his criminal
brother incapable of future good, and therefore considers only the
best security of the machine ; how the bones and muscles, the
brute strength of the engine may be withheld from further mis-
chief. It matters little to the guardian of the laws, to the maker
of statutes for the protection of property, what aggravated demon,
what pining, penitent spirit, yearning for better thoughts, may
dwell within the felon, so that the chain at his leg be of sufficient
Weight and hindrance. How very recent is it, that many of the
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. - i03
good people of this world did not consider a part of their very
goodness to be in their belief of the incorrigibility of the felon |
It was to make too familiar an approach to their respectability to
suggest the probability of amendment in the doomed thief. It
was, in a manner, to hold cheap their honesty, to suppose the
virtue attainable by the once wicked. Human arrogance is,
assuredly, never so pitiable as when, in the Smug belief of its own
election, it looks upon its fellow in this world as irrevocably lost.
But then, there is a sort of virtue that, not particularly shining
in itself, has need of vice to throw it out ; just as the lights of
Rembrandt owe their lustre to the shadows about them. Con-
sidered after this hard fashion—and full well we know the sort
of worthy people who will shake their heads at our miserable
bitterness—yes, bitterness is the word—there is a kind of respect-
able man, who, although he may disallow the obligation, is some-
what indebted for his respectability to the proved rascal. The
convicted knave is the dark tint to his little speck of yellow white:
he is lustrous only by contrast. And after this short, uncharitable
essay on black and white, we resume our history; leaving for the
present the events of nine years unregistered—nine years from
the time that young St. Giles quitted Newgate for the genial
clime of Botany Bay.
It was a beautiful spring evening—“last of the spring, yet
fresh with all its green.” The peace of heaven seemed upon the
earth. An hour and scene when the heart is softened and subdued
by the spirit of beauty ; when the whole visible world seems to us
an appointed abiding-place for truth and gentleness; and it is
with hard reluctance we believe that tyranny, and woe, and
wickedness exist within it. One of the happy hours that, sweet
in the present, are yet more delicious in the past ; treasured as
they are, as somewhat akin to the hours of the world's youth,
when the earth was trod by angels.
The broad, fat fields of Kent lay Smiling in the sun ; the trim
hedges, clothed in tender green ; the budding oaks, the guardian
giants of the soil; the wayside cottage, with garden-strip brimming
with flowers; all things wore a look of peace and promise. A
young gentleman, soberly habited, and well mounted, rode leisurely
along ; but, however beautiful the scene around him, it was plain,
from the brooding, melancholy expression of his features, that he
had no sympathy with the quietude and sweetness of external
nature; but was self-concentrated, buried in deep thought. The
Joosened rein lay on his horse's neck, and the rider, apparently
unconscious of all around him, was borne listlessly along, until the
road opened into a patch of moor-land, when a second horseman,
at a sharp trot, overtook the idle rider.
104 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“A fine night, sir, for a lazy man,” said the stranger, in a loud
and somewhat familiar tone.
“And why,” answered the young gentleman, in a peculiarly
soft and gentle voice, “why, sir, for a lazy man 7 °
“Oh ! I mean there 's a sort of dreaminess in the air—a kind
of sleepiness, if I may say it, about the night, that, to folks who
love to creep about the world with folded arms and half-shut eyes,
is the very time for 'em. You know, sir, there are such people,”
said the man, with a laugh.
“Possibly,” replied the younger horseman ; who then, with a
reserved and dignified motion, urged his steed, as though desirous
to quit himself of his new companion. The stranger, however,
was not a man to be bowed or looked away. Affecting not to
perceive the intention of the youth, he mended his pace, and,
quite at his ease, resumed the conversation.
“You are well mounted, sir,” he said, casting a learned look
at his companion's horse. “Strong, yet lightly built : I doubt
not on pressing service, now, she'd carry double—I mean,”
added the stranger, with an odd, familiar glance, “I mean with
a pillion.”
“I can’t say,” was the calm, cold answer ; but the stranger
ſeeded not the rebuff.
“Oh, yes | * he cried; “I would I might have the richest
heiress for the carrying her on such horse-flesh : did she weigh
twenty thousand weight, your mare would do it. An heiress, or
a fair lady who'd slip her white wrists from a chain that galled
her.” The young man looked suddenly in the speaker's face, as
though to detect some meaning there revealed; but, careless and
unabashed, and as though idly giving utterance to idle thoughts,
the stranger continued. “There are such poor pining things, sir,
if a true knight knew where to find 'em : there are distressed
ladies, who, I doubt it not, would trust themselves to the back of
your mare, even though, like the flying horse I’ve read of, she
took 'em to the moon. To be sure,” said the stranger, with a
slight chuckle, “the moon, for what I know, would be the fittest
place for 'em. That's a strange nook, sir, isn't it !” and the
man pointed to a small, Oddly-fashioned house, almost buried
among high and gloomy trees, about a bow-shot from the road.
“A queer place, and a queer master, if all be true of him.” At
these words, the young man, with a confused look, stooped to pat
his horse's neck, saying the meanwhile, “Indeed —and what is
known of the master 7 °
“Why, there are twenty stories about him ; but of course
some of 'em can’t be true. However, what's known for fact is,
he's rich as the Indies, and, moreover, he 's got a young wife.”

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 105
“Is that all ?” asked the young man, with affected carelessness.
“Is it so rare a matter that a rich old man should buy himself a
young helpmate 2*
“Humph 1 Helpmate's a pretty word, sir; a mighty pretty
word; but the help that three-score gets from three-and-twenty,
eh 7 No, sir; money in this marketing world of ours may buy
much, but—flighty and frivolous and butterfly-like as the things
sometimes are—it can’t always buy a woman's heart. However
this it can purchase; it can buy a cage to put the poor thing in ;
it can buy eyes to watch her; hands to guard her ; and so, old
Snipeton may keep his pet-lamb safe from London wolves—safe
as his parchments in his strong-box.”
“You seem, sir,” said the young man, with animated looks,
“you seem to know Mr. Snipeton.”
“Why, sir,” answered the stranger, “I’m of London training,
London habits; have, in my day—indeed who has not ?—wanted
a few hundreds; and is not Snipeton a man of benevolence—a
man of profound heart and deepest money-chest ? Is he not ever
ready to assist his fellow-creatures at anything above sixty per
cent. * Oh, you must know Snipeton,” said the stranger, with a
familiar laugh. “Yes, yes; you must know him.”
“From what circumstance do you gather such belief?” asked
the young man, a little haughtily.
“Why, you live a London life—oh, yes, sir, there's no country,
hawthorn-look about you—you have London wants, and such
things will happen to the richest, the lordliest of us; at times
the dice will go wrong—the devil will shuffle the cards—and then,
Our honour—yes, that 's the fiend’s name—our honour, willy-nilly
sends us to some such good man as Ebenezer Snipeton. Why,
he’s as well known to the bloods of London as Bridewell’s known
to the 'prentices.”
“And pray, sir,” asked the young man, with some effort at
carelessness, “pray, do you know the victim—I mean, the usurer's
wife 2''
“I can’t say that,” answered the stranger. “And yet, I’ve
seen her before she wore chains ; seen her when she lived with
the old man, her father. Ha, sir! that was a bitter business.”
“Pray, tell me,” said the young man. “I know not wherefore
I should care about it, and yet there is an interest in what you
say that—I pray, tell me, sir.”
“You see, her father was a worn-out, broken merchant. His
wife, as I have heard, went wrong, and from that time his head
failed him—he grew wild and reckless—losses came thick as hail
upon him, and then Snipeton came to his assistance—yes, assist-
ance is what he called it—and bound him round and round with
2
106 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
bills and bonds, and I know not what, and made him all his own.
Well, in good time, old Snipeton looked upon the girl—it isn't a
new story though a sad and wicked one—and she became the
usurer's wife, to save her father from the usurer's fangs. Pity is
it that she did so ; for the old man died only a few weeks after
the wedding that made his child—kind, affectionate thing !—a
slave for life. 'Twould be a pretty world, sir, wouldn’t it, but
for tricks like these, and they, somehow, take the bloom off it,
don’t they Eh, sir? Good night, sir;” and then the stranger
suddenly clapped spurs to his horse, and galloped onward. Follow-
ing a bend of the road, he was in a few minutes out of sight ; upon
which our solitary traveller, evidently relieved of an irksome
companion, turned his steed, and slowly retraced his way. He
again relapsed into thought—again suffered his horse to wander
at its own will onward. Thus absorbed he had proceeded a short
distance when his eye fell upon a miserable man, seated on a
mile-stone. He was in rags and almost bare-foot, and there was
the sharp spirit of want in his features, that told a tale of many
sufferings. He spoke not—made no gesture of supplication—but
looked with idle, glazing eye upon the earth. This object of
desolation—this poor tatterdemalion wretch—suddenly smote our
traveller into consciousness; and with a kind compassionate
voice, he accosted him. “My poor fellow, you seem in no plight
for travel.”
“Bad enough, sir,” said the man, “bad enough ; yet hardly as
bad as I wish it was.”
“Indeed . A strange wish Wlly, I take it, human strength
could scarcely bear a heavier load of wretchedness.”
“I wish it couldn’t bear it,” said the man ; “I’m tired of it—
heart-tired, and could lay down my life as willingly as a pack.”
“Where do you come from ?” asked the stranger.
“Oh, sir! a long way from here—a long way; and why I
came I know not : I was a restless fool, and might have died
where I was.”
“And where are your friends !” questioned the traveller.
“God only knows,” said the man, with a heavy groan; “I
don't.”
“Poor fellow ! but hope for better times,” said the traveller;
and at the same moment, throwing him a crown-piece, the youth
rode briskly on.
And thus unknown to one another did St. Giles and St. James
again meet. Again was St. Giles an outcast, hiding from the
law ; for he had escaped from his far-off place of bondage, and
yearning for England, for the lovely land in which he had no
rightful footstep, in whose abounding wealth he had not the
k—-
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 107
interest of a farthing; he had dared death and peril in many
shapes, and hunger and all variety of misery, to stand once more
upon his native soil. He knew that, if discovered, the hangman
would claim him as lawful prey; he knew that he must hide and
slink through life in the mere hope of holding life's poor mockery;
and yet, he had slipped his chains, had suffered the misery of a
thousand deaths, that he might once again behold an English sky,
Once again tread English earth ! Poor wretch how soon did
hard reality disenchant him. How few the days he had passed
in England, yet how many the terrors that had encompassed him
The land that in his dreams of bondage had seemed to him a
Paradise; the very men who in his hopeful visions had promised
gentleness and protection ; all was changed. The earth, lovely
and fruitful to happy eyes, to him seemed cursed; and all men,
to his thought, looked at him with denouncing looks. With a
crushed heart, and in the very recklessness of despair, he would
again have welcomed the chains he had broken. Again and
again too, could he have stretched himself upon the earth as upon
a bed, and rendered up his tired and hopeless spirit to his God.
And then fierce thoughts of vengeance on the world's injustice
would possess him ; then he would deem himself as one sent upon
the earth, missioned for mischief; a mere wretch of prey, to live
by wrong and violence. And thus, with the demon rising in his
breast, was he brooding, when St. James accosted him. But when
the young man, the child of fortune, soothed the poor outcast
with gentle words and timely relief, the sullen, desperate wretch
became on the instant penitent and softened ; and his touched
heart felt there was goodness still in man, and beauty in the
world. The thoughts of life came back to him in healthful
strength ; for his jaded spirit had drunk at the fountain of hope.
In the fervour of his gratitude, he felt not that, in a day or two at
most, the sun might see the misery of the past hour again upon
him. It was enough that he had the means of present comfort ;
that he could quench the fire of hunger; that he could rest his
travel-worn body. With this glad assurance he cast about his
thoughts for a place of refuge. He knew not the road ; knew
not what offered as he advanced ; but he remembered that he had
passed a house a little more than a mile back, and retracing his
steps, he would there seek refuge for the night. Though his
heart was lightened, he walked with difficulty, and the evening
closed in rapidly about his path. It was a calm and beautiful
night, and the clear moon rose like a spirit in heaven. Suddenly
St. Giles was startled by the sound of horses’ feet; in an instant
the animal, bearing a rider whose outline was but for a moment
visible, at its fullest speed passed him ; a minute, and the sound
108 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
of hoofs died in the distance. There was something strange in
such haste; something that fell upon St. Giles with a sense of
evil done. For a time he paused, asking counsel of himself; and
then his sinking vitals, his worn and wearied body, claimed his
instant exertion, and again he pressed onward. In half-an-hour
he arrived at the wished-for house. Lights shone in the windows;
there was dancing, and the voice of village harmony was loud
within. Wherefore, then, did St. Giles pause at the very
threshold? Wherefore, then, did his knees feel weak, and his
very heart sink numbed and dead, as he saw the cheerful light,
and heard human voices clamouring their happiness? Wherefore
should he not join the merry-makers? Alas! was there not
convict written in his haggard cheeks—felon branded on his
brow 7 Would he not, with a howl of triumph, be set upon by
his fellow-men, and, like a wild beast escaped from a cage, be
carried back to jail? His brain swam with the thought, and he
almost fell to the earth. “Why, what's the matter, mate 7" said
a countryman, noting St. Giles's hesitation. “Why don’t thee
step in There be plenty of room, if thee have the cash, though
it be crowded a plenty.”
“Thank’ee ; I was a going in,” said St. Giles; and with
sudden resolution he entered the house. Happily for him, he
thought, the place was thronged. A village-ball was held up-
stairs, and the house throbbed and rocked beneath the vigorous
feet of the dancers. The resources of the neighbourhood, how-
ever, had supplied one fiddle, and the musician, the village tailor,
touched by Phoebus, generously accommodated his instrument to
the distant keys and many variations of the singers. Shortly
after St. Giles entered, the ears of the company were engaged by
the patriotic strains of the barber of the hamlet, who, with vigour
and taste happily mingled, celebrated in good strong, homely
verse the magnanimity, courage, and glory of the British Lion;
an animal that has, in its day, had as many fine things written of
it as an opera-singer. And as the barber sang, fifty throats
joined in chorus, declaratory of the might of the aforesaid British
Tion, and evidently claiming a sort of partnership in its greatness.
Eor the time, the British Lion was to them a very intimate
relation ; and they celebrated its glories as though they had a
family interest in them. And St. Giles himself—to his passing
astonishment—piped the praises of the British Lion The out-
cast vagabond, with fear pulling at his heart, had slid among the
company, trembling at every man’s eye, as it fell upon him ; but
Soon he had quaffed some ale, he had eaten invigorating bread
and cheese, and his heart, suffused and warm, had cast away all
coward thought, and in the fulness of its gratitude, in the very
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 109
surprise of its happiness, had chirped aloud to the honour of the
British Lion; albeit the said Lion, as a very prominent actor in
the arms of England—as the typical defender of our hearths and
homes, our dearest morals, and sometimes our dearer property—
might very justifiably have required the returned convict for its
dinner. In very truth, St. Giles was the lawful prey of the
defrauded, cheated British Lion; and yet St. Giles, in the igno-
rance of his happiness, sang to the praises of the Lion as though
the royal beast had been to him his best friend. But then
St. Giles sang as a patriot, though in his heart and soul he might
feel no better than a felon. Wicked, hypocritic St. Giles In all
history, did ever man, in higher places, too, do the like
It was well for St. Giles that he had fortified himself with a
cup of ale, with a few mouthfuls of food, ere the maiden who
attended to the wants of the visitors, asked him for the requiting
coin. Otherwise St. Giles had felt somewhat abashed to display
his wealth ; the furniture of his pocket, and his outside chattels
in no way harmonising together. The crown-piece would have
confused St. Giles; as to eyes sharpened by money—and what a
whetstone it is even to dullest vision —he felt that he in no way
looked like a man to be honestly possessed of so much wealth.
Either he would have thought the lawful metal of the coin
might be questioned; or that difficulty overcome, his rightful
claim to it disputed. And then, had he out with the truth, who,
he thought, in the narrowness of his heart, would believe him
What anybody give a beggar a crown-piece Then, at once,
believe the moon coagulated cream, or any other household sub-
stance. But, happily, we say, for St. Giles, his heart was suddenly
warmed ; and, therefore, with a careless, happy air, never sus-
pecting the suspicions of others, he laid his crown-piece in the
hand of the attendant nymph, or if you will, bacchante; and
she, with all the trustingness and simplicity of her sex, never
looked at St. Giles and then at his money as though, it is some-
times done, comparing the face of flesh and the face of metal, to
mark if they be worthy of each other ; but instantly gave the
change, with a blythe “thank’ee * for the patronage. Pre-
sumptuous is man St. Giles, who, five minutes before, felt
himself wretched, terrified at the thought of singing in the tap-
room of the Lamb and Star, was now made so bold by his happi-
ness, that, his eyes meeting the bright orbs of Becky, full and
swimming as they were with satisfaction, and her little plump
anatomy swaying to and fro, in kindly sympathy with the dancers
up-stairs—St. Giles, we say, in the hardihood of his sudden
confidence, laughed and chucked Becky under the chin. And
Becky, looking not more than decently ferocious, bounced lightly
110 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
round, cried “Well, I’m sure : " and then, as if nothing had
happened, attended the call of another customer.
And could St. Giles so soon forget that he was a returned
convict, as with slight provocation to chuck the maiden of the
Lamb and Star under the chin 7 But such is the heart of man
When the clamour of the room was at its highest, a young
man sparkishly drest suddenly looked in, and was as suddenly
greeted by the merry-makers. A loud cheer for “Master Willis”
shook the roof-tree. The new-comer was a man of about five-
and twenty ; of tall and well-knit frame, with large, fresh-coloured
features, and a profusion of black hair; the very man to kill
village hearts by dozens. He seemed in the highest spirits;
indeed, almost unnaturally gay. There was something in his
laboured vivacity that might have awakened the attention of a
less merry audience; a hollowness in his loud, roaring laugh,
that hardly seemed of mirth. But Master Willis was among
friends, admirers: he was the favourite of the men, the admired
of the women; besides, he rarely failed, on occasions such as the
present, to play the patron. Hence, after a few moments, in
which his hand was grasped by at least twenty humble acquaint-
ances, he gave an order that “ale was to be served all round.”
This largess was greeted with new acclamation. When it had
subsided, Master Willis, with a significant killing look, bade all
his friends be happy together; but that for himself, why he must
join the girls, and have a dance up-stairs. This gallantry was
met with another burst of applause, in the midst of which Master
Willis, all smiles and happiness, disappeared.
“And who is that gentleman 7 ° St. Giles ventured to ask of
the barber, at the time his nearest neighbour.
“Who is he Well, where did you come from ? Not know
him " Where was you born ?” cried the barber.
“I’m—I’m a stranger hereabouts,” answered St. Giles, a little
vexed with himself for his untimely curiosity.
“So I should think, not to know Master Willis. A stranger
Why I should take you for a Frenchman, or an outlandish
foreigner of some sort, never to have heard of him. The best
hand at bowls and single-stick—the best hunter—the best shot—
the best everything. Well, you do look like a foreigner,” said
the barber, glancing at St. Giles in a way that made him
heart-sick.
“I’m a true Englishman,” said St. Giles, “though I’ve been
Some years out of the country.”
“Ha! serving your king, and all that ?” said the barber. St.
Giles modded. “Well, like a good many of the sort, you don’t
seem to have made your fortin by it. But then, I suppose, you’ve
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 111
got a lot of glory? Now, within a dozen or two, can you tell us
how many Frenchmen you’ve killed 7” St. Giles winced from
the small grey eyes of the barber, who, as though conscious of the
confusion he created, pursued his queries with growing self-
satisfaction. “You can’t tell us how many, eh? A precious
lot I should think, by the look of you. Well, if all over you
don’t smell of gunpowder | * and the barber affectedly held his
nostrils, to give, as he conceived, point to his wit. St. Giles
felt his patience fast departing: he therefore opened his hands,
and fixing his eye upon the barber, again leisurely doubled his
fist. The look, the gesture, was instantly understood by the wag,
for immediately dropping his tone of banter, he became most
courteously communicative. “But you was asking about Master
Willis To be sure—as a stranger, it’s natural you shouldn't
know. Well, his uncle’s the richest farmer a hundred miles
about. His land's as fat as butter, and Master Bob-we call
him Bob here—will have every inch of it. He is a wild fellow,
to be sure. Doesn't mind, when the temper's on him, knocking
down a man like a bullock; but bless you ! no harm in him—
not a bit of harm. My service to you,” and quaffing the ale—
Master Willis's liberal gift—the barber moved away.
The time wore on, and St. Giles, exhausted by fatigue, made
drowsy with his entertainment, dared to think of bed. Yes, he
had the hardihood to promise himself that night at least, the
shelter of a roof. “My good girl,” said he, in a confidential
whisper to Becky, “can I sleep anywhere here to-night—any-
where, you know 2°
“Why, you See,” answered Becky, her eyes instinctively wan-
dering from rag to rag, as worn by St. Giles, “why, you see, the
missus is very partic'lar.” And then Becky, despite of her,
looked dubiously at the toes of St. Giles, indecorously showing
their destitution to the world. Having, quite unconsciously,
counted the said toes, and assured herself there were ten of them,
all in flagrant want of shoe-leather, Becky repeated, with even
more emphasis—“Very partic’lar.”
“I dare say—she’s right, in course,” answered St. Giles; “but
I don’t want nothing for nothing—I can pay for it.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said Becky quickly, “it isn't money; ol, no,
that 's nothing—but it’s the character of the house we stand
upon. Missus says that houses are like Christians, and catches
bad characters all the same as you catch the small-pox or any-
thing of the sort from them as have 'em. That's what she says,
and I dare say it’s all true.”
St. Giles made no answer; but a deep, heart-drawn sigh broke
from him. Becky was turning away, when, touched by the sound,
119 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
she suddenly looked in St. Giles's face—it was on the instant so
blankly wretched—so old, so hopeless in its look—the forced
Smile that had played about it had so quickly vanished, that,
unknown to herself, with a feeling of compassion and sympathy,
the poor girl caught St. Giles's hand, and with altered voice said
—“I don't think missus has seen you, and as we're so busy to-
night, she mayn’t want to look at you ; so be quiet a little while,
and I dare say I can get you some nice straw in the barn.”
“Thank’ee,” said St. Giles—“Do, God bless you ;” and he
pressed the girl's hand, and her simple, kindly heart was melted
by the poor fellow's wretchedness, and with twinkling eyes and a
Smile on her coarse, broad, honest face, she left the room. In a
few minutes the door was opened, and Becky with upraised finger
stood without. St. Giles immediately obeyed the signal, and in
brief time found himself on his way to bed, preceded by Becky
with a lanthorn; for the moon had gone down, and the night was
pitchy dark. “I’ve brought the light,” said she, “for fear or
the dog. He killed one man, or as good as killed him, for he
never got over it ; but he won’t bite nobody when he sees 'em
with me.” And the conduct of the dog speedily bore out the
character given him ; for though with grinning teeth, and a low,
snuffling howl, he walked round and round St. Giles, Becky—
even as Una dominated the lion—held Dragon in completest
subjection. Although she called him a brute, a beast, a nasty
creature, and twenty other names of the like prettiness, Dragon
with a patient wagging of the tail bore them all, his very patience
—what a lesson for human philosophy —turning invective into
compliment. “Here it is,” said Becky, opening the barn-door.
“Here’s straw as sweet as any clover ; and there isn't many rats,
for they was hunted only a month ago. You're not afeard of
rats? Bless you, they’re more afeard of Christians than Christians
should be afeard of them ; and so I tells missus; but for all that
she will Squeal at 'em. Well, people can’t help what they call
‘tipathies. As for me, I minds rats no more than rabbits. There,
now, up in that corner ; and if there isn’t a sack and all to cover
you ! Why, you couldn’t sleep better if you was a lord. And
See here. Here's a bottle with some beer, and some bread and
cheese, when you wake in the morning. I’m always hungry
when I wake in the morning, I am ; no matter what time I goes
to bed; but that comes, as I say, of having a clear conscience, and
doing no harm to nobody. There, good night—poor soul | God
be with you !” And with this simple, earnest wish—this little
wish that like the circle of the universe holds within it all
things—did the kind, the gentle drudge of a way-side pot-house
send the convict to his bed. Noking was ever shown to tapestried
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 113
chamber with truer wishes for his rest, than went with St. Giles
to his straw. “God be with you,” said the girl ; and the words
of gentleness, the happy, hopeful tone that breathed in them, fell
like balm upon the felon's heart; and in a few moments he was
sunk in the deep happiness of sleep ; he was far away in that
neutral region of life, where emperors put off their crowns—
where the arrogance of earth is calm and harmless—where pride
and Ostentation have not their blatant trumpets blown before
them—where the purple of Dives is cast aside on the same heap
with the rags of Lazarus—where the equality to all, that death
shall everlastingly bring, is once a day rehearsed by all men—
where life is simple breathing, and the slave loses the master.
For many nights had St. Giles slept in the open fields. Ragged,
and worn, and hunger-stricken, he had nevertheless slept ; and
only when the daylight came felt for a time his sinews cramped
and stiffened with the dews of night. Still with the sky above
him, no more sheltered than his neighbour Ox Or sheep, he had
slept ; he had, despite of fortune, cheated misery with forget-
fulness, Nature for a time had blessed him as she had blessed
the happiest man. Yet sleep had come to him slowly, reluctantly;
bodily want and suffering would for a time refuse the sweet
oblivion. But here in a barn—with fresh, delicious, odorous
straw ; with roof and walls to hold out wind and rain—St. Giles
composed himself to sleep as almost to eternal rest. He was
happy, profoundly happy that he was lodged, comfortably, as
any beast. *
For an hour—yes, an hour at least—had St. Giles enjoyed the
happiness of rest, when he was loudly, roughly awakened.
“Hallo l you vagabond—get up, and answer for a murder,”
bawled a voice; and St. Giles, leaping to his feet, saw the barn
half-filled with people, armed with sticks and weapons as for
some sudden fray. .
CHAPTER XII.
“WHAT's the matter now 7" cried St. Giles, pale and aghast;
for instantly he believed himself detected; instantly saw the gaol,
the gallows, and the hangman. “What's the matter 7” he cried,
trembling from head to foot.
“What’s the matter 7” roared the barber, “only a little bit of
murder, that’s all—and that's nothing to chaps like you.” -
Terrible as was the charge, nevertheless St. Giles felt himself
I
114 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
somewhat relieved : he was not, he found, apprehended as the
escaped convict ; that was yet unknown; and, oddly enough, with
the accusation of bloodshed on him, he felt comparatively tranquil.
“Murder, is it,” he said, “well, who 's murdered And whoever
he is, why is it to be me who 's killed him—tell me that ?”
“Did you ever hear !” said the barber. “A chap, with rags
on him, not fit to scare birds in a bean-field, and yet talks like
one of us ! I should like to know where such as you get crown
pieces !”
“Never mind—never mind,” said the host of the Lamb and
Star, “that's justice's work—not ours.”
“Justice's work | * exclaimed the hostess, now pressing fore-
most of the crowd—“ and what will justice do for us? When
justice has hanged the ragamuffin, will justice give back the cha-
racter of the house } Who'll come to the Lamb and Star, when
it’s known to harbour cut-throats? But it's that hussy, Becky;
it's she that hid the murderer here; it's she, I’ll be sworn it,
knows all about the murder, for there isn’t such a devil for break-
ing in the whole county.” Such was the emphatic declaration of
the hostess, who, by a kind of logic—not altogether uncommon to
the sex—saw in Becky, the reckless destroyer of pottery, the con-
sequent accomplice in human destruction. The reasoning, it must
be confessed, was of the most violent, the most tyrannic kind ; on
which account, it was somewhat more attractive to Mrs. Blink ;
guileless, ingenuous soul! who, in her innocency, rated her hand-
maiden for bestowing a homicide in the barn of the Lamb and Star;
when, had the matron known aught of the moral machinery of life,
she ought instantly to have doubled Becky's wages for such inesti-
mable service. Mrs. Blink ought to have known that to a public-
house a murderer was far more profitable, to both tap and parlour,
than a pretty barmaid. She ought to have looked upon the Lamb
and Star as a made hostelry, from the instant it should be known
that St. Giles, with the mark of Cain fresh upon him, changed his
first blood-begotten dollar there ; that afterwards he sought the
sweets of sleep in the Lamb and Star's barn. Silly Mrs. Blink
Why, the very straw pressed by St. Giles was precious as though
laid upon by Midas: to be split and worked into bonnets it was
worth—what brain shall say how much a truss % But Mrs. Blink
thought not after this fashion. She looked upon St. Giles as
though he had brought so much blood upon the house—so many
ineffaceable stains of shame and ignominy. Foolish woman she
ought rather to have made him her humblest curtsey ; ought
rather to have set her face with her sunniest smile, for having
given the Lamb and Star the preference of his infamy. Benighted
creature she knew not the worth of a murder to a bar.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 115
“And pray who is murdered 7” again asked St. Giles, with an
effrontery that again called up all the virtuous astonishment of
the host and hostess. “If I’ve killed any body, can’t you let me
know who it is ?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the landlord, “you ’re just the fellow to
brazen it out ; but it won’t do this time;” and he then looked
knowingly at his wife, who was about to express herself on the
certainty of St. Giles's fate, when she beheld Becky peeping
anxiously from the crowd, most shamefully interested, as Mrs.
Blink conceived, in the prisoner's condition. “Why, you wicked
hussy if you oughtn't to be hanged with him,” cried the hostess:
whereupon Becky immediately took to her heels, and was imme-
diately followed by her mistress, whose loud indignation at length
died a muttering death in the distance. Mrs. Blink being gone,
there was dead silence for a moment; and then the landlord, with
a puzzled look, jerking his head towards St. Giles, briefly asked
Counsel of one and all. “What shall we do with him ; "
This query produced another pause. Every man seemed to feel
as though the question was specially put to himself, and therefore
did his best to prepare to answer it. Yes; almost every man
Scratched his head, and suddenly tried to look acute, sharp.
“What's to be done wi'un ?” asked two or three musingly; and
then looked in each other's faces, as though they looked at a dead
wall. At length, wisdom descended upon the brain of the barber.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do with him,” said the small oracle of
the Lamb and Star, and suddenly all looked satisfied, as though
the mystery was at length discovered, “I’ll tell you what we'll
do with him : we 'll leave him where he is.” Everybody nodded
assent to the happy thought. “He’ll be just as safe here as
in the cage, and that 's a mile away. We’ve only got to tie
him hand and foot, and three or four of us to sit up and watch
him, and I warrant he doesn’t slip through our fingers—I warrant
me, varmint as heis, we’ll give a good account of him to justice.”
The barber was rewarded with a murmur of applause ; and such
approbation he received all tranquilly, like a man accustomed to
the Sweets of moral incense. For St. Giles, he had again cast
himself hopelessly upon the straw; again lay, seemingly indifferent
to all around him. In the despair, the wretchedness of his con-
dition, life or death was, he thought, to him alike. On all hands
he was a hunted, persecuted wretch ; life was to him a miserable
disease; a leprosy of soul that made him alone in a breathing
World. There might be companionship in the grave. And so
dreaming, St. Giles lay dumb and motionless as a corpse, the
while his captors took counsel for his security. “Hush | * said
the barber, motioning silence, and then having stood a few
I 2.
116 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
moments, listening, with upraised finger, he cried—“it’s my
belief the rogue's asleep ; in that case, we needn’t tie him ;
we’ve only to watch outside: the night's warm, the dog's loose,
and with a mug or so of ale, I’m good to watch with any half-
dozen of you.” The truth is, the barber had been visited by a
Second thought that suggested to him the probability of 1Uugh
usage at the hands of the prisoner, should there be an attempt
to put him in bonds, and he therefore, with a pardonable regard
for his own features, proposed to waive the ceremony of tying the
culprit. “He’ll have his share of rope in time,” said the barber,
much satisfied with the smallness of the jest. And thereupon, he
beckoned his companions from the barn; and had already imagined
the balminess of the coming ale—for the landlord had promised
flowing mugs—when justice, professional justice, arrived in the
shape of a sworn constable. “Where's this murdering chap 2"
asked the functionary.
“All right, Master Tipps,” said the barber, “all snug ; we’ve
got him.”
“There’s nothing right, nothing snug, without the cuffs,” said
the constable, displaying the irons with much official pride.—
“He’s in the barn, there, eh, Master Blink?” Then I charge
you all in the king's name—and this is his staff—to help me.”
The landlord, touched by the magic of the adjuration, stepped
forward with the lantern ; the constable followed, and was sulkily
followed by two or three of the party. The barber, however, and
one or two of his kidney, budged not a foot. “Isn’t it always
so 2° he exclaimed, “if ever a man puts himself out of the way,
and ventures his precious life and limbs, taking up all sorts of
varmint—if ever he does it, why it’s safe for Master Constable to
come down, and take away all the honour and glory. I should
like to know what's the use of a man feeling savage against
rogues, if another man’s to have the credit of it 7 Now you’ll
See how it will be, it’s the way of the world, oh yes! you’ll
see. They’ll take this chap, and try him, and hang him, perhaps
put him in chains and all, and we shall never be so much as
thanked for it. No, we shall never be named in the matter.
Well, after this, folks may murder who they like for me. And
isn’t it precious late, too ! and will my wife believe I’ve been
nowhere but here 2° cried the barber ; and a sudden cloud
darkened his face, and he ran off like a late schoolboy to his task.
Poor St. Giles he knew it not ; but, if vengeance were sweet to
think upon, there was somebody at home who would revenge the
wrongs of the vagrant upon the barber. Somebody, who, at deep
midnight, would scare sleep from his pillow, even whilst the
feloniously accused snored among the straw. And after this
'-º'------...--
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 117
fashion may many a wretch take sweet comfort ;-if, indeed,
revenge be sweet ; and there are very respectable folks to whom,
in truth, it has very saccharine qualities, for they seem to enjoy
it as children enjoy sugar-cane ;-sweet comfort that, whatever
wrong or contumely may be cast upon him in the light of day
there may be somebody, as it would seem especially appointed.
to chastise the evil-doer; and that, too, “in the dead waste and
middle of the night ;” to drive sleep from his eyeballs; to make
him feel a coward, a nobody, a mincompoop, in his own holland.
Pleasant is it for the sour-thinking man who sees a blustering
authority—whether grasping a beadle's staff or holding the scales
of justice—sometimes to know that there is a louder authority at
home, a greater vehemence of reproof, that may make the bully
of the day the sleepless culprit of the night. Was there not
Whitlow, beadle of the parish of St. Scraggs What a man-
beast was Whitlow ! How would he, like an avenging ogre,
scatter apple-women . How would he foot little boys, guilty of
peg-tops and marbles How would he puff at a beggar—puff
like the picture of the north-wind in the spelling-book What
a huge, heavy, purple face he had, as though all the blood of his
body was stagnant in his cheeks And then, when he spoke.
would he not growl and snuffle like a dog 2 How the parish
would have hated him, but that the parish heard there was a
Mrs. Whitlow ; a small fragile woman, with a face sharp as a
penknife, and lips that cut her words like scissors And what a
forlorn wretch was Whitlow, with his head brought once a night
to the pillow ! Poor creature helpless, confused ; a huge imbe-
cility, a stranded whale Mrs. Whitlow talked and talked ; and
there was not an apple-woman but in Whitlow's sufferings was
not avenged ; not a beggar, that thinking of the beadle at mid-
night, might not, in his compassion, have forgiven the beadle of
the day. And in this punishment we acknowledge a grand, a
beautiful retribution. A Judge Jefferys in his wig is an abom-
inable tyrant; yet may his victims sometimes smile to think what
Judge Jefferys suffers in his night-cap !
And now leave we for awhile St. Giles in the official custody of
Tipps, who, proud of his handcuffs as a chamberlain of his wand,
suffered not the least opportunity to pass without resorting to
them. To him, handcuffs were the grace of life, the only security
of our social condition. Man, without the knowledge of hand-
cuffs, would to Tipps have been a naked wretch, indeed; a poor
barbarian, needing the first glimmer of civilisation. Had philo-
sophy talked to Tipps of the golden chain of necessity, to the
sense of Tipps the chain would have been made of handcuffs.
Hence, the constable had thought it his prime duty to handcuff
118 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
St. Giles; and then, he suffered himself to be persuaded to leave
the murderer in his straw ; the landlord handsomely promising
the loan of a cart to remove the prisoner in the morning.
Some two miles distant from the Lamb and Star, where the
road turned with a sharp angle, there was a deep hollow ; this
place had been known, it IIIay be, to the Druids, as the Devil's
Blbow. Throughout the world, man has ungraciously given
sundry ugly spots of the earth's face—its warts and pock-marks—
to the fiend ; and the liberal dwellers of Kent had, as we say, made
over an abrupt break-neck corner of earth to the Devil for his
Elbow. It was at this spot that, whilst St. Giles was swallowing
ale at the Lamb and Star, his supposed victim, the handsome,
generous St. James was discovered prostrate, stunned, and
wounded. Rumour had, of course, taken his life; making with
easiest despatch St. Giles a murderer; for being an outcast and a
beggar, how facile was the transformation But St. James was
not dead; albeit a deep wound, as from some mortal instrument,
Some dull weapon, as the law has it, on his temple, looked more
than large enough for life to escape from. Happily for St. James,
there were men in Kent who lived not a life of reverence for the
law ; otherwise, it is more than probable that, undiscovered until
the morning, the Devil's Elbow might have been haunted by
another ghost. But it was to be otherwise. It was provided by
fate that there should be half-a-dozen smugglers, bound on an
unhallowed mission to the coast ; who, first observing St. James's
horse, masterless and quietly grazing at the road's side, made
closer search and thence discovered young St. James, as they at
first believed, killed, and lying half-way down the hollow. “Here's
been rough work,” cried one of the men ; “see, the old, wicked
story—blood flowing, and pockets inside out. He's a fine lad;
too fine for such a death.” “All’s one for that,” said a second ;
“we can't bring him to life by staring at him : we've queer work
enough of our own on hand—every one for his own business.
Come along.” “He’s alive l’exclaimed a third, with an oath;
and as he spoke, St. James drew a long, deep sigh. “All the
better for him,” cried the second, “then he can take care of him-
self.” “Why, Jack Bilson, you’d never be such a hard-hearted
chap as to leave anything with life in it, in this fashion ?” was
the remonstrance of the first discoverer of St. James; whereupon
Mr. Bilson, with a worldliness of prudence, sometimes worth
uncounted gold to the possessor, remarked that humanity was
very well—but that everybody was made for everybody’s self—
and that while they were palavering there over nobody knew who,
they might lose the running of the tubs. Humanity, as Mr. Bilson
said, was very well; but then there was a breeches pocket virtue
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 119
in smuggled Scheidam. “Well, if I was to leave a fellow-cretur
in this plight, I should never have the impudence to hope to have
a bit of luck again,” said the more compassionate contrabandist,
whose nice superstition came in aid of his benevolence; “and so
I say, mates, let us carry him to that house yonder, make 'em
take him in, and then go with light hearts and clean consciences
upon our business.” “Yes; if we ain't all taken up for robbers
and murderers for our pains: but, Ben Magsby, you always was
a obstinate grampus.” And Ben Magsby carried out his humane
purpose ; for St. James was immediately borne to the house afore-
said. Loud and long was the knocking at the door, ere it was
opened. At length, a little sharp-faced old woman appeared, and,
with wonderful serenity, begged to know what was the matter.
“Why, here’s a gentleman,” said Magsby, “who's been altogether
robbed and well-nigh murdered.”
“Robbed and murdered 1" said the matron, calmly as though
she spoke of a pie over-baked, or a joint over-roasted,—“robbed
and murdered ' What's that to us? The public-house is the
place for such things. Go to the Lamb and Star.” But the woman
spoke to heedless ears; for Ben Magsby and his mates—ere the
woman had ceased her counsel—had borne the wounded man
across the threshold, and unceremoniously entering the first
discoverable apartment, had laid him on a couch.
“There,” said Ben, returning with his companions to the door,
“there, we’ve done our duty as Christians, mind you do yours.”
And with this admonition, the smugglers vanished.
It was then that the little old woman showed signs of emotion.
Murder and robbery at the public-house she could have contem-
plated with becoming composure; but to be under the same roof
with the horror was not to be quietly endured so long as she had
lungs; and so thinking, she stood in the hall, and vehemently
screamed. Iike boatswain's whistle did that feminine summons
pierce every corner of the mansion: the cupboard mouse paused
over stolen cheese—the hearth-cricket suddenly was dumb–the
deathwatch in the wall ceased its amorous tick-tick—so sudden,
sharp, and all-pervading was that old woman's scream. “Why,
Dorothy is that you ?” exclaimed a matronly gentlewoman,
hastening down stairs, and followed by a young lady of apparently
some three or four and twenty. “Is it possible % Why, what's
the matter 7 °
“Nothing at all, ma'am—nothing,” said Dorothy, suddenly
relapsing into her customary apathy; for, sooth to say, she was a
sort of vegetable woman; a drowsy, dreamy person, whose per-
formance of such a scream was considered by its hearers as a
most wondrous manifestation of power. Nobody, to have looked
120 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
at Dorothy Vale, would have thought that within her dwelt such
a scream in posse ; but, sometimes, great is the mystery of little
old women. “Nothing at all, ma'am—that is, don’t be frightened
—that is, they say, ma'am, murder and robbery.”
“Heavens ! Where—where 7° exclaimed the young lady.
“It isn’t, your dear husband, ma'am—oh no, it isn’t master,
so don’t be frightened,” said the tranquil Dorothy. “But,
if you please, ma'am, it’s in that room—I mean the body,
ma'am.”
The young lady, for a moment, shrank back in terror ; and
then, as though reproving herself for the weakness, she rapidly
passed into the room, followed by her elder companion. At the
same instant, the wounded man had half-risen from the couch, and
was looking wanderingly around him—“Clarissa Can it be 2"
he cried, and again Swooning, fell back. Instantly, the girl was
on her knees at his side ; unconscious of the reproving, the
astonished looks of the matron.
“He 's dying—oh, Mrs. Wilton, he is dying ! Murdered—I
know it all—I see it all—and for me—wretch that I am—for
me,” and her form writhed with anguish, and she burst into an
agony of tears.
“Oh, no—the hurt is not mortal; be assured, I am surgeon
enough to know that ; be assured of it, Mrs. Snipeton ; ” thus
spoke Mrs. Wilton, in words of coldest comfort, and with a
manner strangely frozen. “Dorothy, stay you with your mis-
tress, whilst I send for assistance, and seek what remedies I can
myself. I will return instantly : meanwhile, I say, remain with
your mistress.”
And St. James, unconscious of the hospitality, was the guest
of Mr. Ebenezer Snipeton ; whose character, the reader may
remember, was somewhat abruptly discussed by the stranger
horseman in the past chapter. It was here, at Dovesnest, that
the thrifty money-seller kept his young wife close; far away, and
safe, as he thought, from the bold compliments, the reckless
gallantry of the rich young men who, in their frequent time of
need, paid visits to the friend who, the security certain as the
hour, never failed to assist them. Mr. Snipeton was not, in the
ordinary matters of life, a man who underrated his own advan-
tages, moral and physical. Sooth to say, he was, at times, not
unapt to set what detraction might have thought an interested
value on them. And yet, what a touchstone for true humility in
man is woman ; Ebenezer Snipeton, in all worldly dealings, held
himself a match for any of the money-coining sons of Adam. He
could fence with a guinea—and sure we are guinea-fencing is a
far more delicate art, is an exercise demanding a finer touch, a

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 121
readier sleight, than the mere twisting of steel foils;–he could
fence, nay, with even the smallest current coin of the realm, and
—no matter who stood against him—come off conqueror. “Gold,”
says Shelley, “is the old man's sword.” And most wickedly at
times, will hoary-bearded men, with blood as cold and thin as
water in their veins, hack and slash with it ! They know—the
grim, palsied warriors —how the weapon will cut heart-strings;
they know what wounds it will inflict ; but then, the wounds
bleed inwardly : there is no outward and visible hurt to call for
the coroner; and so the victim may die, and show, as gossips
have it, a very handsome corpse, whilst homicidal avarice, with
no drop of outward gore upon his hands—no damning spots seen
by the world's naked eye—mixes in the world, a very respectable
old gentleman; a man who has a file of receipts to show for
everything; a man who never did owe a shilling; and above all,
a man who takes all the good he gets as nothing more than a
proper payment for his exceeding respectability. He is a pattern
man ; and for such men heaven rains manna ; only in these days
the shower comes down in gold.
Ebenezer Snipeton, we say, had a high, and therefore market-
able opinion of himself; for the larger the man's self-esteem the
surer is he of putting it off in the world's mart. The small
dealer in conceit may wait from the opening to the closing of the
market, and not a soul shall carry away his little pennyworth ;
now the large holder is certain of a quick demand for all his
stock. Men are taken by its extent, and close with him imme-
diately. If, reader, you wanted to buy one single egg, would you
purchase that one egg of the poor, rascal dealer, who had only
one egg to sell ? Answer us, truly. Behold the modest trades-
man. He stands shrinkingly, with one leg drawn up, and his ten
fingers interlaced lackadaisically, the while his soul, in its more
than maiden bashfulness, would retreat, get away, escape anyhow
from its consciousness. And so he stands, all but hopeless behind
his one egg. He feels a blush crawl over his face—for there are
blushes that do crawl—as you pass by him, for pass him you do.
It is true you want but one egg; nevertheless, to bring only
one egg to market shows a misery, a meanness in the man, that
in the generous heat of your heart's-blood, you most manfully
despise. And, therefore, you straddle on to the tradesman who
stands behind a little mountain of eggs; and timidly asking for one
—it is so very poor, so wretched a bit of huckstering, you are
ashamed to be seen at it—you take the first egg offered you, and
humbly laying down your halfpenny farthing, vanish straight
away ! As it is with eggs, so, in the world-market, is it with
human pretensions. The man with a small, single conceit is
122 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
shunned, a silly, miserable fellow ; but the brave, wholesale-
dealer, the man of a thousand pretensions, is beset by buyers.
Now, Ebenezer was one of your merchants of ten thousand eggs
—and though to others they had proved addled, they had never-
theless been gold to him. And yet, did Ebenezer's wife—his
ripe, red-lipped spouse of two-and-twenty—somehow touch her
husband with a strange, a painful humility. He had sixty iron
winters—and every one of them plain as an iron-bar—in his face.
Time had used his visage as Robinson Crusoe used his wooden
calendar, notching every day in it. And what was worse, though
Time had kept an honest account—and what, indeed, so honest,
so terribly honest as Time !—nevertheless, he had so marked the
countenance—(it is a shabby, shameful trick Time has with some
faces)—that every mark to the thoughtless eye counted well-nigh
double. And Snipeton knew this. He knew, too, that upon his
nose—half-way, like sentinel on the middle of a bridge—there
was a wart very much bigger than a pea, with bristles, sticking
like black pins in it. Now, this wart Ebenezer in his bachelor
days had thought of like a philosopher; that is, he had never
thought about it. Nay, his honeymoon had almost waned into
the cold, real moon that was ever after to blink upon his marriage
life, ere Ebenezer thought of his wrinkled, pouch-like cheeks; of
his more terrible wart. And then did every bristle burn in it, as
though it was turned to red hot wire : then was he plagued, tor-
mented by the thought of the wart, as by some avenging imp.
He seemed to have become all wart : to be one unsightly
excrescence. The pauper world envied the happiness of Ebenezer
Snipeton : with such wealth, with such a wife, oh, what a blessed
man But the world knew not the torments of the wart | And
wherefore was Ebenezer thus suddenly mortified ? We have
said, he had taken a wife as young, and fresh, and beautiful as
spring. And therefore, after a short season, was Ebenezer in
misery. He looked at his wife's beauty, and then he thought of
his withered face—that felon wart 1 In her very loveliness—
like a satyr drinking at a crystal fount—he saw his own deformity.
Was it possible she could love him The self-put question—and
he could not but ask it, with her, alone, in bed, at board—that
tormenting question still would whisper, Snake-voiced in his ear,
could she love him 7 And his heart—his heart that heretofore
had been cold and blooded like a fish—would shrink and tremble,
and dare not answer. True it was, she was obedient ; too
obedient. She did his bidding promptly, humbly, as though he
had bought her for his slave. And so, in truth, he had : and
there had been a grave man of the church, grave witnesses, too,
to bind the bargain. Verily, he had bought her; and on her
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 123
Small white finger—it was plain to all who saw her—she wore
the manacle of her purchaser.
And Ebenezer, as his doubt grew stronger—as the memory of
his outside ugliness became to him a daily spectre—resolved to
hide this human ware, this pretty chattel of flesh and blood, far
away in rustic scenes. And therefore bought he a secluded
house, half-buried amid gloomy trees—eypress and dead man's
yew—and this house, in the imp-like playfulness of his soul, he
called Dovesnest. That it should be so very near the Devil's
Elbow was of no matter to Ebenezer; nay, there was something
quaint, Odd, fantastic in the contrast ; a grim humour that a little
tickled him.
And thus, reader, have we at an important moment—if this
Small toy of a history may be allowed to have important moments
—thus have we paused to sketch the owner of Dovesnest ; to
digress on his bachelor confidence, and his married modesty; to
speak of his love, and of the demon ugliness—the wrinkles and
the ever-burning wart—that perplexed it. All this delay, we
know, is a gross misdemeanour committed on the reader of
romance ; who, when two lovers meet in misery and peril, has
all his heart and understanding for them alone; and cares not
that the writer—their honoured parent, be it remembered—
should walk out upon the foolscap, and without ever so much as
asking permission, begin balancing some peacock’s feather on his
nose ; talking the while of the deep Argus’ eye—purple and
green and gold, glowing at the end of it ; if, indeed, it be an
Argus’ eye. For ourselves, we doubt the truth of the trans-
formation. We see in the story nothing but a wicked parable,
reflecting most ungraciously on the meekness and modesty of the
last-made sex; the straitened rib. Juno, we are told, when she
had killed Argus, took the poor fellow’s eyes and fixed them for
ever and for ever on her peacock's tail. Now, what is most
unseemingly shadowed forth in this ' Why, a most mean,
pusillanimous insinuation that when a woman wears a most
beautiful gown, she desires that the eyes of all the world may
hang upon it. This we take to be the meaning of-but we are
balancing the feather again : and here is poor St. James bleeding
On the couch whilst—stony-hearted theorists that we are —we
are talking of peacocks.
Mrs. Snipeton—(such was the name which, among the other
wrongs Ebenezer, the money-merchant, had committed upon the
young and beautiful creature who knelt at the side of St. James)
—Mrs. Snipeton—no ; it will not, do. We will not meddle with
the ugly gift of her husband : we will rather owe an obligation
to her godfathers and godmothers.

124 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
Clarissa still knelt at the side of St. James; and even Mrs.
Dorothy Vale marvelled at the whiteness of her mistress's cheeks
—at the big tears that rolled from her upraised eyes—whilst her
lips moved as though in passionate prayer. “God bless me !”
said Mrs. Vale, “I don't think the young man's dead, but—oh,
the goodness what a pretty couch his wound will make | Ha 1
people have no thought, or they'd have taken him into the
kitchen. He'll be worse than five pound to that couch if a.
groat. You can get out anything but blood,” said Mrs. Vale.
“If it had been wine, I shouldn’t have minded it.”
“He’s dying ! He's murdered—his blood is on my head ’’
cried Clarissa, as Mrs. Wilton returned to the room.
“Be tranquil ; pray be calm,” said Mrs. Wilton in a tone of
something like command that, but for the misery of the moment,
could not have escaped Clarissa ; for Mrs. Wilton was only house-
keeper at Dovesnest. “He will be well—quite well. I have
despatched Nicholas for the surgeon; though I think I have
skill sufficient to save the fee.” And this she said in so hopeful
a tone, that Clarissa languidly smiled at the encouragement.
“You will leave the gentleman with me and Dorothy. We will
sit up with him.”
“No,” said Clarissa, with a calm determination, seating herself
near the wounded man. “ No.”
“Mrs. Snipeton ’’ cried the housekeeper in a tone of mixed
remonstrance and reproach.
“My husband being absent, it is my duty—yes, my duty”—
repeated Clarissa, “to attend to the hospitality of his house.”
“Hospitality,” repeated Mrs. Wilton; and her cold, yet anxious
eye glanced at Clarissa, who, slightly frowning, repelled the look.
“As you will, Mrs. Snipeton—as you will, Mrs. Snipeton,” and
the housekeeper gave an emphasis to the conjugal name that
made its bearer wince as at a sudden pain. “There is no danger
Inow, I am sure,” she continued ; washing the wound, whilst the
sufferer every moment breathed more freely. At length, con-
sciousness returned. He knew the face that looked with such
earnest pity on him.
“Clarissa—Clarissa ” cried St. James.
“Be silent—you must be silent,” said Mrs. Wilton, with some-
what more than the authority of a nurse—“You must not speak
—indeed, you must not—you are hurt, greatly hurt, and for
your own sake—for more than your own sake"—and the lips of
the speaker trembled and grew pale—“yes, for more than your
own sake, you must be silent.”
“All will be well, sir,” said Clarissa ; “trust me, you are in
careful hands. The doctor will be here, and—”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 125
“Nay, I need none, fair lady,” answered St. James; “for T
am already in careful hands. Indeed, I know it—feel it.”
“Oh, you must be silent—indeed you must,” urged Mrs.
Wilton imperatively; and then she added in a voice of sorrow,
and with a most troubled look, “ otherwise you know not the
danger, the misery that may befal you. Mrs. Snipeton,” and
again she turned with anxious face towards Clarissa, “Dorothy
and I can watch.”
Clarissa made no answer ; but gravely bowed her head. Mrs.
Wilton, suppressing a sigh, spoke no further; ; but busied herself
with her patient's wound, whilst Clarissa and St. James mutely
interchanged looks that went to the heart of the saddened, the
unheeded housekeeper.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE hall clock had struck five. The beauty of a spring morn-
ing was upon the earth. The sun shone into the sick man's
room ; green leaves rustled at his window ; and a robin, perched
on the topmost branch of a tall holly, sang a song of thankful
gladness to the world. Clarissa, who had watched all night,
walked in the garden. How fresh and full of hope was all around
her; how the very heart of the earth seemed to beat with the
new life of spring ! And she, who was made to sympathise with
all that was beautiful—she, who was formed to dwell on this
earth as in a solemn place, seeing in even its meanest things
adornments of a holy temple; vessels sacred to the service of
glorifying nature; why to her, in that hour, all around was but a
painted scene ; an unreal thing that with its mockery pained her
wearied heart ; yearning as it did for what lay beyond. Who
could have thought—who had seen that beautiful creature—that
she walked with death And yet, with no eyes, no ears, for the
lovely sights and sounds about her, she walked and talked with
the great Comforter. Her look was solemn, too ; as though
caught from her companion. Her eye was full and clear ; and
now gleaming strangely as with the light of another world.
And now she would press her forehead with her small thin hand,
as though to soothe its misery; and now she would look clouded
and perplexed ; and now, so sweet a smile of patience would
break into her face, that it was to wrong her nobleness to pity
her. And still—as we have said—she talked with death.
St. James lay in a deep sleep. For a few moments he had
126 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
been left alone—his door unclosed. With soft, but sudden step,
a man entered the apartment. It was Ebenezer Snipeton. He
had slept half-way on his journey from London ; and rising early
had ridden hard that he might surprise his solitary wife with a
husband's smiles at breakfast. The morning was so beautiful
that its spirit had entered even the heart of Ebenezer; and so,
he had ridden, for him, very gaily along. Yes; he was touched
by the season. He felt—or thought he felt—that there was
something under the blue sky, something almost as good as ready
gold. He looked with a favourable eye upon the primroses that
lighted up the hedge-sides, and thought them really pretty:
thought that, when all was said, there might really be some use
in flowers. Once, too, he checked his horse into a slow walk,
that he might listen to a lark that sang above him, and with its
gushing melody made the sweet air throb. He smiled too, grimly
smiled, at the cunning of two magpies that, alighted from a tall
elm, walked in the road, talking—though with unslit tongues—
of their family’s affairs; of where best to provide worms for
their little ones; of their plumage, sprouting daily ; of the time
when they would fly alone; and of other matters, perhaps, too
familiar to the reader, if he be parental. And Ebenezer thought
nothing was so beautiful as the country; as, in truth, other men
like Ebenezer might have thought at four or five in the morning:
but then as 'Change hours approach, the romance fades with the
early mist ; and at 10, A.M., the Arcadian somehow finds himself
the scrivener. Thus, too, the early rising man of law—suburban
lodged—may before breakfast feel his heart leap with the lambkins
in the mead; but, breakfast swallowed, he journeys with unabated
zeal, inexorable to the parchment.
And Ebenezer, as he rode, determined henceforth to look on
everything with smiling eyes. Yes; he had before always stared
at the wrong side of the tapestry. He would henceforth amend
such unprofitable foolishness. He had all to make man happy;
wealth, a lovely wife, and no gout. To be sure, there were a few
things of former times that—well, he would hope there was time
enough to think of them. Of them, when the time came, he
would repent ; and that, too, most vehemently. And so Ebenezer
forgot his wrinkled face ; almost forgot the wart upon his nose.
And Clarissa loved him 7 Of course. It was not her nature to
be impetuous: no, she was mild and nun-like ; he had chosen
her for those rare qualities, but she loved him as a meek and
modest gentlewoman ought to love her husband. This sweet
conviction brought Ebenezer to his court-yard door. It was
open. Well, there was nothing strange in that. Nicholas, of
course, was up ; and yet—where was he Ebenezer's heart
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 127
seemed to fall fatholms; to drop in his body, like a plummet. In
a moment, the earth was disenchanted. There, before the eyes
of Ebenezer, stood Ebenezer withered, with the bristled wart
bigger than ever upon his nose; in his sudden despair, he saw
his bad gifts magnified. And there was something, too, about
the house that looked suspicious. The windows seemed to leer
at him. The old house-dog crawled towards him, with no wag
in his tail. The sparrows chirped mockingly. The house now
looked as though it held a corpse—and now, as though deserted.
Ebenezer held his breath and listened. He heard nothing—
nothing. And now, far, far away, from a thick, night-dark wood,
the cuckoo shouted. Ebenezer passed into the court-yard, and
entered his silent house. In a few moments he stood beside the
couch of the sleeping St. James. -
A terrible darkness fell upon the old man’s face as he gazed
at the patient. A tumult, an agony of heart was raging within
him, and he shook like a reed. Still he was silent ; silent and
struggling to master the fury that possessed him. He breathed
heavily ; and then seated himself in a chair, and still with the
eyes of a ghost looked on the sleeper. TXevilish thoughts passed
through the old man’s brain : murder whispered in his ear, and
still he fiercely smiled and listened. With his five fingers he
could do it—strangle the disturber in his sleep. And the old
man looked at his hands and chuckled. And now there is a quick
step in the passage; and now, Clarissa enters the apartment.
“Dear sir! husband,” at length she uttered.
Suddenly standing statue-like, the old man with pointing figure,
and fierce accusing face, asked “Who is this?”
Ere Clarissa could answer, hasty feet were heard in the hall,
and Mrs. Wilton entered the room, followed by a thick-set man,
with a red, round, oily face, and his hair matted with stale
powder. He was dressed in a very brown black coat, that
scarcely looked made for him ; with buckskin breeches, and high
riding boots. Under one arm he carried a thick-thonged whip ;
and in his right hand, prominently held forth, as challenging the
eyes of all men, a rusty beaver. “Couldn’t come before—very
sorry, but it always is so ; those paupers—I’m sure of it, it’s
like 'em—they always do it on purpose. It’s a part of the wicked
obstinacy of the poor, and I don’t know, sir, whether you’ve
observed it ; but the poor are always obstimate—it’s in ’em from
the beginning. I’ve not brought so many into the world—the
more my ill-luck—without knowing their wickedness from the
first.” Thus spoke, in high, brassy voice, Mr. Peter Crossbone—
unconsciously flattered by the poor as Doctor Crossbone—parish
doctor; who, when sought for at his house by Nicholas, was four
128 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
miles away, summoned to assist the introduction of another
pauper baby into this over-stocked, and therefore pauperised
planet. What Mercury, Venus, and other respectable planets
must think of this our reckless, disreputable mother earth—this
workhouse planet, the shame and reproach of all better systems—
it is not for a son of earth to say. But, Surely, if Mercury, Venus,
and others know anything of Our goings on, they must now and
then look down upon us with ineffable scorn : at least, they ought.
And yet, they do not ; but with all our sins and all our foolish-
ness, still beam upon us, with eyes of love and tenderness.
The voice of Crossbone immediately awakened the patient.
Crossbone had, however, in his time sent so many patients to
sleep, that he might fairly be permitted occasionally to disturb a
slumberer. St. James, observing Snipeton, rose up hastily, and
with his blood burning in his face, was about to speak.
“You must be quiet, sir. Mrs. Wilton has told me all that a
mere woman can know of your case, and—I am sorry to say it to
you, sir,”—and here Crossbone shook his head, and heaved a
laborious sigh—“I’m sorry to say it, you must be very quiet.”
“But, Mr. Snipeton,” cried St. James, “permit me even now
to explain—”
“The doctor says, no,” answered Snipeton, and his lip curled,
“you must be quiet. There will be time for us to talk, when
your wounds are healed. For the present, we will leave you with
your surgeon.” And Snipeton, looking command at his wife,
quitted the room, followed by his obedient, trembling helpmate.
“Phwegh 1 ° cried Crossbone, possessing himself of his patient's
wrist, “a race-horse pulse ; a mile a minute. Fever, very high.
Let me look at your tongue, sir; don’t laugh, sir—pray don’t
laugh’’—for St. James was already tittering at the solemnity of
Crossbone—“a doctor is the last man to be laughed at.”
“That's true indeed : I never before felt the force of that
truth,” said St. James.
“Your tongue, sir, if you please ?” St. James, mastering his
mirth, displayed that organ.
“Ha! Humph : Tongue like a chalk-pit. This, sir,” and here
Crossbone instinctively thrust both his hands into his pockets,
“this will be a long bout, sir—a very long bout.”
“I think not—I feel not,” said St. James, smiling. “'Tis
nothing—a mere nothing.”
“Ha, sir!” cried Crossbone. “'Tis pleasant—droll, some-
times—to hear what people call nothing; and in a few days,
they’re gone, sir; entirely gone. But I’ll not alarm you—I
have had worse cases—nevertheless, sir, a man with a hole in his
skull, such a hole as that ”—and here Crossbone tightly closed
2
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEs. 129
his eyelids, and gave a sharp, short shake of the head—“but I’ll
not alarm you. Still, sir, if you've any little affairs to make
straight—there’s a jewel of a lawyer only five miles off, the
prettiest hand at a will—”
“I’ll not trouble him this bout, doctor,” said St. James, who
saw as clearly into Crossbone, as though, like Momus' man, he
wore a pane of the best plate-glass in his bosom. “I have every
faith in you.”
“Sir, the confidence is flattering: and I think between us, we
may cheat the worms. Nevertheless, it 's an ugly blow—the
eighth of an inch more to the right or left, and—”
“I know what you would say,” cried St. James. “Blows are
generally dealt after that fashion; there 's great good luck in
'em. The faculty are often much indebted to the eighth of an
inch, more or less.”
“You must not talk, sir; indeed, you must not, delighted as
otherwise I should be to hear you.-Yes: now I see the whole of
the mischief: now I am thoroughly possessed of the matter,”
and Crossbone looked with an air of considerable satisfaction at
the wound, “’Twill be a tedious, but a beautiful case. Pray,
sir, should you know the ruffian who has nearly deprived the
world of what I am sure will be-with a blessing on my poor
assistance *-and here Crossbone softly closed his hands and
bowed—“one of its noblest ornaments : Should you know the
Wretch . .”
“I don’t know—perhaps—I can’t say,” answered St. James,
carelessly.
“When you see him, no doubt 7 And I am delighted to inform
you the villain is secured. With the blessing of justice he'll be
hanged ; which will be a great consolation to all the neighbour-
hood. Yes; I heard it all, as I came along. The ruffian, with
your blood upon his hands, was taken at the Lamb and Star—
taken with a purse of gold in his pocket. His execution will be
a holiday for the whole country ;” and Crossbone spoke as of a
coming jubilee.
“Taken, is he 7” cried St. James, with a vexed look. “I’m
sorry for it. Come, doctor, I must leave this to-day. My hurt is
but a trifle ; but I can feel, can appreciate your professional
tenderness. I must make towards London this very morning.”
“Humph 1 Well, sir, we’ll talk about it ; we'll see what 's to
be done ;” said Crossbone, with sudden melancholy at the resolute.
manner of his head-strong patient. “Nevertheless, you must let
me dress your wound, and then take a little potion that I’ll make
up for you, and then—we shall see.” Hereupon, St. James placidly
resigned himself to the hands of Crossbone, who very leisurely
R
130 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
drest the wound, again and again declaring that the patient was
only on this side of the grave by the eighth of an inch. There
never had been a skull so curiously broken. At length, Cross-
bone took his leave of the sufferer, with the benevolent assurance
that he would make up something nice for him ; of which the
patient sileully delei Luilled 1100 lo swallow a drop.
“Well, doctor 7” asked Snipeton, with a savage leer, as Cross-
bone passed into the hall,—“how is his lordship now ”
“Lordship !” exclaimed Crossbone, now looking wonderment,
and now smirking—“ is he really a lord 2 Bless me !”
“How is he, man 7 ° cried Snipeton, fiercely.
“ Hush ' Mr. Snipeton—hush, we can’t talk here ; for I’ve a
great responsibility—I feel it, a great responsibility—hush, my
dear sir—hush | * and Crossbone trod silently as though he walked
on felt, and lifting his finger with an air of professional command,
he led Snipeton into an adjoining apartment, where sat Clarissa,
pale and motionless. Here Snipeton expected an answer to his
question ; but Crossbone, raising his eyes and his closed hands—
a favourite gesture with him when deeply moved—only said,
“ and he is a lord | *
“Well, lords die, don't they "" asked Snipeton, with a sneer.
“Why ’’—Crossbone unconsciously hesitated—“yes. And,
between ourselves, Mr. Snipeton, I can speak confidently on the
matter, having the gentleman in my hands, he is ”—Crossbone
gave a knell-like emphasis to every syllable—“he is in very great
danger.”
“Indeed ?” cried old Snipeton, and a smile lighted up his
withered face, and he looked intently at his wife, as her hand
unconsciously grasped her chair. “Indeed 7” repeated the old
man very blithely.
“Your pardon, for a minute, my good sir,” said the apothecary.
“I’ll just send this to my assistant—your man Nicholas must
mount and gallop—for there’s a life, a very dear life to the
country no doubt, depending on it.” And Crossbone proceeded
to write his sentence in his best bad Latin.
Clarissa felt that her husband's eye was upon her ; yet sat she
statue-like, with a terrible calmness in her pale face. The old
man, his heart stung by scorpion jealousy, gazed on her with
Savage satisfaction. And she knew this; and still was calm,
tranquil as stone. She felt the hate that fed upon her misery,
yet shrank not from its tooth.
“Mrs. Wilton,” said Crossbone, as the housekeeper timidly
entered the room, “you'll give this to Nicholas—tell him to gallop
with it to my assistant, Mr. Sims; and, above all, let him take
care of the medicine, for there's life and death—a lord’s life and
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 131
death in it,” said the doctor, unconscious of the probable truth he
uttered. -
“And his lordship,” said old Snipeton, gently rubbing his hands,
“his lordship is in very great danger ?”
“The fact is, Mr. Snipeton, there are men—I blush to say it,
who belong to our glorious profession—there are men who always
magnify a case that they may magnify their own small abilities,
their next-to-nothing talent, in the treatment of it. I need not
say that Peter Crossbone is not such a man. But this, sir, I will
say; that every week of my life I do such things here in the
country—hedge-side practice, sir, nothing more ; hedge-side
practice ;-such things that if any one of 'em was done in London,
that one would lift me into my carriage, and give me a cane with
ten pounds’ worth of virgin gold upon it. But, sir, no man can
cultivate a reputation among paupers. It’s no matter what cure
you make ; they’re thought things of course ; paupers are known
to stand anythiag. Why there was a case of hip-joint I had—
there never was so sweet a case. If that hip-joint had been a
lord's, as I say, I ought to have stepped from it into my carriage.
But it was a cow-boy's, sir; a wretched cow-boy's ; a lad very
evilly-disposed—very: he’ll be hanged, I’ve no doubt, and, sir,
isn't it a dreadful thing to consider, that a man's genius—a case
like that—should go to the gallows, and never be heard of . I
put it to you, sir, isn't it dreadful ?”
Snipeton grunted something that Crossbone took as an affirma-
tive ; and, thus encouraged, proceeded. “Ha, sir! how different
is London practice among people who really are people ! What's
that, sir, to the—yes, I must say it—to the disgrace of being a
parish doctor 7 Now, sir, the man—the man-midwife, sir, in a
proper walk of society, feels that he is nobly employed. He's
bringing dukes and lords into the world; he’s what I call culti-
vating the lilies, that, as they say, neither toil nor spin : that's a
pleasure—that's an honour—that's a delight. But what does a
parish man-midwife do, sir? Why, he brings paupers upon the
earth: he does nothing but cultivate weeds, sir—weeds ; and if
he is a man of any feeling, sir, he can’t but feel it as a thing
beneath him. Mr. Snipeton, I’m almost ashamed of myself to
declare, that within these eight-and-forty hours I’ve brought three
more weeds into the world.”
“Humph I’” said Snipeton.
“And, as a man who wishes well to his country, you may guess
my feelings. How different, now, with the man who practises
among people who, as I say, are people ! A beautiful high-life
baby is born. The practitioner may at once be proud of it. In
its first little Squeal he hears the voice, as I may say, of the
K 2
132 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
House of Lords. In its little head he sees, if I may be allowed to
use the expression, the ovaria of acts of parliament ; for he's a
born law-maker. About its little, kicking, red leg, he already
beholds the most noble Order of the Garter. Now, sir, this is
something to make a man proud of his handiwork: but, sir, what
is the reflection of the parish doctor He never works for his
country. No ; when he looks upon a baby—if he's any feelings
worthy of a man—he must feel that he's brought so much offal
into the world. He looks upon a head which is to have nothing
put into it ; nothing, perhaps, but sedition and rebellion, and all
that infamy. He sees little fingers that are born—yes, sir, born—
to set wires for hares; and the fact is, if, as I say, the man has
feelings, he feels that he’s an abettor of poaching, and all sorts of
wickedness;–of wickedness that at last—and it’s very right it
should be so—at last takes the creature to the gallows. Now, sir,
isn’t it a dreadful thing for a man—for a professional man, for a
man who has had a deal of money spent upon his education—isn’t
it a dreadful thing for him to know that he may be only a sort of
purveyor to the gallows 7 I feel the wrong, sir; feel it, acutely,
here ;” and Crossbone tapped his left side with his fore-finger.
“I know that I’m an abettor to a crying evil, going about as I
do, bringing weeds into the world: but I can't help it, it's my
business: nevertheless I feel it. Something ought to be done to
put a stop to it : I’m not politician enough to say what ; but unless
something's done, all I know is this, the weeds will certainly over-
grow the lilies.”
“And your patient, his gallant and amiable lordship,” said
Snipeton, still eyeing his wife, “is in danger ?”
“Great danger,” answered Crossbone. “Nevertheless, with a
blessing—understand me, Mr. Snipeton, with a blessing, for how-
ever wondrous my cure, I hope I have not the presumption to take
it all to myself—no, I trust, without offence be it said, to some
practitioners I could name, that I have some religion—therefore,
with a blessing, his lordship may be set upon his legs. But it will
be a long job, a very long job ; and he mustn't be removed. Just
now, he 's in a slight delirium ; talked about travelling towards
London this very day. 'Twould be death, sir; certain death.”
And Crossbone blew his nose.
“Indeed Certain death 7" repeated Snipeton, smiling grimly ;
and still watching the face of his wife. “I fear—I mean I hope
—Mr. Crossbone, that your anxiety for so good, so handsome a
young man—a nobleman too—may, without any real cause,
increase your fears. For, as you say, we ought to be anxious for
the lilies.”
“I’d have given the worth of of I don't know what—could
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 133
I have been here before. Two or three hours earlier might have
made all the difference ; for his lordship has great nervous irrita-
bility; is most wonderfully and delicately strung. But I was
away, as I say, producing the weeds, sir. Yes, I've ridden I’m
ashamed to own how many miles since ten o’clock last night ; and
what’s my reward, sir? What, as parish doctor and midwife, is
my consolation ? Why this, sir; that I’ve helped to bring misery
and want, and I don’t know how many other sorts of vices into the
world, when I might—for without vanity I will say it—when I
might have been employed for the future honour and glory of my
country. Ha, Mr. Snipeton, happy is the professional man who
labours among the lilies Sweet is his satisfaction | Now, sir,
when I ride home early in the morning—for the parish people, as
I say, always make a point of knocking a man up at the most un-
seasonable hour ; they do it on purpose, sir, to show the power they
have over you—now, sir, when I’m riding home, what 's my feel-
ings Why, sir, as a lover of my country, there 's something in
my breast that won’t let me feel happy and comfortable. There 's
something that continually reproaches me with having helped to
add to the incumbrance of the nation : as I say, that distresses me
with the thought that I’ve been cultivating weeds, sir, nothing but
weeds. Now a job like the present I look upon as a reward for
my past misfortunes. It is a beautiful case !”
“Because so full of danger ?” said Snipeton, still looking at his
pale and silent wife.
“It is impossible that a blow could have been struck more
favourably for a skilful surgeon. The sixteenth part of an inch,
sir, more or less on One side or the other, and that young man
must have been a very handsome corpse.”
Snipeton made no answer ; but with clenched teeth, and sup-
pressed breath, still glared at his wife. Passion shook him, yet
he controlled it ; his eyes still upon the pale face that every
moment grew whiter. Another instant, and Clarissa fell back in
her chair, speechless, motionless. Her husband moved not, but
groaned despairingly. -
“Fainted 1" cried Crossbone. “Call Mrs. Wilton,” and at the
same moment the housekeeper appeared. With anguish in her
look she hastened to her mistress. “Nothing, nothing at all,”
said the apothecary ; and then, with a smirk towards Snipeton,
“nothing, my dear sir, but what's to be expected.”
“She’s worse, sir—much worse, I fear, than you suppose,”
said Mrs. Wilton, and she trembled.
“I think, ma'am,” replied Crossbone with true pill-box dignity,
“I think I ought to know how ill a lady is, and how ill she ought
to be. Have you no salts—no water, in the house ?”
134 ST. GILES AND ST". JAMES.
“I shall be better—in a moment, better,” said Clarissa feebly;
and then grasping the arm of Mrs. Wilton, she added, “help me
to my room.” She then rose with an effort, and supported by the
housekeeper, quitted the apartment. And still her husband fol-
lowed her with eyes glaring like a wild beast's. Then, looking
up, he caught the relaxed, the simpering face of the apothecary.
“In the name of the fiends,” cried Snipeton, fiercely, “where-
fore, with that monkey face, do you grin at me !”
“My dear sir,” said Crossbone, smiling still more laboriously,
“my dear sir, you’re a happy man l’’
“Happy l’ cried Snipeton, in a hoarse voice, and with a look of
deepest misery—“Happy l’”
“Of course. You ought to be. What more delightful than
the hope of eh?—a growing comfort to your declining years—
a staff, as the saying is, to your old age 7 °
The mystic meaning of the apothecary flashed upon the hus-
band; the old man shook, as though ague-stricken, and covering
his face with his hands, he fell heavily as lead into a chair.
Mr. Crossbone was silent in his astonishment. He looked won-
deringly about him. Was his practice to be so greatly enlarged
in one day ? Could it be possible that Snipeton, a man who wore
like oak, could be ill 7 Snipeton, to be sure, was not, to Cross-
bone's thought, a lily patient ; but then, how very far was he
above the weeds ! The apothecary was about to feel Snipeton's
pulse ; had the professional fingers on the wrist, when the old
man snatched his arm away, and that with a vigour that well
migh carried Crossbone off his legs. The apothecary was about to
pay some equivocal compliment to the old gentleman's strength,
when Nicholas, flustered, with a startling piece of news, ran in
with the medicine duly compounded by Mr. Sims.
“They was bringing the murderer to the house, that the gen-
tleman’— for Nicholas knew not the sufferer was a lord—
“might 'dentify the bloodspiller afore he died.”
And Nicholas repeated truly what he had heard. Rumour had
travelled—and she rarely goes so fast as when drawn by lies—to
the Lamb and Star. And there—not stopping to alight—she
hallooed into the gaping ears of the landlady the terrible intelli-
gence that the young gentleman almost murdered last night, lay
at Dovesnest; that his wound was mortal ; that he was dying
fast ; that he had already made his will, Dorothy Vale and
Ebenezer Snipeton having duly witnessed it. This news, sooner
than smoke, filled every corner of the house. Great was the stir
throughout the Lamb and Star. Tipps, the constable, on the
instant, wore a more solemn look of authority; on the instant,
summoned St. Giles to prepare for his removal, at the same time
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 135
cautiously feeling the handcuffs to learn if they still remained
true to their trust. The barber left a pedlar half-shaved to
accompany the party; and in a few minutes the horse was put to
the cart; and St. Giles, who spoke not a syllable, was seated in
it between Tipps and the landlord, Mr. Blink having donned his
Sunday coat and waistcoat, that he might pay proper respect to
the solemnity; whilst the barber, grasping a cudgel, guarded the
culprit from behind. “Stop ! shall I take the blunderbuss, for
fear !” asked the landlord of Tipps, and eyeing St. Giles. “No,”
answered the constable, smiling confidently and looking affec-
tionately at the manacle, “no ; them dear cuffs never deceived
me yet.” Crack went the whip—away started the horse; and
Tipps, the landlord, and the barber, looked about them freshly,
happily; Smiling gaily in the morning sun—gaily as though they
were carrying a sheep to market—ay, a sheep with a golden
fleece.
And the landlady watched the whirling wheels, and with heart-
warm wish (poor soul!) wished that the wretch might be hanged,
yes, fifty feet high. And Becky, the maid, in her deep pity,
braving the tongue of her mistress, stood sobbing in the road, and
then, as suddenly inspired, plucked off one of her old shoes,
and flung it after St. Giles, with kindly superstition as she said
for luck. “For she know’d it, and could swear it ; the poor
Cretur's hands was as innocent of blood as any babby’s.” Foolish
Becky | By such presumptuous pity—a pity, as Mrs. Blink
thought, flying in the face of all respectability, did you fearfully
risk the place of maid-of-all-work at a hedge-side hotel; a place
worth a certain forty shillings a year, besides the complimentary
half-pence.
Return we to Nicholas. Ere Snipeton and Crossbone were well
possessed of the news, the cart drove up before the window. “And
there is the murderer ’’ cried Crossbone. “Bless me ! there’s
no need at all to try that man—there's every letter of Cain all
over the villain's face. A child at the horn-book might spell it.
And now they’re going to bring him in. Ha my fine fellow,”
added the apothecary, as St. Giles alighted ; “there's a cart you
won't get into so quickly, I can tell you. What a bold looking
villain With so much blood upon him, too ! A lord’s blood,
and to look so brazenly What do you think, Mr. Snipeton 7 °
Now, Snipeton was not a man of overflowing charity, yet, oddly
enough, he looked at St. Giles with placid eyes. The old man,
to the scandal of Crossbone, merely said, “Poor fellow ! He looks
in sad plight. Poor fellow !”
In a few moments, Tipps, the constable, was shown to the
presence of the master of Dovesnest. “He was very sorry to
136 S'T. GILES AND ST. JAMES
make a hubbub in his honour's house, but as the gentleman was
dying, there was no time to be lost afore he swore to the murderer.
Sam, from the Lamb and Star, had gone off to the justice to tell
him all about it, and in a jiffy Mr. Wattles would be there.”
“I think,” observed Crossbone, “I think I had better see how
my distinguished patient is.” With this, the apothecary, making
himself up for the important task, softly quitted the room.
“And you’re sure you have the right man 7" asked Snipeton
of the constable.
“Never made a blunder in all my life, sir,’
with a mild pride.
“Mr. Justice Wattles,” cried Nicholas, big with the words, and
showing in the magistrate.
“Mr. Snipeton,” said Wattles, “this business is—”
But the Justice was suddenly stopped by the doctor. Crossbone
rushed in, slightly pale and much agitated, exclaiming, “The
patient's gone !”
“Not dead l’’ cried Snipeton, exultingly, and rubbing his hands.
“Dead 7 no But he’s gone—left the house—vanished;—come
and see . * Crossbone, followed by all, rushed to the room in
which, some minutes before, lay the murdered St. James.
He was gone ! All were astonished. So great was the surprise,
not a word was spoken ; until Dorothy Vale, who had crept into
the room, with her cold, calm voice, addressed the apothecary.
Bointing to the stains in the couch, she said, “If you please, sir
can you give me nothing to take out that blood l’”
’ answered Tipps,
CHAPTER XIV,
“AND now,” thinks the reader, “St. Giles is free. There is
no charge against him ; he is not the murderer men, in his
wretchedness, took him for. St. James, with his injuries upon
him, has withdrawn himself; and once again the world lies wide
before St. Giles.” Not so. There still remains, to his confusion,
a hard accuser. St. Giles is destitute. In the teeming, luxurious
county of Kent, amidst God’s promises of plenty to man, he is a
guilty interloper. He may not grasp a handful of the soil, he
cannot purchase one blade of wheat ; he is a pauper and a vagrant;
a foul presence in the world’s garden, and must therefore be
punished for his intrusion. Every rag he carries is an accusing
tongue: he is destitute and wandering : he has strayed into the
paradise of the well-to-do, and must be sharply reproved for his
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 137
whereabout. And therefore St. Giles will be committed for a
season to the county gaol, as a rogue and vagabond. The roguery
is not proved upon him, but it has been shown that whilst decent
people have goose-beds and weather-proof chambers, he, at the
best, has straw and a barn. It is, too, made a misdemeanor
against mother earth to sleep upon her naked breast, with only
the heavens above the sleeper; and as St. Giles had often so
offended—he could not deny the iniquity—he was, we say, com-
mitted to gaol by Justice Wattles, as rogue and vagabond. Now,
to punish a man for having nothing, is surely a sport invented by
Beelzebub for the pleasure of the rich ; yes, to whip a rascal for
his rags is to pay flattering homage to cloth of gold. Nothing
was proved against St. Giles but want ; which, being high treason
against the majesty of property, that large offence might be
reasonably supposed to contain every other.
“Something, I’ve no doubt, will be brought against him,”
said Justice Wattles; “in the mean time, he stands committed
as a rogue and vagabond.” And Tipps, the constable, led away
his prisoner, preceded by the host of the Lamb and Star ; whilst
the dispirited barber very dolorously expressed his disappoint-
ment, “that he left his business and all, and only for a ragamuffin
as wasn’t worth salt | If he hadn’t thought him a murderer,
he'd never have troubled his head with such rubbish.” “No,
and you’d never have had my cart,” said the landlord to Tipps.
“I thought the fellow would turn out somebody; and he’s
nothing but a vagrom. Come up !” cried the Lamb and Star;
and sharply whipping his horse to ease his own bad temper, he
drove off, the barber vainly hallooing for a seat in the vehicle.
Whereupon, Constable Tipps, casting a savagely inquiring look
at St. Giles's handcuffs, with an oath bade his prisoner move on,
and then railed at his own particular planet, that had troubled
him with such varmint.
Nevertheless, although St. Giles's hands were white, murder
had done its worst. As yet none, save the homicide, already
blasted with the knowledge, knew of the deed. How lovelily the
sun shone ; how beautiful all things looked and beamed in its
light : the lark sang, like a freed spirit, in the dome of heaven :
and yet, beneath it, lay a terrible witness of the guilt of man; a
mute and bloody evidence of another Cain St. Giles, however,
was on his way to the county gaol, ere the deed was discovered.
Not willing to give an account of himself, he was committed to
imprisonment and hard labour in punishment of his destitution.
That he was not in addition whipped for his poverty, testified
strongly to the injudicious clemency of Justice Wattles. Such
mercy went far to encourage rags and tatters.
138 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
•wsºmsº
Leave we for a while the desolate home of Dovesnest. Leave
we that miserable old man, Snipeton, writhing at his hearth ;
now striving to seek for hope, for confidence, in the meek and
wretched face of his wife, and now starting at her look as at
a dagger's point.
A few hours had passed, and again the Lamb and Star was a
scene of tumult. And this time, there was no doubt of the
atrocity. It was now impossible that the worthy folks, assembled
in the hostelry, could be tricked into useless sympathy. There was
, now no doubt that a man was killed ; and if St. Giles had escaped
the charge of former homicide, why such escape only the more
strongly proved his guilt of the new wickedness. “He’ll be
hanged, after all !” cried the landlord, with the air of a man
foretasting an enjoyment. “The villain he was born for the
gibbet,” said the barber; “if I wouldn’t walk over glass bottles
to see him hanged, I’m not a Christian.” Whilst the barber and
others were thus vehemently declaiming their Christianity, there
arrived at the Lamb and Star a most important person. Up to
that hour, he had been a rustic of average insignificance ; but he
suddenly found himself a creature of considerable interest—a
man, heartily welcomed, as a boom and a treasure. This happy
man was one Pyefinch ; and was known to the surrounding
country as a mole-catcher of tolerable parts. It was he who had
discovered the body of the murdered man : and had he discovered
some great blessing to the human family, it is very questionable
whether he would have been so heartily welcomed by many of its
members. It had, however, been his good fortune—for we must
still call it so—to light upon the body of Farmer Willis, bloody
and stark in his own meadow ; and again and again was he
pressed to rehearse the tale, whilst mugs of ale rewarded the
story-teller. Instantly was Pyefinch fastened upon by Mrs. Blink,
and it was hard to deny such a woman anything. After short
preparation, did the mole-catcher—stimulated by malt and hops
—begin his terrible history.
“Why, you see, it was in this manner,” said Pyefinch. “I was
a goin’ along by Cow Meadow, 'bout four in the mornin’ wi' my
dog Thistle, just to look arter the snares. Cruel sight of varmint
there be along that meadow to be sure. Well, I was a thinking
of nothing—or what I was a thinking on, for I scorns a lie, is
nothin’ to nobody. Well, goin’ along in this manner, Thistle
running afore me, and ahind me, and a both sides o' me—”
“Never mind, Thistle,” cried the landlady, “come to the
murder, Tom.”
“Ax your pardon, missus. I shall have to tell all this story at
'sizes; I know what them chaps, the lawyers be, to bother a poor
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 139
man who's no scholard ; so I’ve made my mind up, never to tell
the story; but after one way; then I'm cocksure not to be caught
off my legs nohow.” And Pyefinch drank, doubtless, to his own
Sagacity.
“Very right, Tom,” cried the landlord ; and then he turned
with knit eyebrows to his wife. “Be quiet, will you ? like all
women ; want the kernel without cracking the nut. Be quiet.”
And Blink gave a conjugal growl. “Go on, Tom.”
“As I was a saying,” continued the mole-catcher, “Thistle
was a running afore me, and ahind me, and a both sides o' me—
and barking as though he wished he could talk; just to say, how
comfortable he felt, now that the spring was come—for depend
upon it, dumb creturs have their motions of spring just as well
as we—well, where was I ?”
“Thistle was barking,” prompted the landlady, fidgetting and
casting about impatient looks.
“To be sure he was. Well, all on a sudden he held histongue;
he was then a good way on afore me, down in the pitch o' the
field. I thought nothing o' that ; when on a sudden he give cry
agin, but quite a different bark to tº other. That didn't stagger
me, neither; for I thought he'd lit on a hedgehog; and of all
varmint o' the earth, Thistle hates a hedgehog; haſ worse than
pison, that he do. Well, arter a while, Thistle runs up to me.
You should ha’ seen that dog,” cried the mole-catcher, rising bolt
from his seat, “his face was as full o' sense as any Christian's :
his eyes 1 if they didn’t burn in 's head like any blacksmith's
coals; and his jaw was dropt as if he couldn’t shut it, it were so
stiff wi' wunder—and all his hairs upon his back right away down
to the end o' his tail stood up like hedge-stakes—and he looked
at me, as much as to say—‘what do you think 1'''
“Bless us, and save us !” cried the landlady, wondering at the
discrimination of the dog.
“I didn’t make him no answer,” said the mole-catcher, “but
walks on arter him, he looking behind him now and then, and
shaking his head sometimes terrible, until I come to the pitch o'
the field ; and there—oh, Lord ” Here Pyefinch seized the
mug, and, emptying it, was newly strengthened. “There, I saw
Master Willis in his best clothes—and you know he was always
particlar like in them matters—there I saw him, as at first I
thought, fast asleep, looking so blessed happy, you can’t think.
HowSumever, Thistle puts his nose to the grass, and sets up sich
a howl, and then I sees a pool of blood, and then I run away as
fast as legs 'ud carry me, right away to the farm. Well, they’d
never looked for Master Willis. They'd thought he’d stayed at
Canterbury all night ; and there he was, poor soul killed like a
140 ST GILES AND ST. JAMES.
sheep in his own field. Terrible, isn’t it ! and Pyefinch presented
the empty mug to the landlady, who, the tale being told, set the
vessel down again.
“It’s the smugglers as has done it,” cried Becky. “They owed
him a grudge since autumn, when he found their tubs among his
corn; it's the smugglers, as I’m a sinner.”
“The smugglers —poor souls l’—said Mrs. Blink, who, though
a licensed dealer in spirits, had, strangely enough, a large sym-
pathy for contraband traders; “they wouldn't hurt a lamb. It's
that villain that slept in the barn; and 1 only hope that you,
Miss Trollop, knew nothing of the business.”
“Me ” exclaimed Becky, “me know anything !” Had it been
any other than her mistress, Becky would have been too happy
to vindicate the strength and volubility of her tongue. The
woman rose strongly within her, and tempted her to speak : but
she thought of her forty shillings per annum; and so the woman
railed not, but cried.
“And how does Master Robert take it 7” cried the landlord.
“Why, wonderful, considering,” said the mole-catcher. “A
little dashed at first, in course.”
“And he that was so merry, too, at the dance Well, it is a
world to live in,” moralised the barber. “He stood ale all round,
and little thought that he’d no uncle. He danced with every gal
above stairs, and never dreamed o' what was going on in Cow
Meadow. He'll have the old man’s land o' course . Poor soul . .
Ełe 'll feel it if anybody do.”
“Wakes and fares won’t be no worse for Master Robert,” said
the landlord. “That is, supposing this matter don’t steady him.
But, to be sure, what a noble soul it is Well, if we could cry
till the sea run over, it wouldn’t bring back the old man ; and so
here's long life and good fortin to his heir. And a rare night we
shall have of it—that is, when the mourning's over and it's all
proper; yes; a rare might we shall have at the Lamb and Star.”
“I wonder who he’ll marry 7° cried the landlady.
“Nobody,” averred Mr. Blink ; “he’s too free a spirit—too
noble a cretur. Besides, he knows too much of life. She must
be a sharp thing—yes, she must get up very early for mushrooms,
who 'd get Bob Willis.”
Of course, suspicion followed St. Giles to the gaol: but although
his poverty, his houseless condition, and, more, his refusal to give
any account of himself, fixed him in the minds of many as the
murderer, there was no point, no circumstance (and many were
the examinations of the vagrant,) that could connect him with the
deed. It was an especial annoyance to several worthy people that
nothing, as they said, could be brought home to St. Giles. He
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 141
seemed, above all creatures, the very creature whom such an
atrocity would fit ; and yet the failure of all evidence was as
complete as to certain folks it was distressing. However, there
was one comfort. St. Giles was fast in prison as a rogue and
vagabond ; and, in good time, sufficient facts might rise up against
him. He had been set down to be hanged ; and in the cheerful
faith of those who had judged him, it was impossible he should
escape a doom so peculiarly fitted to him. Hence, St. Giles
remained in gaol, like a fine haunch in a larder, to be some day
feasted on.
A week had passed, and still justice was baffled. The murdered
man slept in his grave, and still his murderer walked the free
earth. Justice Wattles had a double motive for the restless zeal
which animated him in his search for the culprit : there was his
character as a magistrate ; and, more; there was his feeling of
kinship towards the victim, Farmer Willis being his brother-in-
law. Hence, Justice Wattles, indefatigable in his purpose, called
at Dovesnest. . A most unwelcome visitor was his worship to
Ebenezer Snipeton, then preparing to depart from his hermitage
for the dim of London ; and at the very moment the magistrate
was announced, rehearsing a farewell speech to Clarissa; a speech
that, until her husband's return, should be to her as a charm,
an amulet, to preserve her from the temptations of evil spirits.
Snipeton had compelled himself to believe the story of his wife,
avouched, too, as it was by Mrs. Wilton. He had tyrannised over
his heart that it should give credence to what he fain would hope
And so, he would leave home, a happy husband, convinced, assured
past all suspicion, of the unbroken faith, the enduring loyalty of
his devoted wife. It was better so to feed himself, than yield to
the despair that would destroy him. Better to be duped by false-
hood, than crushed by truth. It was accident—mere accident—
that had brought St. James to his house; and that, too, in such a
plight, it was impossible that Clarissa could deny him hospitable
usage. And with this thought, a load was lifted from the old
man's heart, and he would—yes, he would be happy. Snipeton
was wandering in this Paradise of Fools, when the name of Justice
Wattles called him home.
“Good morning, Mr. Snipeton—a dreadful matter this, sir—a
dreadful calamity to fall upon a respectable family—a startling
end, sir, for my poor brother, so punctual and so excellent a
man,” were the first words of the Justice.
“Very terrible,” answered Snipeton. “I have already heard
all the particulars,” and he pulled on his glove,
“Not all, sir—I’m afraid not all,” said Wattles. “That young
gentleman who was brought to your house—”
142 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
« Well ?”
“He’s a young nobleman, to be sure; but still it’s odd, Mr.
Snipeton; I say, it’s odd,” and the Justice leered at Ebenezer.
“Speak out, man; ” cried Snipeton ; and the Justice pulled
himself up at the abruptness of the command. “What of him 7”
“Why, the truth is, Mr. Snipeton, that young nobleman has
been seen lurking about here very much of late. That’s odd.
Do you know what business brings him to these parts : *
“How should I know 2° exclaimed Snipeton, looking fiercely
at the Justice, as at one who would read the Secrets of his soul.
“To be sure; perhaps not,” said Wattles, “and yet you see
it’s odd : he was brought here wounded, the very night my poor
brother—the most respectable man in Kent—what a sort of stain
it is upon the family —the very night he met his fate. You
didn’t know, then, that the young nobleman used to hang about
these quarters ?”
“Justice Wattles,” replied Snipeton, “if as a magistrate you
would examine me, I must attend your summons. My house is
not a court.”
“Certainly not—certainly not,” answered the Justice, suddenly
taking up his dignity. “I ask your pardon; of course, this matter
will be sifted elsewhere—thoroughly sifted. Only believing the
young nobleman to be your friend—”
“He’s no friend of mine,” said Snipeton, sullenly.
“Well, a friend of Mrs. Snipeton's—oh, my dear sir! don’t look
at me in that way—I meant no offence, none whatever ; I meant
an acquaintance—a visitor of Mrs. Snipeton's, nothing more. But,
of course, the law can reach him—of course, he can be made to
explain everything—lord as he is. Still, being a friend of yours—
I mean of your wife's—Tintended to show him some consideration.
Nevertheless, as you say your house is not a court, why good
morning, Mr. Snipeton—good morning.” And saying this, Justice
Wattles, with all the dignity he could compass, quitted the master
of Dovesnest. Poor Snipeton but now he was blowing bubbles
of hope, so brightly tinted; but now they were floating about
him in a Sunny sky, and now they were broken, vanished
As Justice Wattles, with a flushed countenance, crossed the
threshold of Dovesnest, he was encountered by Nicholas, the sole
serving-man of Snipeton. “Bless me ! your worship,” cried
Nicholas, “here’s luck in meeting you—here's a something as I
was first going to show master, and then to bring to you,” and
with this, the man presented to the magistrate an old black leather
pocket-book.
“God save us!” cried Wattles, and he trembled violently—
“where did this come from ?”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 143
“I found it in a hedge—just as it is—I haven’t looked at it—
in a hedge by Pinkton’s Corner,” said the man.
Wattles, with great emotion, opened the book—turned deadly
pale—suddenly closed it again, and with a faint, forced smile at
his white lips, said—“Oh, it's nothing—nothing at all. But you
may as well leave it with me, Nicholas: if it’s inquired for, I
shall have it ready. You know it’s in good hands, Nicholas; and
take this for your honesty; and until I call upon you, say nothing
at all about it—nothing at all.” With this, the Justice uncon-
Sciously made a low bow to the serving-man, and walked a few
steps rapidly on. Suddenly he paused, and calling the man to
him, gave him a guinea. “For your honesty, Nicholas—though
the thing isn’t worth a groat—still for your honesty; and as I’ve
told you, till you hear from me, you need say nothing of the
matter.” Nicholas, well pleased to sell his silence on such terms,
pocketed the guinea, and with a knowing nod at the Justice, went
his way. Wattles walked hurriedly on, turning down a lane that
skirted the Devil’s Elbow. The old man trembled from head to
foot; his, eyes wandered, and his lips moved with unspoken words.
Now he ran, and now staggered and tottered down the lane; and
at length paused midway and looked cautiously about him. He
then drew forth the pocket-book, and with deepest misery in his
face, proceeded to search it. It contained nothing save a large
gold ring, set with a cornelian. As he held it to the light, the
old man sighed; then tears fast and thick fell from his eyes, and
he sank down upon a bank, and, hiding his face in his hands,
groaned most piteously. “God pardon him 1" at length he cried
—“but Robert’s done it : Robert’s killed the old man; it’s
Bobert's ring—my Bible oath to it—his ring; and the Lord has
brought it to witness against him. I was sure he had done it ;
no. no, not sure, but I feared it, and—merciful heaven l—to
butcher his own flesh and blood — to kill his own uncle !”
Again the old man wept and sobbed, and wrung his hands in the
very impotence of sorrow. “And what am I to do º Am I to
hang him Heaven shield us! Hang a Willis l—Twould be
horrible. And then the disgrace to the family—the oldest in
Kent What shall I do—what shall I do?” again and again
cried the Justice. “The murderer must not escape; but then, to
hang him.4—the respectability of the family—the respectability
of the family l’” And thus was the old man perplexed. His
horror of the deed was great ; he wept earnest, truthful tears
over the fate of his brother-in-law, a worthy, honest soul, whose
greatest weakness had been, indeed, undue indulgence of his
wretched assassin. All the horror, the ingratitude of his crime
would present itself to the mind of the Justice, who would for
I44 ST. GILES ANTD ST. JAMES.
the moment determine to denounce the homicide: and then his
pride was touched; he thought of the shame, the lasting ignominy,
as he deemed it, that would cling to the family, and thus held in
doubt, suspense—he would in his weakness weep and pray of
heaven to be supported and directed. “Robert's a monster that
pollutes the earth,” he would cry—“he must, he shall be hanged.”
And then the stern Justice would clasp his hands, and moan,
and mutter—“But the disgrace to the family—the disgrace to
the family ” And thus, unresolved, days passed, and Justice
Wattles said no word of the pocket-book of the murdered man—
breathed no syllable of the damning evidence, supplied by the
ring, against his nephew ; who, it appeared, had been wrought to
the commission of the act, by the refusal of the old man to supply
the means of his profuse expense, cast away as it was upon the
idle and the profligate throughout the country. The old man
had returned from Canterbury fair, as his assassin thought, with
a large sum of money in his possession. The murderer, ready
dressed for the village festival, had awaited his victim ; had
accomplished the act ; and then, with hottest speed, made for the
Lamb and Star, to join in the revelry of the merry-makers. More
of this, however, as we proceed in Our history.
And now old Snipeton must say farewell to his young wife.
IHow beautiful she looked ! What an air of truth and purity was
around her How her mute meekness rebuked her husband’s
doubts She wanly smiled, and the old man reproached himself
that for a moment he could suspect that angel sweetness. He
had taken new resolution from her trustful gentleness. That
smile of innocence had determined him. He would quit trade:
retire from London. He had enough, more than enough, of
worldly means; and he would no longer separate himself from
such a wife ; but—his present ventures realised—he would retire
to Dovesnest, and there pass away a life, dedicating every moment,
every feeling to the better treasure that there enriched him.
Eſenceforth he would destroy, annihilate, every rising thought
that should do her honour injury; he would be a confiding, happy
husband. Nothing should peril the great felicity in store for him.
With this thought, this fooling of the heart, he kissed his wife;
and though she met his touch with lips of ice, he could not, would
not, feel their coldness; but serenely left his home, and for many
a mile upon the road strove to possess himself with the great
assurance that he was still an honoured, happy husband. Oh, it
was a sin, a great wickedness done to heaven's brightest truth to
doubt it.
Poor old man Wretched huckster! Tricked and betrayed in
the bargain he had purchased: bought with so much money from
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 145
the priest. Willingly befooled by hope, he could not see the
desperate calmness, the firm, cold resolution that possessed his
young wife at the time of parting. At that moment, as she
believed, she looked upon her husband for the last time : in that
moment, it was her comfort that she bade farewell to him who
made her life a daily misery—a daily lie. She had taken counsel
with herself, and, come what might, would end the loathsome
hypocrisy, that, like a foul disease, consumed her. He quitted
her. She wept ; and then a ray of comfort brightened her face :
and she moved with lightened step, a thing of new-found liberty.
She sought to be alone; and yet—it was very strange—that old
house-keeper, Mrs. Wilton, would still find an excuse to follow
her : still, with questioning face, would look upon her. The
woman could not know her resolution ? Impossible. Yet still,
like a spy, the hireling of her husband, she would watch her.
And then, at times, the woman gazed so mournfully at her ;
answered her with such strange emotion in her voice, with such
familiar tenderness, she knew not how to rebuke her.
“And my master returns in a week 7 ° said Mrs. Wilton ; “a
long time for one who loves a wife so dearly.”
“Loves me !” answered Clarissa, with a shudder, which she
strove not to disguise. “Yes; there it is—he loves me.”
“A great happiness, if wisely thought of,” said the house-
keeper, with cold calm looks. “A great happiness.”
“No doubt, if wisely thought of.” rejoined Clarissa; then, with
a sigh, she added: “How hard the task of wisdom | But we will
not talk of this now, Mrs. Wilton; I have another matter to speak
of : I am kept such a prisoner here’—and Clarissa Smiled, and
tried to talk gaily—“that for once I am determined to play
truant. Would you believe it ! I have scarcely seen Canterbury.
I have a mighty wish to visit the Cathedral; I hear it is so
beautiful—so awful.”
“I would you had spoken of this to Mr. Snipeton,” said the
housekeeper gravely.
“And wherefore ? To have my wish refused ? To be sentenced
a prisoner to the house; or, at most, to the limits of the garden
No : I know his anxiety, his tenderness, his love for me, as you
would say—therefore, if I would go at all, I must go unknown to
my lord and owner.”
“Lord and husband,” you would say, observed Mrs. Wilton,
looking full at Clarissa.
“Owner is sometimes a better word; at least, I feel it so. And
therefore, as I am determined on my pilgrimage—”
“Very well, it must be made,” said Mrs. Wilton. “Whenever
you will, I will be ready to accompany you.”
I.
146 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“Oh no ; I will not take you from the house: it is necessary
that you should remain. Dorothy is so dull and slow, I should
not feel happy to leave her alone. Det Nicholas order a chaise,
and he—yes, he can attend me. Now, no words, good Mrs. Wilton ;
for once T must have my way—for once you must not hope to
deny me.”
“And when, Mrs. Snipeton,” added the housekeeper, “when do
you go 2°
“Oh, to-morrow,” answered Clarissa, with forced vivacity.
Mrs. Wilton looked at the girl with piercing eyes; then slowly,
gravely asked—“And when return l’’ -
“Oh, the next day,” and the blood flushed in Clarissa's face as
the words fell from her.
“No, no, no : that day would never come ; your burning face,
your looks, tell me it would not.”
“Mrs. Wilton | * cried Clarissa, who vainly strove to look
commanding, dignified; to play the mistress to the presumptuous
menial. “Mrs. Wilton, by what right do you thus question my
Word 7 ° -
“By the right of love; yes, by the love I bear you, lady,”
answered the housekeeper. “I know your heart ; can see the
wound within it. I know the grief that daily wears you ; but,
with the knowledge of a deeper wound—of grief more terrible—a
grief made of remorse and shame—I implore you, leave not your
home.”
“And why not ? Since you know the bondage I endure—the
loathsomeness of life I bear about me—the cancer of the heart
that tortures me—the degradation of everything that makes life
good and holy,–wherefore should I not break the chain that body
and soul enslaves me ! Tell me this,” exclaimed Clarissa; and
her face grew deathly pale; and her whole form rose and dilated
with the passion that, fury-like, possessed her.
“I have told you,” said Mrs. Wilton, “for the more terrible
grief that follows.”
“Can it be sharper, more consuming, than that I now endure ?”
asked Clarissa, smiling bitterly.
“Yes—yes!” was the answer, solemnly uttered.
“How know you this?” asked the young wife; and she looked
with new and curious interest at the woman fast changing before
her. Changing. Her face always so calm, so self-possessed, so
statue-like, relaxed and beamed with a sweet yet mournful look.
It seemed as though to that time she had only played a part—
that now, the true woman would reveal herself. Clarissa was
surprised, subdued, by the new aspect of her housekeeper.
“You ask me, how I know this. It is a brief tale: and I will
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 147
tell you. I knew a maid sold like yourself—sold is the word—in
lawful wedlock. The man who purchased her was good and
honourable; one of the men whom the world accounts as its best
citizens; plain, worthy, and dispassionate ; a person most respect-
able. He would not, in his daily bargains, have wronged his
neighbour of a doit. An upright, a most punctual man. And
yet he took a wife without a heart. He loved the hollow thing
that, like a speaking image, vowed in the face of God to do that
she knew she never could fulfil, to love and honour him ; and
he, that just, good man, Smiled with great happiness upon the
pretty perjurer; and took her to his bosom as the treasure of the
world. True, at times he had his doubts—his sad misgivings.
He would look in his wife's face—would meet her cold, obedient
eyes—and sometimes wonder when a heart would grow within
her. He had married her, believing in such growth ; it was his
wisdom—his knowledge of mankind and the world—to be assured
of it. And so they lived for three long years together; the chain
of wedlock growing heavier with every heavy day. She became
a mother. Even that new woman's life—that sudden knowledge
that opens in the heart an unimagined fount of love—failed to
harmonise her soul with him who was her child’s father. Still
they jarred; or, at best, were silent towards each other. I will
hurry to the close. She left him ; worse, she left her child. That
silver link, that precious bond that should have held her even
to scorn, unkindness, misery, with sacrilegious act she broke.
She left her husband for one who should have been her husband.
You do not listen to me !”
“Yes—yes—yes,” cried Clarissa—“every word; each syllable.
Go on.”
“For a few months she lived a mockery of happiness. A year
or two passed, and then her lover left her, and she stood alone in
the world, clothed with her harlot shame. It was then, indeed,
she felt the mother: then, what should have been her joys were
turned to agonies; and conscience, daily conscience, made her
look within a glass to see a monster there. Oh, she has told me,
again and again, has told me ! The look, the voice of childhood—
with all its sweetness, all its music—was to her as an accusing
angel that frowned, and told her of her fall.”
“And she never saw her child''' asked Clarissa.
“For years she knew not where to seek it. At length, accident
discovered to her the place of its abode. And then the babe—
the motherless innocence—had become almost a woman.”
“And then the mother sought her ?”
“No. Her husband still lived ; she did not dare attempt it.
Her child ! IHow knew she that that child had not been taught
L 2
148 ST. GIIRS AND ST. JAMES.
to think her mother in the grave 7 And more ; the mother had
foregone her noblest claim at that poor little one's best need—
and could the wanton come back again to urge it ! Therefore,
unknown, she watched her ; and, like a thief, stole glances of the
precious creature of her blood—her only comfort, and her worst
reproach. The girl became a wife ; her father died, and then—”
“And then 7" repeated Clarissa, as the woman paused in the
fulness of her emotion.
“And then the mother dared not reveal herself. As servant,
she entered her daughter's house, that, all unknown, she might feed
her daily life with looking at her.” The woman paused ; and,
with clasped hands, looked with imploring anguish in the face of
Clarissa. That look told all: Clarissa, with a scream, leapt to
her feet, and hung at her mother's neck.
“Be warned—be warned,” cried the woman, and like a dead
thing, she sank in a chair.
CHAPTER XV.
To the astonishment, the rage, and indignation of the neighbour-
hood, Robert Willis had been apprehended, charged with the
murder of his uncle. After such audacity on the part of the law,
no man held himself safe. The whole country rang with the
charge ; the whole country more or less sympathised with the
innocent victim of the tyranny of justice. It was impossible to
associate the jovial, warm-hearted, merry-maker with any wrong;
So wholly had he won the hearts of all by his many feats of rustic.
skill, his many qualities of good fellowship. The men admired him
for his athletic daring; and the women for his noble figure, his
ruddy face, black whiskers, and very white teeth. To be sure, he had
had his follies; now and then he had played the bully, and the small
voice of detraction added, the black-leg : he had moreover broken
a heart or so : but he had never wanted money to pay a treat ;
and young men would be young men, was the charitable creed of
the treated. Nevertheless, it was impossible for justice to close
her ears to rumours that, first muttered, grew louder and louder.
Willis had been seen hurrying from Cow Meadow at the time that
—according to evidence—the murder must have been committed.
IHe had moreover paid many debts of late ; had been seen with
much money in his hands; and there was a strange, forced gaiety
in his manner that showed him restless, ill at ease. In fine,
although Justice Wattles—the prisoner's relative, and the pos-
sessor of the dead man's pocket-book—loudly protested against
ST GILES AND ST. JAMES. 149
the indignity offered to his kinsman; although he eloquently put
it to his brother magistrates, whether it was in the circle of pro-
bability for One so respectably born and bred, to shed the blood
of his own relation,-Robert Willis was committed, charged with
the wilful murder of Arthur Willis. And then Justice Wattles
said it was best it should be so : it was the shortest, clearest way,
to stop the mouths of slanderers, and to show to the world the
innocence, and, above all, the respectability of his kinsman. Yet
were there people who wondered at the change so suddenly worked
in the Justice. His face, before so round and red, became shrunk
and yellow ; and then he would strive to look so happy—would
laugh at every other word he spoke ; would prophesy with such
enjoyment the triumph of his brave, his much-wronged relative,
And so the vagabond St. Giles and the gay and generous Robert
Willis were brought together. In the very good old times of our
history, there was deeper and better homage paid to the well-to-do
who, somehow, had done ill and was imprisoned therefore, than in
these our sterner days, when the successors of Blueskins and
Sheppards, no longer hold their levees in gaol lobbies, and fine
ladies may not prattle with felons. However lovely and interest-
ing may be the doomed man to the female heart, his fascinations
are to be contemplated only through the filmy medium of
the newspapers, and not, as in those very good and much-
lamented old times, hob and mob with the housebreaker and
murderer. Hence, Robert Willis lived in happier days. Hence,
by the grace of money and station, had he many little indulgencies
which softened the rigour of captivity. Wine and brandy came
to him like good genii through the prison bars, and by their magic
gave to stone walls a comfortable, jolly aspect ; again placed the
prisoner in a tavern ; again surrounded him with the best of
fellows; hearts of gold !
It was yet early morning, and Willis, flushed with drink,
walked the court-yard with St. Giles; for whom, at their first
meeting, he had shown a strange interest. How changed was he
from the merry-maker who, but for a few moments, was before
the reader at the Lamb and Star ! He seemed to have grown
bigger—burlier. His face was full-blooded ; his eyebrows shagged
and ragged ; his eyes flashed to and fro, dwelling upon no object;
and then he would laugh loudly, hollowly. He walked the court-
yard, talking to St. Giles ; and now and then slapping him on the
shoulder, to the wonder of other more respectable prisoners, who
much marvelled that a gentleman like master Robert Willis could
take up with such a vagabond. And so they walked; and by degrees
Willis laughed less, and spoke in a lower tone; and it was plain
—from the agitation of his comrade—that he spoke of something
150 ST. CILES AND ST. JAMES.
strange and terrible. At length St. Giles stopped short, and
cried, “I will hear no more—not a word more, I tell you. God
forgive you !” w
“Why, what 's the matter, fool—butter-heart 2" cried Willis,
“I thought you a man, and you’re a cur. Ha! haſ all's one
for that ; ” and again Willis laughed, and pointed scornfully at
St. Giles, as-with face aghast—he walked to the further end
of the court. Willis was about to follow him, when he was
accosted by one of the turnkeys.
“Master Willis, here's Mr. Montecute Crawley, the lawyer,
come to talk to you about your defence. He 's in a great
hurry; so, if you please, you must make haste : he 's so much
to do, he can’t stay for nobody.” And the turnkey only
spoke the truth of the absorbing business of Mr. Montecute
Crawley; to whose silver tongue the world owed the liberty
of many a ruffian. Happy was the evil-doer whose means
might purchase the good offices of Mr. Montecute Crawley !
There was no man at the bar who could so completely extract the
stain of blood from a murderer. Had he defended Sawny Bean,
dipped a hundred times in infanticide, he would have presented
him to the court as a shepherd with the bloom and fragrance of
Arcady upon him. Worthy man | What a constitution had
Mr. Montecute Crawley, to stand the wear and tear of his own
feelings, racked, agonised, as they always were for his innocent,
his much-persecuted client, the homicide or highwayman at the
bar ! Happily, his emotion was always so very natural, and so
very intense, that again and again it touched the bosoms of the
jury, who could not—simple creatures —but believe so eloquent, so
earnest a gentleman, when he not only vouched for the innocence
of the unfortunate accused, but wept a shower of tears in testi-
mony thereof. Tears, in fact, were Mr. Montecute Crawley's
great weapons: but he had too true a motion of their value to use
them save on extraordinary occasions. With all his tenderness,
he had great powers of self-restraint ; and, therefore, never dropt
a tear upon any brief that brought him less than five hundred
guineas. He had heard of “the luxury of woe,” and was deter-
mined that with him at least the luxury should bear its proper
price. His coarse and stony-hearted brethren at the bar had, in
the envy and brutality of their souls, nicknamed Mr. Montecute
Crawley, the watering-pot. But he—good, silver-tongued man—
heeded not the miserable jest. He talked and wept, and wept
and talked, as though he felt assured that all the world believed
his words and tears, and that the angels knew them to be only
counterfeit.
And Robert Willis was now to interest the sympathies of Mr.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. - 151
Crawley, who had been paid the full weeping price—the fee being,
as a junior counsel said, up to water-mark. The prisoner and his
counsel were private together; and, as the accused went through
his simple tale, it was delightful to perceive the intelligence that
beamed in Mr. Montecute Crawley's eye, as though he spied a
flaw, no wider than a spider's thread, in the indictment ; and then
for a moment he would place his ample brow—writ and overwrit
with so many acts of Parliament—in his snow-pure hand, medi-
tating a legal escape. “That's enough,” said Mr. Crawley,
abruptly stopping the prisoner: “I’ve made up my mind ; yes, I
see it at once ; an alibi, of course; an alibi. You were at the
dance at the Lamb and Star: you ’ve witnesses—yes, I know—
Mr. Swag, your attorney, has told me all, and 22
“And you think I shall get over it 7” asked Willis, looking up
with unabashed face at his defender. Mr. Montecute Crawley
slightly nodded his head ; whereupon the prisoner, with grossest
familiarity, offered his hand. Mr. Crawley knew what was due to
the dignity of his profession; he, therefore, looked frozenly at the
prisoner, rebuking him by that look into a proper sense of his
infamy, and at the same time asserting his own forensic conse-
quence. “Meant no offence, sir,” said the reprobate, “but as I
thought we met as friends, and as Master Wattles has promised to
come down well if you get me off, why I thought we might as
well shake hands on the bargain.”
“It is not necessary,” said Mr. Crawley, with a new stock of
dignity. “And now I think you have told me all ! I hope so,
because I can give no further time to see you ; and therefore I
hope, for your sake, I now know all ! You understand me !”
Innocent murderer — unsophisticated assassin . He did not
understand his best defender. Deceived by what he thought a
cordiality of voice, a look of interest, in Mr. Montecute Crawley—
and suddenly feeling that it would doubtless be for his own
especial benefit if he laid bare his heart—that black, bad thing—
before so able, so excellent a gentleman, Robert Willis thought
that he owed him every confidence, and would, therefore, without
further ceremony, discharge the debt. “Why, no, sir,” he
said, with the air of a man prepared to be praised for his ingenu-
Ousness, “no, sir, I hav’n’t told you all. You see, uncle—I
must say it—had been a good sort of a fellow to me in his time :
but somehow, he got plaguy cranky of late; wouldn't come down
with the money nohow. And I put it to you, sir, who know
what life is, what’s a young fellow like me to do without money?
Well, the long and the short of it is this, I shot the old chap,
and that 's the truth.”
If virtue could have peeped into that prison, could at that
152 ST. GIT,ES AND ST. JAMES.
moment have beheld the face of Mr. Montecute Crawley, would
she not have embraced—have wept over her champion—even as
he had often wept on her acconnt ' He started from the confessed
homicide, as though Cain himself had risen from beside him.
“Scouillel ! IIIonster villain ” he exclaimed with passion,
that must have been genuine, it was so violent.
“Bless me !” cried the prisoner. “I hope you're not offended.
You wanted to know all, sir.”
“Not that—not that, miscreant ’’ and Mr. Montecute Crawley
paced up and down in the very greatest distress. “Monster, I
leave you to your fate: I’ll not stain my hands with such a brief.
No—never—never.”
“You’ll not do that, sir, I’m sure,” said the murderer. “Too
much of a gentleman for that. 'Specially when the Justice has
come down so handsomely. And I know him; that’s not all he'll
do, if you get me off.”
“Get you off ” cried Mr. Montecute Crawley with a disgust
that did the very highest and deepest honour to his heart.—
“What let loose a wild beast—a man-tiger into the world.
Monster—misereant—miscreant l’” With all Mr. Crawley’s envi-
able command of abuse, he lacked vituperation where with to
express the intensity of his loathing; and he therefore quitted the
murderer with a look of inexpressible scorn; Robert Willis having,
in his imagination, the very clearest view of the gallows, with
himself in the cart, wending to his inevitable destination. He
was given up by that miracle of an orator, Mr. Montecute Crawley,
and there was nothing left him but the hangman.
Ingenuous Robert Willis—unsophisticated homicide 1 Tittle
knew that simple murderer the magnanimity of the lawyer, who
would forget the imprudence of the blood-shedder in pity for the
erring fellow-creature. Besides, Mr. Montecute Crawley,in his great
respect for the intellectual cravings of the public, could not consent
to deprive a crowded court of his expected speech: an oration that,
as he knew, would impart very considerable enjoyment to his
auditors, and, possibly achieve a lasting glory for himself. There-
fore, possessed of the knowledge of the prisoner's crime, it would
be the business, the pride of Mr. Crawley to array him in a garb of
innocence : though, everlastingly stained with blood, it would be
the fame of the orator to purify the assassin, returning him back to
the world Snow-white and sweetened. And, with this determina-
tion, when the day of trial came, Mr. Montecute Crawley entered
the court, amidst the flattering admiration of all assembled. What
a solemn man he looked ' What a champion of truth—what an
earnest orator in the cause of innocence—with every line in his
face a swelling lie
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 153
And the day of trial came, St. James sat upon the bench
in close neighbourhood to the Judge. The court was crowded.
Ladies had dressed themselves as for a gala ; and when the
prisoner—habited with scrupulous meatness—appeared at the
bar, there was a murmur from the fair that at once acquitted so
handsome, so finely-made a man, of such a naughty crime. It
was impossible that with such a face—such very fine eyes—such
wavy, silken hair, and above all with such a self-assuring smile
—it was impossible that such a creature could be stained with
an old man's blood. And then the gentlewomen looked from
the prisoner to the prisoner's counsel, and beheld in his sweet
gravity, his beautiful composure, an assurance that he, that
eloquent and sympathetic pleader, was possessed as with the con-
sciousness of his own soul, of the guiltlessness of that oppressed,
that handsome young man ; and would therefore plead with the
voice and sublime fervour of a superior spirit for the accused at
the bar. Men of every degree thronged the court. The gentry—
the yeomen—the rustics of the country; all prepossessed for the
prisoner. And many were the greetings and shakings of the
hand exchanged with the prisoner's kinsman, Justice Wattles,
who tried to look hopeful, and to speak of the trial as nothing
more than a ceremony, necessary to stop the mouth of slanderous
wickedness. And so, restless and inwardly sick at heart and
trembling, the Justice looked smilingly about the court : but
never looked at the prisoner at the bar. The prisoner gazed
searchingly at the jury, and his eyes brightened when he saw
that Simon Blink, landlord of the Lamb and Star, was foreman
of the twelve.
The trial began. One witness swore that on the evening of the
murder he heard a gun fired; and immediately he saw the prisoner
at the bar rush from the direction of Cow Meadow. The ball
had been extracted from the murdered man, and found to fit a
gun, the prisoner's property, subsequently discovered in the farm-
house. Every face in the court—even the face of Mr. Montecute
Crawley—fell, darkened at the direct, straightforward evidence of
the witness. He was then handed over to be dealt with by the
prisoner's counsel. What awful meaning possessed his features,
when he rose to turn inside out the witness | What lightning in
his eye—what a weight of scorn at his lip—what thunder in his
voice, terrifying and confounding the simple man who had spoken
a simple truth. Poor fellow ! in a few minutes he knew not what
he had spoken : his senses were distraught, lost : he would
scarcely to himself answer for his own consciousness, so much was
he bewildered, flung about, made nothing of by that tremendous
man, Mr. Montecute Crawley.
I54 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“Answer me, sir,” thundered the indignant counsel; “were
you never in gaol for felony ? Answer, sir.”
The man paused for a moment. He had never been in gaol for
felony—Mr. Crawley knew that well enough—nevertheless the
question was put with such vehement confidence, that, honest man
as he was, the witness was for a time unable to answer. At
length he ventured to reply that he never had been so imprisoned:
which reply he again and again repeated, warned by the counsel—
as by the trumpet of judgment—that he was upon his oath.
“And you've never been caught poaching—come, I shall get
something out of you ? Speak up, sir! Upon your oath—have
you never been caught setting wires for hares?” roared Mr.
Crawley.
“Never, sir,” stammered the witness. “Never caught in my
life.”
“Ha! you’ve been lucky, then, my fine fellow,” said the counsel.
“You haven’t been caught, that’s what you mean, eh?” And
at this humorous distinction, Mr. Montecute Crawley laughed—
the prisoner, out of gratitude to his champion, laughed—all men
in the court laughed, and the pretty ladies giggled. Assuredly
there is no place in which the very smallest joke goes so far as in
a court of justice. There, a farthing's worth of wit is often taken
as though it were an ingot. And, accepted after such value, Mr.
Montecute Crawley was a tremendous wit. “I believe, sir,”—he
continued, “come, sir, leave off twiddling your thumbs and look
at me—I believe you’ve been mixed up a little in smuggling
Come, you don’t think there’s much harm in that " You know
how to run a tub or two, I suppose 7"
“No, I don’t,” answered the witness with new confidence,
“Bless me !” cried Mr. Crawley, “you’re a very innocent
gentleman—very innocent, indeed.” And then with much indig-
nation at the unspotted character of the witness, he thundered,
“Get down, sir!” Now, this seeming uncharitableness was, it
may be hoped, very repulsive to the kindly nature of Mr. Crawley;
but what he did, he did for the benefit of his client. To serve his
client it was—he held the obligation as his forensic creed—it was
his duty to paint every witness against him the blackest black,
that the suffering, ill-used man at the bar might stand out in
candid relief to the moral darkness frowning against him. Poor
Mr. Crawley ! In his heart of hearts, it was to him a great
sorrow that—for the interest of his client—he was sometimes
compelled to wear his gown, the solemn robe of the champion of
truth, as the privileged garment, holding safe the coward and the
bully. He was a gentleman—a most perfect gentleman—with an
almost effeminate sense of honour when—his gown was off. But
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 155
when he robed himself, he knew that there might be dirty work to
do, and if it must be done, why he did it as though he loved it.
All the witnesses for the prosecution, Save one, had been
examined; and the prisoner looked about him with blither looks:
and there was an interchange of triumphant glances between
himself and valued old cronies in court that plainly said, “All's
right; ” when St. Giles was called. Then the prisoner bit his
lip, and impatiently struck his fist upon the spikes in the front of
the bar, and then with a hard Smile—as at his folly, his absence
of mind—wrapt his handkerchief about his bleeding hand. It
was nothing—a mere moment of absurd forgetfulness. How could
he be so ridiculous !
St. Giles was sworn. There was something strange and solemn
in that miserable face ; marked and lined as it was with a sad
history. The man had been well-fed, well-lodged, though in a
gaol. Imprisoned as a rogue and vagabond, he had nevertheless
tasted of comforts that, until the crime of poverty and destitution
was put upon him, he had not for many a season, known ; and
yet he looked harassed, weary, and wasted. Poor wretch He
had long wrestled with himself. He felt that he was cursed with
knowledge of a secret forced upon him. It was another of the
many unearned wrongs that blighted him. He hated himself that
he had been brought to stand in that court an accuser of that
man at the bar. He had fought against the feeling that had
urged him to tell all; and then in the dead of night a voice would
cry in his ear, “Murder—murder! remember, it is murder! base,
bad, most unnatural murder | *—and so, as he thought, to lift a
load from his heart, he demanded to be taken to the keeper of the
gaol; and then—solemnly admonished by the prison chaplain—
he narrated the terrible story that, in his hour of mad defiance,
IRobert Willis had told his fellow-prisoner. That confession made,
St. Giles felt himself a wretch—a traitor to the man who had put
the secret on him : he would have given worlds to recall the story
told : it was impossible. He had told all. And in open court,
he would be summoned to meet, eye to eye, the prisoner: would
be made to rehearse a tale that should make that man, smiling so
full of health and strength at the bar, a clod of earth. It was
these thoughts that had cut themselves in the face of St. Giles:
it was these thoughts that, like poison, struck a coldness at his
heart ; made him tremble, and look a most forlorn and guilty
wretch, when called upon to tell his story.
IHe told all he knew. The prisoner at the bar had confessed to
him that, stung by the unwillingness of his uncle to feed his
means, he had killed the old man : at such an hour—with such
an instrument. More: he had robbed him : and had hidden the
156 ST, GILES AND ST. JAMES.
dead man's pocket-book somewhere near Pinckton's Corner. The
prisoner had dropt a ring—it had always been too large for him
—as he feared, upon the spot where the old man fell.
And then St. Giles was cross-examined: anatomised, torn to
pieces by the counsel for the prisoner. A very few minutes, and
so potent was the scorn, the indignation of Mr. Crawley, that St.
Giles stood before the court the vilest of the vile of men; a human
reptile, a moral blotch : a shame upon the race of Adam. The
whole court looked upon him with wondering eyes—a monster of
wickedness. And St. Giles felt the ignominy: it pierced him
like a sword; yet with calm, unaltered looks he met the hatred of
all around him.
And with the testimony of St. Giles closed the evidence for the
prosecution. Twenty witnesses for the prisoner proved that it
was impossible he could have been near Cow Meadow at the time
of the murder ; no : he was at a merry-making at the Lamb and
Star. Again, every inch of Pinckton's Corner had been searched,
and there was no pocket-book: another proof–if such indeed
were needed—of the diabolic malice of St. Giles, who, it was plain,
to cloak his own infamy with some small credit, hoped to destroy
the prisoner. Mr. Montecute Crawley had been exceedingly moved
by this tremendous evidence of the iniquity of man. Whilst cross-
examining St. Giles, the counsel, touching upon what he termed
the apocryphal pocket-book, had wept ; yes, had suffered large
round tears to “course down his innocent nose,” to the lively
concern of the court ; and, more especially, to the emotion of
many ladies, who wept in sympathy with that sweet man, that
soft-hearted barrister.
The judge summed up the evidence; and the jury, after the
pause of perhaps two minutes—their verdict was already smiling
in their faces — through their ready foreman, Simon Blink,
acquitted the prisoner. Robert Willis was—Not Guilty | What
a shout rose from the court It was in vain that the judge looked
angrily around him : there was another huzza ; another, and
another. Friends and neighbours shook each other by the hand;
and all blessed the admirable Mr. Crawley, the excellent judge,
the upright and most manly jury. The hubbub suddenly ceased :
and wherefore ? Men were touched into respectful silence ; and
why? Oh, the scene was most impressive: for Mr. Justice
Wattles—an old and most respectable magistrate—entered the
dock; and there, in the face of the world, embraced his innocent
kinsman—folded to his heart the pure, the spotless, the acquitted.
And then Robert Willis left the gaol; and the multitude without
shouted their sympathy and gratitude.
St. Giles remained within the prison. His term of captivity
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 157
was ended : yet, compassionating his misery, the governor would
permit him to remain until night-fall, when he might depart
unseen. Did he show himself in open day—such was the belief
of the people of the gaol—the mob would tear him piecemeal. He
had tried to hang an innocent man; would have shed the blood
of the noblest creature in the county; and burning alive was a
fate too good for him. And thus St. Giles was spurned and
execrated. Shut up with felons, he was shunned by them as
something monstrous; a demon, for whom they had no words
save those of cursing and contempt. St. Giles, with a crushed
heart, walked the court-yard. A few paces were tacitly allowed
him by his fellow-prisoners; and he walked, in misery, apart
from all. It was a beautiful summer's evening, and he paused,
and with glassy, vacant eye, surveyed a swarm of insects dancing
and whirling in that brief, bright world of theirs, a sunbeam in a
gaol. “A gentleman wants to speak to you,” said one of the
turnkeys, looking contemptuously at the witness for the crown
“Come this way.” St. Giles obeyed the order, and entering the
body of the prison, found there his former benefactor, young
St. James. -
“You are the man who gave evidence against the person tried
to-day for murder 7" said St. James.
“Yes, sir; and I spoke the truth: the very words the man
said to me, I–’”
“It is no matter. I did not send for you on that bad business.
You and I have met before ? How is it that I find you in this
place 7 ° ſ
“I had no place to lay my head in, not a penny, only what
your honour's goodness gave me, to buy a crumb ; and so for that
reason, after I’d been hauled up, as they said, for killing a man
that was afterwards found alive, they sent me here. But bless
you, kind gentleman for your goodness to me. I hav’n’t been
without doing wrong in my time, sir, I know that : but the world,
sir, hasn’t dealt kindly with me, nohow ; it hasn't, indeed, sir.”
“Where do you come from ?” asked St. James.
“I come, sir, from”—and St. Giles stammered—“I come from
abroad.”
“And you are willing to earn honest bread 2 Is it so 2° said
his lordship.
“Oh, sir!” cried St. Giles, “if I might only have the chance
But it's a hard case to put a man to—a hard case to deny a
miserable cretur honest bread, and then if he don’t starve without
a word like a rat in a hole, to send him here to gaol. I say it,
sir; I’ve had my sins—God pardon 'em—but I’ve been roughly
treated, sir; roughly treated.”
158 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“I hope to think so,” said St. James. “I may be wrong; but
what I have seen of you to-day induces me to trust you. I want
to know nothing of your history; nothing of the past. All I
expect is an honest future. If you can promise this, you shall
enter my service, and so stand upright again in the world.”
“I do promise, sir—with all my heart and soul—with all”—
but the poor fellow could speak no more ; tears poured down his
face; tears choked his speech.
“Here is money. Get yourself decent covering, and make
your way to London. When there, present yourself at my house.
Send this card to me, and I will see what may be done for you.
Remember, I depend upon your good resolution, that I may not
be laughed at for hiring a servant from a gaol.” With these
words, St. James quitted the prison, leaving St. Giles bewildered,
lost in happiness. He glanced at the card, saw the name—the
name of that noble, gracious boy, who had before preserved him
—and the poor convict fell upon his knees, and with a grateful,
bursting heart prayed for his protector.
Let us now for a brief space, shift the scene to the Lamb and
Star. It was ten at night, and the house was crammed with
revellers, all met to celebrate the triumph of injured innocence;
to drink and drink to the attested purity of Robert Willis. What
stories were told of his spirit, his address, his gallantry; how
often, too, were curses called down upon the head of him who
would have spilt such guiltless blood ; how often did the drinkers
wish they had St. Giles among them, that they might tear him
to bits—yes, limb him for his infamy! And ere the night passed
they had their wish ; for St. Giles entered the Lamb and Star,
and called with the confidence of a customer about him. But
who was to know St. Giles in the neatly-dressed, trim-looking
groom—the tall, clean-faced looking young fellow—that took his
mug of ale from the hands of Becky, and nodded so smilingly at
her ? True it is, the girl stared; the blood rushed about her face,
and darting from the room, she cried to herself, “It is—it is the
Lord preserve us;” but Becky looked with womanly eyes, and so
remembered the ragged outcast in the spruce serving-man. In a
few moments she returned to the room, and whilst she affected to
give change to St. Giles, she said in a low, agitated voice—“I
know you—they’ll know you, too, soon ; and then they’ll have
your life; go away: if you love—if you love yourself go away !
What a man you are What brings you here 7°
“Just this little remembrance,” said St. Giles, “for you got
yourself into trouble for helping me: just this odd little matter ;
keep it for my sake, wench,” and he placed a little silken huswife
in her trembling hand.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 159
“Law ’’ said Becky, “I didn't do nothing for you that I
wouldn’t ha' done for any body else; still I will keep this anyhow ;”
and Becky again blushing, again ran from the room. At the
same moment there was a shout outside the house of “Master
Willis–Master Willis ” and loud and long were the huzzas that
followed. The door was flung open, and Willis, franticly drunk,
rushed in, followed by several of his companions who with him
had celebrated the triumph of the day. Willis threw himself into
a chair, and called for a “thousand bowls of punch”—and then
he would have a song—and then he would have all the village
girls roused up, and would dance the night through.
Great was the respect felt by the landlord of the Lamb and Star
for Mr. Willis : nevertheless, the tumult rose to such a height,
that Blink, with bending back, and in the very softest voice, begged
of his honour not to insist upon a dance so late at night. Willis,
with a death-pale face—his hair disordered—his eyes stupidly
rolling—glared and hiccupped, and Snapped his fingers at the nose
of the landlord.
“Now squire, do be advised ; do, indeed : you 'll hurt your
health, squire, if you 've any more to night, I know you will,”
said Blink.
“You know !” shouted Willis—“Mughead what do you
know * Yes—ha! haſ ha 1–you're a pretty conjuror, you are.
You know ! Ha! you were the foreman of the jury, I believe 7
A pretty foreman—a precious jury ! And you found me Not
Guilty I Fool l nincompoop—ass | Here, I want to say some-
thing to you. Closer—a little closer.” Blink approached still
nearer to the drunken madman, when the ruffian spat in the land-
lord’s face ; he then roared a laugh, and shouted—“That for you!
I killed the old fellow—I did it—damn me, I did it.” And the
wretch, trying to rise from his chair, fell prostrate to the ground;
whilst all in the room shrunk with horror from the self-denounced
homicide.
CHAPTER XVI.
EVERY guest of the Lamb and Star bore away the confession of
the assassin ; and full soon scornful, loathing looks beset the path
of Robert Willis. The gossipping villagers would stand silent,
eyeing him askaunce, as he passed them. The dullest hind would
return his nod and good-morrow with a sullen, awkward air. Even
little children cowered from him, huddling about their mothers, as
the gay homicide would pat their heads, and give them pennies.
160 ST. GII.ES AND ST. JAMES.
It did not serve, that Robert Willis with a roaring laugh declared
the whole a jest—a drunken frolic just to make folks stare. It
served not that he would loudly and laboriously chuckle “to think
how he had made Blink shake—and how, with just a word or So,
he had taken everybody in.” No ; the confession of the murderer
had sunk into the hearts of his hearers; the tale spread far and
wide, and not even butts of ale—and Willis tried that Lethe–
would drown the memory of it. And so in brief time, the miser-
able wretch was left alone with the fiends. A few, out of pure love
of the liquor he bestowed, would still have doubted the blood-
guiltiness of their patron ; but even they could not long confront
the reproaches of their fellows. And so, with a late and hesitating
virtue, they wiped their lips of the murderer's malt, and consented
to believe him very bad indeed. Willis, as one by one dropt from
him, grew fiercely confident ; battling with brazen brow the looks
of all. Unequal fight ! The devil is a coward in the end : and
so, after a show of scornful opposition, the poor cowed fiend gave
up the contest and Robert Willis went no man knew whether. A
sad blow was this to Justice Wattles. That he should have spent
so much money on so hopeless a creature | That he should have
gone to the heavy expense of Mr. Montecute Crawley ! That at
so vast a price he should have saved his kinsman from the gibbet,_
when the desperate fool had hung himself in the opinion of all
men It would have been better, far cheaper, to let truth take
its course, but then there was the respectability of the family
And yet, it was some poor consolation to the puzzled justice, that
however a Willis might have deserved the gallows, he had escaped
it : opinion was a hard thing; but at the hardest it was not
tightened hemp. Nobody could say that a Willis was ever hanged.
Truth, after all, had not been sacrificed for nothing; and that was
some comfort.
In due course, the Kent waggon brought St. Giles to London.
It was about five o’clock on a bright summer morning when
St. Giles, with rapturous eyes looked upon the Borough. Yes, he
had returned to his hard-nursing mother, London. She had taught
him to pick and steal, and lie, and when yet a child, to anticipate
iniquities of men; and then—foolish, guilty mother —she had
scourged her youngling for his naughtiness; believing by the
severity of her chastisement best to show her scorn of vice, her
love of goodness. And St. Giles, as the waggon crawled along,
lay full length upon the straw, and mused upon the frequent
haunts of his early days.
Sweet and balmy sweet such thoughts! Refreshing to the soul,
jaded and fretful from the fight of men, to slake its thirst for
peace and beauty, at the fountain of memory, when childhood
k-º-º-º-º-
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 161
*-*.
seemed to have played with angels | What a luxury of the
heart, to cast off the present like a foul, begrimed garment,
and let the Soul walk awhile in the naked innocence of the
past ! Here is the scene of a happy childhood. It is full of
gracious shapes—a resurrection of the gentle, beautiful We have
lain in that field, and thought the lark—a trembling, fluttering
Speck of song above us—must be very near to God. That field
is filled with sweetest memories, as with flowers. And there
is an old—old tree. How often have we climbed it, and, throned
amid its boughs, have read a wondrous book; a something
beating like a drum at our heart : a something that confusing us
with a dim sense of glory, has filled our soul with a strange, fitful
music, as with the sounds of a far-coming triumph Such may
be the memories of a happy youth ! And what, as St. Giles, with
his face leaning On his propped hands, gazed from the waggon,
what, seeing the scenes of his childhood—what saw he? Many
things big with many thoughts.
Yes; how well he knew that court Six-and-thirty hours'
hunger had raged in his vitals, and with a desperate plunge, he had
dived into a pocket. It was empty. But the would-be thief had
been felt, and was hotly pursued. He turned up that court. He
was very young, then ; and, like a fool, knew not the ins-and-outs of
the Borough. He ran up the court; there was no outlet ; and the
young thief was caught like a stoat in a trap. And now St. Giles
sees the joy of his pursuer; and almost feels the blow the good,
indignant man, dealt as with a flail upon the half-naked child.
Ay, and it was at that post, that his foot slipt when he was chased
by the beadle for stealing two potatoes from a dealer's sack.-Yes;
and opposite that very house, the beadle laid about him with his
cane ; and there it was that the big, raw-boned, painted woman,
tore him from the beadle's grasp ; and giving him a penny, told
him with an oath to run for very life. Such were the memories
—yes, every turning had such—that thronged upon St. Giles,
gazing in thought upon his childhood days, from the Kent waggon.
And then happier thoughts possessed our hero. He looked
again and again at the card given him by St. James; and that
bit of paper with its few words was a talisman to his soul; a
written spell that threw a beauty and a brightness about the mean-
est things of London. Human life moved about him full of hope
and dignity. He had—or would have—an interest in the great
game—how great and how small !—of men. He would no longer
be a man-wolf; a wretched thing to hunt and be hunted. He
would know the daily sweets of honest bread, and sleep the sleep
of peace. What a promotion in the scale of life What unhoped
felicity, to be permitted to be honest, gentle ! What a saving
M
162 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
*s
mercy, to be allowed to walk upright with those he might begin to
look upon as fellow-creatures And as St. Giles thought of this,
he could have fallen upon his knees on London stones, in thank-
fulness and penitence. Solitude to him had been a softening
teacher. Meditation had come upon him in the far wilds: and
lie isolated, badged, and toiling felon for the first time thought
of the mystery of himself; for the first time dared to look in upon
his heart—a look that some who pass for bold men sometimes care
not to take—and he resolved to fight against what seemed his fate.
He would get back to the world. Tespite of the sentence that
bade him not to hope, he would hope. Though doomed to be a
life-long human instrument, a drudging carcase, he would win
back his manhood—he would return to life a self-respecting being.
And this possessing will beat, constant as a pulse, within him.
And these feelings, though the untutored man could give them no
harmonious utterance, still sustained and soothed him, and now,
in London streets, made most hopeful music to his soul.
And St. Giles passed through old familiar places, and would not
ponder on the miserable memories that thronged them. No ; with
a strong will, he laid the rising ghosts of his boyish days, and
went with growing stoutness On. He was bound for St. James's-
square, and the way before him was a path of pleasure. How
changed was London-bridge ' To his boyhood it had been a mass
of smoked, grimed stone : and now it seemed a shape of grace and
beauty. He looked, too, at the thousand ships that, wherever the
sea rolled, with mute gigantic power told the strength, the wealth,
and enterprise of England. He looked, and would not think of the
convict craft, laden with crimes, and wrong, and blasphemy, that
had borne him to his doom. He passed along, through Lombard-
street to the Bank ; and he paused and Smiled as he thought of the
time when the place seemed to him a place of awful splendour; a
visible heaven, and they he thought who went for moneys there,
“angels ascending and descending.” And above all, what a glory
it would be for him—a fame surpassing all burglarious renown—
to rob that Bank of England. And then he saw the Mansion-
house ; and thought of the severe and solemn Alderman who
had sentenced him to Bridewell. And then St. Giles passed
along Cheapside, and stood before St. Paul’s church ; and then for
the first time felt somewhat of its tremendous beauty. It had been
to him a mere mountain of stone, with a clock upon it. : and now,
he felt himself subdued, refined, as the Cathedral, like some
strange harmony, sank into his soul. He thought, too, of Christ
and the fishermen and tent-makers Christ had glorified—for he
had learned to read of them when a felon in the wilderness, and
his heart glowed with Christian fervour at Christ's temple, that
ST GILES AND ST. JAMES. 163
visible glory made and dedicated to the purposes of the Great
Teacher—most mighty in his gentleness, most triumphant by his
endurance, most adorable by the charity that he taught to men, as
the immortal link to hold them still to God Could expression
have breathed upon the thoughts of St. Giles, thus he might have
delivered himself. He spoke not : but stood gazing at the church,
and thinking what a blessing it was upon a land, wherein temples
for such purposes abounded; where solemn men set themselves
apart from the sordid ways of life, keeping their minds calm
and undefiled from the chink and touch of money, to heed of
nothing but the fainting, bleeding, erring hearts of those who had
dwelt upon the earth as though the earth had never a grave. Yes;
it was a blessing to breathe in such a land. It was a destiny
demanding a daily prayer of thankfulness, to know that Christian
charity was preached from a thousand and a thousand pulpits; to
feel that the spirits of the Apostles, their earnest, truthful spirits,
(ere solemnised by inspiration), still animated bishops, deans, and
rectors; and even cast a glory on the worn coats of how many
thousand curates | St. Giles, the returned transport, the igno-
rant and sinning man; St. Giles, whose innocence of childhood
had been offered to the Moloch selfishness of society, even
St. Giles felt all this ; and with swelling heart and the tears in
his throat, passed down Ludgate-Hill with a fervent devotion,
thanking his God who had brought him from the land of cannibals
to the land of Christians.
And now is St. Giles aroused by a stream of people passing
upward and downward, and as though led by one purpose turning
into the Old Bailey. “What's this crowd about 7” he asked of
one, and ere he was answered, he saw far down at Newgate door
a scaffold and a beam ; and a mass of human creatures, crowded
like bees, gazing upon them.—“What 's this " " again asked
St. Giles, and he felt the sickness of death upon him.
“What's this ” cried a fellow with a sneering leer-‘‘Why,
where do you come from to ask that ? Why it’s king George's
new drop, and this is the first day he's going to try it. No more
hanging at Tyburn now; no more drinks of ale at the T'ound. It's
all now to be the matter of a minute, they say. But it will never
answer—it never does; none of these new-fangled things. Nothing
like the old horse and cart, take my word for it. Besides, all
Tondon could see something of the show when they went to
Tyburn, while next to nobody can be 'commodated in the Old
Bailey. But it serves me right. If I hadn’t got so precious
drunk last night, I’d been up in time to have got a place near the
gallows. Silence . There goes eight o'clock.”
And as the hour was struck by the bells of Christian churches—

M 2
164 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES
of churches built in Christ's name, who conquered vengeance by
charity—men were led forth to be strangled by men, their last
moments soothed and made hopeful by Christ's clergyman.
There was a sudden hush among the crowd; and St. Giles
felt himself rooted where he stood ; with gaping mouth, and eyes
glaring towards Newgate. The criminals, trussed for the grave,
came out. “One—two—three—four—five—six—seven,”—cried
St. Giles in a rising scream, numbering the wretches as each
passed to his place—“eight—nine—ten—good God how many?”
and terror-stricken, he could count no further.
And then the last night's bacchanal next St. Giles, took up the
reckoning, counting as he would have counted so many logs of
wood, so many sacks of coals.-“Bight—nine—ten—eleven—
twelve—thirteen—fourteen—fifteen. That’s all; yes, it was to
be fifteen: that little chap's the last. Fifteen.”
Reader, pause a moment. Drop not the book with sudden
indignation at the writer who, to make the ingredients of his story
“thick and slab,” invents this horror. No ; he but copies from
the chronicles of the Old Bailey. Turn to them, incredulous
reader, and you will find that on the balmy morning of the twenty-
third of June, in the year of our Offended Lord, one thousand
seven hundred and eighty-four, fifteen human beings were hanged
in front of Newgate : death-offerings to the laws and virtues of
merry England. It was the first day, too, of the new drop ; and
the novel engine must be graced with a gallant number. Fame
has her laurels; why should not Justice have her ropes 2 There
was, too, a pleasantry—the devil must joke after some such
fashion—in trying the substance and capacity of a new gallows,
by so much weight of human flesh convulsed in the death-
struggle. And so—great was the legislative wit !—there were
fifteen to be strangled. A great example this to an erring, law-
breaking world of—the strength of timber
The Lords of the Privy Council had met, with good king George
the Third at their head, to correct the vices of the land. There
was death for the burglar—death for the footpad—death for the
sheep-stealer—death, death, death for a hundred different sinners.
The hangman was the one social physician, and was thought to
cure all peccant ills. Horrible, ghastly quack! And yet the
king's majesty believed in the hideous mountebank, and every
week, by the advice of his Lords of the Council—the wise men
of St. James's, the Magi of the kingdom, the starred and gartered
philosophers and philanthropists—every week did sacred royalty
call in Jack Ketch to cure his soul-sick children : Yea ; it was
with the hangman's fingers, that the father of his people touched
the People's Evil. And if in sooth the malady was not allayed,
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 165
it was for no lack of paternal tending, since we find in the Old
Bailey Register—that thing of blood, and bigotry, and ignorance,
—that, in one little year, in almost the first twelvemonth of the
new drop, the hangman was sent to ninety-six Wretches, who were
publicly cured of their ills in the front of Newgate And the
King in Council thought there was no such remedy for crime as
the grave; and therefore, by the counsel of his privy sages, failed
not to prescribe death-warrants. To reform man was a tedious
and uncertain labour : now hanging was the sure work of a
minute.
Oh, that the ghosts of all the martyrs of the Old Bailey—and,
though our profession of faith may make some moral anti-
quarians stare, it is our invincible belief that the Newgate
Calendar has its black array of martyrs; victims to ignorance,
perverseness, prejudice; creatures doomed by the bigotry of the
Council table; by the old haunting love of blood as the best cure
for worst of ills:–Oh, that the faces of all of these could look
from Newgate walls | That but for a moment the men who
stickle for the laws of death, as for some sweet household privi-
lege, might behold the grim mistake ; the awful sacrilegious
blunder of the past ; and, seeing, make amendment for the
future.
A few minutes, and fifteen human creatures, sanctified with
immortal souls, were carcases. The wisdom of the king and
lords in council was made manifest to the world by fifteen scare-
crows to guilt, pendent, and swaying to and fro. A few minutes,
and the heart of London, ay of the Old Bailey, beat equably as
before. The criminals were hanged, cut down, and the mob
separated only to meet—if it should again please the wisdom of
the king in council—for a like show on the next Monday ; Saint
Monday being, in the good old hempen times, the hangman's
special Saint's day.
The sufferers were scarcely dead, when St. Giles staggered like
a drunken man from the crowd. He made his way down Lud-
gate-hill, and sick and reeling, proceeded up Fleet-street. He
saw, he felt that the people stared aſ liim ; and the thought that
he was an escaped felon—that if detected he would as surely
rehearse the bloody scene, as surely as those fifteen corses scarce
done struggling—seemed to wither him. He stumbled against a
post ; then, for a moment gathering energy for the effort, he turned
up Shoe-lane, and entered a public-house. “A mug of water,
master; ” he asked of the landlord.
“It’s a liquor we don’t sell,” said the host, “and I can’t afford
to give it away. Water I should think a dram of brandy would
be better for your complaint. Why, you look like a blue-bag.
166 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
Got no catching sickness I hope } If so, be so good as to go to
another house. I’ve never yet had a day's illness, and I don’t
intend to have.”
“Nothing but a little faint, master. I passed, just now, by the
Old Bailey, and—and it’s been too much for me.”
“Well, you must have a coddled sort of heart, you must. T
should have gone myself, only I couldn't leave the bar; for they
don’t hang fifteen every day, and—why, if now you aint as white
as if you’d run from the gallows yourself.”
“Water, master—water,” cried St. Giles, –“ and for the
brandy, I’ll take that afterwards.”
“Better take it first,” said the landlord, “but that 's your
business. Well, I shouldn't much like such customers as you,”
he added, as St. Giles hastily quaffed the lymph. “Now, do
take some of the real stuff; or, with that cold rubbish, you’ll give
yourself the aygur ; ” and the host pressed the brandy.
“In a minute ; I'll just sit down a bit,” said St. Giles, and
taking the brandy, he entered a side-room. It was empty. Seat-
ing himself, with the untasted liquor before him, he again saw the
vision that had appalled and rooted him in the Old Bailey. He
could swear to it—it was clear to his eye as his own hand. All
but himself had beheld fifteen felons on the drop, but he had
seen sixteen ; and the last, the sixteenth, was himself; yes, if in
a glass he had ever seen himself. True ; it was but a vision—but
a vision that foreshadowed a horrid truth. He had escaped from
captivity to be hanged for the crime. All the bright promises of
the morning had vanished, and, in the bitterness of his thoughts,
he already sat in the gloom of Newgate. Thus sunk in misery,
he was unconscious of the entrance of a visitor, who, in a few
moments, startled him with a greeting.
“Been to the Jug, mate A cruel fine day to be hanged on,
isn’t it !” asked the new-comer.
St. Giles looked at the speaker, who suddenly recoiled from
his glance, as from the glare of some wild beast. “Why,
what’s the matter 1" asked the man. “Do you think you’ll
know me again, that you stare in that way ? Perhaps, you do
know me !” -
“Not at all, friend ; not at all ; though coming suddenly, you
startled me a little at first.” But instantly, St. Giles recognised
his old master and tempter, Tom Blast. Vice had cut still deeper
lines in his wicked face ; time had crowned him with its most
horrid crown, grey hairs upon a guilty head; time sat heavily
upon his back, yet St. Giles knew his early tutor; knew the
villain who had snared his boyhood, making him a doomed slave
for his natural life. Fierce thoughts rose in the heart of St. Giles,
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 167
as he gazed upon the traitor who had sold him ; a moment, and
he could have dipped his hands in that old man's blood : another,
instant, and he looked upon him with compassion, with deepest
pity. The villain saw the change, and took new confidence.
“It’s lucky times for you, mate, if you can tipple brandy. If
I’ve had nothing but five-farden beer since Tuesday, may I be
pisoned ”
“You may have this for me,” said St. Giles, and he gave
Blast the brandy, which the old knave greedily swallowed. -
“Should like to meet with one o' your sort every day,” cried
Blast, Smacking his lips. “Never saw your like afore.”
“Indeed 7” asked St. Giles, who, from the tone and manner of
Blast, felt himself secure from discovery. “Indeed 7” -
“No, never. You couldn’t tell me where I could see you to-
morrow 2° asked Blast.
“Why, where may you be found—where do you live 1° ques-
tioned St. Giles quickly.
“Oh, I live at Horsleydown ; but I so like the look o' you,
mate, I’ll meet you here,” answered Blast. “I’m agreeable to
anything.”
“Very well,” said St. Giles, “say twelve o’clock; we 'll have
another glass. Stay, you can have another now ; here's sixpence
for the treat. I must go ; good bye ; ” and St. Giles was hurrying
away, when Blast seized him by the hand, and whilst our hero
shrunk and shook at his touch, swore that he was a good fellow,
and a regular king. St. Giles, releasing himself, retreated quickly
from the house, casting frequent looks behind that he might
not be followed by his former friend, whom, it was his hope,
despite of the engagement of the morrow, never to behold again.
Nevertheless, St. Giles had yearned to have some further speech
with Blast. Half-a-dozen times the words were at his lips, and
then the fear of the chance of detection kept him dumb. And
then again he repented that he had not risked the peril, that he
might at once have known the fate of his mother. He had heard
no word of her. Was she dead | Remembering what was her
life, he almost hoped so. Yet she was the only creature of his
blood : and, if still living, it would be to him some solace—some-
thing to link him anew to her—to snatch her old age from the
horrors that defiled it. With these thoughts, St. Giles took his
way up the Strand, and feeling a strange pleasure in the daring,
was soon in Bow-street. He approached the office : the judg-
ment-seat where he was arraigned for his maiden theft. There at
the door, playing with his watch-chain—with almost the same face,
the same cut clothes, the same flower in his mouth, of fifteen years
before—stood Jerry Whistle, officer, and prime thief-taker. A sort
168 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
of human blood-hound, as it seemed expressly fashioned by madam
nature, to watch and seize on evil-doers. He appeared to be sent
into this world with a peculiar nose for robbers; scenting them
through all their doublings, although they should put seas between
him and them. And Jerry performed his functions with such
extreme good-humour, seized upon a culprit with snch great good-
nature, that it seemed impossible that death should end a cere-
mony so cordially began. Jerry Whistle would take a man to
Newgate as to a tavern ; a place wherein human nature might
with the fattest and the strongest enjoy itself.
As St. Giles approached Whistle, he thought that worthy officer,
learned as he was in human countenances, eyed him with a look
of remembrance ; whereupon, with a wise boldness, St. Giles
stepped up to him, and asked the way to Seven Dials. “Straight
ahead, my tulip, and ask again,” said Jerry ; and he continued to
suck his pink and chink his watch chain.
In a few minutes, St. Giles was in Short's Gardens. He looked
upwards at the third floor; where his first friend, Mrs. Aniseed,
had carried him to her gentle-hearted lord, Bright Jem. No :
they were tenants there no longer. The windows, always bright,
were crusted with dust ; two were broken, and patched with
paper. And there was no flower-pot, with its three-pennyworth
of nature from Covent-garden; no singing-bird, St. Giles, with a
sinking of the heart, passed on. It was plain he had lost a part of
something that, in his hours of exile, had made England so fair a
land of promise to him. He turned his steps towards Seven
Dials. He would look up at the shop of the muffin-maker: of
course he could not make himself known—at least not yet—to
that sweet-and-bitter philanthropist, Capstick : but it would be
something to see how time had dealt with him. A short space,
and St. Giles approached the door; the very threshold he had
crossed with basket and bell. Capstick had departed ; no muffin
graced the window. The shop was tenanted by a small under-
taker ; a tradesman who had to higgle with the poor for his price
of laying that eye-sore, poverty, in the arms of the maternal earth
who, least partial of all mothers, treats her offspring all alike.
“Can he be dead ' " thought St. Giles, for the moment uncon-
sciously associating his benefactor with the emblems of mortality;
as though death had come there and edged the muffin-maker out.
Ere he could think another thought, St. Giles stood in the shop.
The master, whistling a jig of the time, was at his work, driving
tin tacks into a baby's coffin. The pawnbroker would have an-
other gown—a blanket, it might be—for those tin tacks; but
that was nothing: why should wealth claim all the pride of the
world, even where pride is said to leave us—at the grave
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 169
“Do you know whether Mr. Capstick's alive?” asked St. Giles
of the whistling workman.
“Can’t say, I’m sure,” answered the undertaker. “I only
know I’ve not yet had the luck of burying him.”
“I mean the muffin-maker, who lived here before you,” said
St. Giles; “you knew him l’”
“I’ve heard of him, but never seen him—never want. He
was a tailor as was ruined last here. I say,”—cried the under-
taker, with an intended joke in his eye—“I say, you don’t want
anything in my way ?”
St. Giles, making no answer, stept into the street. He then
paused. Should he go forward He should have no luck that
day, and he would seek no further. And while he so determined,
he moved towards his native nook—the fetid, filthy corner, in
which he first Smelt what was called the air. He walked towards
Eſog Lane.
Again and again did he pass it. Again and again did he
approach St. Giles's Church, and gaze upon the clock. It was
only ten ; too early—he was sure of that—to present himself in
St. James's-square. Otherwise he would first go there, and return
to the Lane under cover of the night. He then crossed the way,
and looked up the Lane. He saw not a face he knew. All he
had left were dead ; and new tenants, other wretches, fighting
against want, and gin, and typhus, were preparing new loam for
the churchyard. No : he would not seek now. He would come
in the evening—it would be the best time, the very best.
With this feeling, St. Giles turned away, and was proceeding
slowly onward, when he paused at a shop-window. In a moment,
he felt a twitch at his pocket, and turning, he saw a child of some
eight or ten years old, carrying away a silk handkerchief that
Becky, in exchange for the huswife, had forced upon him. How
Sudden, and how great was St. Giles's indignation at the villain
thief Never had St. Giles felt so strongly virtuous ! The pigmy
felon flew towards Hog Lane ; and in a moment, St. Giles
followed him and stood at the threshold of the house wherein
the thief had taken shelter. St. Giles was about to enter, when
he was suddenly stopt by a man—that man was Tom Blast.
“Well, if this isn’t luck!” said Blast spreading himself in the
door-way, to secure the retreat of the thief. “Who’d ha’ thought
we should ha’ met so soon : ”
“All’s one for that,” said St. Giles. “I’ve been robbed, and
the young thief's here, and you know it.”
“A thief here ! Mind what you’re about, young man: do
Imind what you say, afore you take away the character of a honest
house. We’ve nothin’ here but our good name to live upon, and
170 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
so do mind what you’re about.” And Blast uttered this with
such mock earnestness, looked so knowingly in the face of St. Giles,
that, unconsciously, he shrank from the speaker; who continued:
“Is it likely now, that you could think anybody in this Lane
would pick a gentleman's pocket'ſ Bless your heart we’re all
so honogt herc, we ale,” aud Dlast laughed.
“I thought you told me,” said St. Giles, confused, “that you
lived somewhere away at Horsleydown.”
“Lor love you ! folks as are poor like us have, you know, a
dozen town-houses; besides country Ones under hedges and hay-
stacks. We can easily move about : we haven’t much to stop us.
And now, to business. You've really lost your handkercher ?”
“”Tisn’t that I care about it,” said St. Giles, “only you see 'twas
given me by somebody.”
“Given To be sure. Folks do give away things, don’t they
All the world's gone mad, I think; people do so give away.”
St. Giles's heart fell at the laughing, malignant look with which
Blast gazed upon him. It was plain that he was once again in
the hands of his master; again in the power of the devil that had
first sold him. “Howsomever,” continued Blast, “if you've
really been robbed, and the thief's in this house, shall I go and
fetch a officer ? You don’t think, sir, do you”—and Blast grinned
and bowed his head—“you don’t think, sir, as how I’d pertect
anybody as had broke the laws of my native land 7 Is it likely 7
Only say the word. Shall I go for a officer 7 °
“No ; never mind—it doesn’t matter. Still, I’ve a fancy for
that handkercher, and will give more than it’s worth for it.”
“Well, that's like a nobleman, that is. Here, Jingo 1 °-cried
Blast, stepping a pace or two into the passage, and bawling his
lustiest—“Jingo, here's the gen’lman as has lost the handkercher
you found; bring it down, my beauty.” Obedient to the command,
a half-naked child—with the very look and manner of St. Giles's
former self—instantly appeared, with the stolen goods in his hand.
“He’s sich a lucky little chap, this is,”—said Blast—“nothin's
lost hereabout, that he doesn’t find it. Give the fogle to the
gen’Iman ; and who knows? perhaps, he’ll give you a guinea for
it.” The boy obeyed the order, and stood with open hand for the
reward. St. Giles was about to bestow a shilling, when Tom
Blast sidled towards him, and in an affected tone of confidence,
said, “ Couldn’t think o' letting you do sich a thing.”
“And why not ?” asked St. Giles, becoming more and more
terrified at the bold familiarity of the ruffian. “Why not ?”
“”Tisn’t right; not at all proper; not at all what I call matral”
—and here Blast whispered in St. Giles's ear—“that money
should pass atween brothers.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 171
“ Brothers ” Cried St. Giles.
“Ha, sir!” said Blast, taking his former manner-‘you don't
know what a woman that Mrs. St. Giles was She was a good
soul, wasn't she You must know that her little boy fell in
trouble about a pony; and then he was in Newgate, being made
all right for Tyburn, jist as this little feller was born. And then
they took and transported young St. Giles; and he never seed his
mother—never know’d nothin’ that she'd got a little baby.”
“And she 's dead l’’ cried St. Giles.
“And, this I will say,” answered Blast, “ comfortably buried.
She was a good soul—too good for this world. You didn’t know
St. Giles, did you ?” said Blast with a laugh.
“Why do you ask " " replied the trembling transport.
“Because if you did, you must see the likeness. Come here,
Jingo,” and Blast laid one hand upon the urchin's head, and with
the other pointed out his many traits of resemblance, “There's
the same eye for a fogle—the same nose—the same everything.
And oh, isn’t he fond o' ponies, neither jist like his poor dear
brother as is far away in Botany Bay. Don't you see that he's
the very spit on him 7” cried Blast.
“I can’t say—how should I know 7" answered St. Giles, about
to hurry off; and then he felt a strange interest in the victim,
and paused and asked—“Who takes care of him, now his mother’s
gone 7"
“He hasn’t a friend in the world but me,” said Blast.
“God help him l’” thought St. Giles.
“And I-though you’d never think it”—continued Blast, “I
love the little warmint, jist as much as if I was his own father.”
CHAPTER XVII.
WITH many words did Tom Blast strive to assure St, Giles that
the orphan boy had found a watchful parent in his mother's
friend; and St. Giles was fain to look believingly. He saw his
own doomed childhood in the miserable, mistaught creature: he
saw the wretch prepared to sell him, in due season, to Newgate
shambles; and yet the passion, the agony that tugged at the
transport's heart must be subdued: he must mask his hate with
a calm look, must utter friendly words. “'Twas kind of you,
mate,_very kind,” said St. Giles, “to take such care of the
young cretur. Well, good day;” and St. Giles coloured and
172 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
stammered as he felt the eye of Blast was upon him—“we shall
meet again.”
“You never said a truer word,” cried Blast, and he held forth
his hand. St. Giles breathed heavily ; he would rather have
grasped a wolf by the throat; and then he took the hand that
had all but fitted the haller to his neck. “We shall meet agin,”
said Blast; and the words, like bodiless furies, seemed to St. Giles
to fill the air around him. He passed from the lane into the open
street, and still they followed him ; each syllable seemed a devil
threatening him. “We shall meet again,” rang in his ears,
torturing his brain ; and again he saw the ghastly horror of the
morning; again beheld those fifteen corded wretches; again
beheld the shadow of himself. He passed on, crossed the road;
the street was thronged; the hubbub of the day was at its
height ; yet St. Giles saw nothing but those pinioned men, and
the preacher of Christ's word, in the name of his merciful Master,
Solacing sinners to be in a moment strangled by the warrant of a
Christian king. He paused, and with his hand before his eyes,
leaned against a wall; and piercing words in terrible distinctness
fell upon him, “I am the resurrection and the life.” He started,
and a few paces from him, in St. Giles's churchyard, he beheld
the parish priest. The holy man was reading the burial service
Over pauper clay ; was sanctifying ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
amid the whirl of life—the struggle and the roar of money-clawing
London.
The ceremony went on, the solemn sentences tuned with the
music of eternal hopes, fitfully heard through cries of “Chairs to
mend,” and “Live mackarel.” The awful voice of Death seemed
scoffed, derided, by the reckless bully, Life. The prayer that em-
balmed poor human dust for the judgment, seemed as measured
gibberish that could never have a meaning for those who hurried
to and fro, as though immortality dwelt in their sinews. And that
staid and serious-looking man, with upturned eyes and Sonorous
voice, clad in a robe of white, and holding an opened book, -why,
what was he Surely, he was playing some strange part in a
piece of business in which business men could have no interest.
The ceremony is not concluded, and now comes an adventurous
trader with a dromedary and a monkey on its back, the well-
taught pug, with doffed feathered cap, sagaciously soliciting half-
pence. And there, opposite the churchyard, the prayer of the
priest coming brokenly to his ears, is a tradesman Smiling at his
counter, ringing the coin, and scarcely snuffing the Golgotha at
his door, asking what article he shall next have the happiness to
show ! And thus in London highways do Death and Life shoulder
each other. And Life heeds not the foul, impertinent warning;
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 173
but at the worst thinks Death, when so very near, a nuisance. It
is made by familiarity a nasty, vulgar, unhealthy thing; it is too
close a neighbour to become a solemnity.
It has been held to be a wise, deep-thoughted ordinance of the
Egyptians that at their banquets was served a skeleton, that, in
its grim nakedness, it might preach their coming nakedness to all
the revellers: that it might show their future outline of bone,
when called to lay aside the fleshly garment, laced and interlaced
with so divine a mystery of nerves that, subtle as light, conveys
the bliss of being. And so was a skull made a moralist; and
Solemn were the mute exhortations falling from its grinning jaws;
profound its comic teaching. For, apart from association, the
expression of a bare skull has, to ourselves at least, little in it
Serious: nay, there has always seemed to us a quaint cheerfulness
in it. The cheek-bones look still puckered with a smile, as though
contracted when it flung aside the mask of life, and caught a
glimpse of the on-coming glory.
And the Egyptians are lauded for their dinner skeleton. Indeed,
at the first thought, it seems a notable way of teaching sobriety
and good manners. Yet, could we come at the truth—could we
know the very heart of the banquet, throbbing after an hour or
so with hot wine, we should know, past dispute, how grievously
the great Preacher Bone had failed in his purpose. We should
hear of quick-witted Egyptians making unseemly jokes at his
gaunt nakedness; we should see one reprobate idolater of leeks
capping death's-head with an empty bowl, even as a boy ventures
a joke upon his sleeping schoolmaster. We should see another—
a fine young Theban—spirting wine in the cavernous eyeholes of
T}eath, bidding him look double for the libation. But of these
jests we hear nothing; we only hear of the wisdom of the where-
about of the skeleton, and nothing of the affronts that—we would
almost swear to the fact—its familiarity with the living drew
upon it.
And therefore—oh, legislators!—remove city churchyards from
the shop-doors of citizens. Your goodly purpose has altogether
failed. By huddling the dead with the living, it was doubtless
your benign intention to place a lesson continually in the eyes of
trading men—to show them how vain and fleeting was even a cent.
per cent, profit—to prove that, however thumping the balance on
the books, Death, with his dirty, grave-yard fingers, might any
minute come and wipe it out. The thing has not prospered. How
many hackney-coach stands have with the best intention been
established near churchyards ! For hours and hours the drivers
sit and sit, with one eye upon the grave, and another on the
pavement. And yet these men, so open to daily meditation—so
174 ST. GILES AND ST. J AMIES.
appealed to by tomb-stone eloquence—these men are scarcely to be
trusted with unweighed bullion. We speak within measure when
we say that not above a hundred times have we heard of a hackney-
coachman returning sovereigns which—in a moment of vinous
enthusiasm—had been unguardedly fondered for shillings. No :
we could swear it. Not above a hundred times.
And still St. Giles stood, listening to the burial service, when he
felt something pulling at his coat-skirt. He looked round, and
saw his half-brother, the precocious Jingo, lauded by Tom Blast,
at his side. “I say,” cried the urchin, with a wink, and pointing
towards a spot in the churchyard, “that's where we put the old
'oman.”
“What-mother ? Where 7° cried St. Giles.
Jingo picked up a piece of broken tobacco-pipe from the pave-
ment. “Bet you a pound,” said the boy, “I’ll hit the place.
Why, jist there; ” and unerringly he pitched the fragment on a
distant grave. This done, Jingo nodded in self-approval.
Without a word, St. Giles entered the churchyard, and ap-
proached the grave; Jingo running like a dog at his side. “Poor
soul | poor soul!” cried St. Giles; and then, looking earnestly
down upon the clay, he added, “after all, it’s a better place than
the Lane—a better place.”
“Bless your 'art,” said the boy, “that's what mother said
afore she come here. She called me to her, and said she was
a-goin’ to be 'appy at last—and then there was a man as read to
her two or three times out of a book, and would read for all Tom
IBlast said he'd get him pumped on for coming to the Lane—well,
when she talked o' being 'appy, the man said she was a wicked
cretur to think o' sich a thing. And then didn’t the old 'oman
wring her hands, and call Tom Blast sich names—and didn’t she
hug me like nothin', and scream out, and ask who’d take care
O’ me !”
“I’ll take care of you,” cried St. Giles, and he placed an arm
about the boy's neck. “Be a good child, and I’ll take care of
you : T promise it—here I promise it ; here, where poor mother
lies. And you will be a good boy, won't you ?” asked St. Giles
affectionately, and tears came into his eyes.
“Oh, won’t I though 1” cried Jingo, plainly expecting some
reward for his ready promise.
“I know you will—I'm sure you will,” said St. Giles, patting
the boy's head ; “and now go home, and you and I’ll meet again
afore long. Here’s a shilling for you; and mind you take no more
handkerchers.” Jingo seized the money—ducked his head up
and down—and in a moment disappeared in Hog Lane. “I’ll save
him from that devil, as God’s in heaven I will,” cried St. Giles;
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 175
º
and as though nerved with a good purpose, he walked sharply on.
IIe had suddenly found in life a new responsibility, and with it
new determination. With this thought he pursued his rapid way
towards the mansion of St. James. With trembling hand he
struck the knocker: again and again, harder and harder. Still
the door remained closed : and then, to the fancy of St. Giles, the
lion's head looked sneeringly at him, mocking his errand. “There’s
nobody at home,” said St. Giles despondingly, and at the same
moment the door was opened by a footboy, a most bright mulatto
of about fifteen, There was an ease, a self-assurance in the youth,
that proved him to have been born for the brilliant livery that
adorned him. He seemed to have come into the world, like a
parroquet, to disport in gaudy covering. And thus, a very
nestling, he had been fledged with the St. James's livery; for
when scarcely six years old, he had been presented as a sort of
doll footboy to one of the Marquess's daughters: like her pet pug,
he was such a curious little wretch—such a pretty little monster.
His colour was so bright—his nose so flat—his eyes so sharp–
and he had this advantage of the pug, his hair was so woolly.
Had he been made of the best Nankin china—and not compounded
of Saxon and negro blood—he had scarcely been more precious.
Still, human toy as he was, he had this drawback from his
humanity: Ralph—such was his name—grew out of the curious ,
he shot up from the squab Indian image into the lanky, loose-
jointed youth, Could he have remained all his life under four
feet, he would have continued a treasure ; but he grew, and
growing, was lowered from the eminence of his childhood to the
flat walk of the servants'-hall. It was so pretty to see him—like
an elfin dwarf from some Indian mine—tripping with prayer-
book at his young lady's heels: but nature, with her old vulgarity,
would have her way, and so, Ralph, the son of Cesar Gum, who
was duly married to Kitty Muggs, who in good time duly buried
her African lord, Ralph, we say, was fast spindling into the
mere footman. And he had ever had a quick sense of the rights
of livery. It was a garb that, placing him in near and dear
communication with the noble, by consequence elevated him to a
height, not measurable by any moral barometer, above common
people. He looked from under his gold-laced hat, as from a ladder,
down upon the vulgar. His mother, the widowed Gum, would in
her mild, maternal way remonstrate with her beloved child, on
his unchristian pride ; and when in turn rebuked, as she never
failed to be, with exorbitant interest, she would comfort herself
by declaring, “that it was just so with his blessed father, who
was gone to a better place. He, too, had such a spirit.” Little
thought St. Giles, as he stood confronted with that young mulatto
**
176. ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
—at the time with all his thoughts half-buried in a pottle, from
which he fished up strawberry after strawberry, conveying the
fruit with a judicial smack to his mouth, little thought St. Giles
that he stood before the only child of the negro Cesar who, in
Covent Garden watch-house, had borne witness against him. As
yet St. Giles had ventured no syllable of inquiry, when young
Ralph, in his own masterly manner, began the dialogue.
“I say, if it isn't an uncivil thing to put to a gentleman,—how
much might you have give the Marquess for this house ! You
couldn’t tell us, nohow, could you?” and master Ralph Sucked a
strawberry between his white, paternal teeth.
“What do you mean, mate 7" asked St. Giles, with a stare.
Ralph returned an astonished look at the familiarity, and then
spat a strawberry-stalk on St. Giles's foot. He then continued
“Why, in course you’ve bought the house, or else you'd never
have made such a hullabaloo with the knocker. As I said afore,
how much might you have give for it !”
“I ask your pardon, I’m sure,” said St. Giles, “I thought at
last everybody was out.”
“Everybody but me—for kitchen-maids go for nothing—is. But
what did you give for the house, I say ?” again repeated the
witty Ralph, laughing at his own indomitable humour.
“Lor, Ralph,” cried a female head, hanging over the banister;
“lor, Ralph, why don’t you answer the poor man " " Saying
this, the head for a moment disappeared, and then again showed
itself on the shoulders of a fat little woman, who bustled down
into the hall.
“Now, I tell you what it is,” said the youthful footman, glowing
very yellow, and holding up his fore-finger at the intruder, “if
you don’t let me mind my business, you sha’n’t come here when
they’re out at all,—now mind that.” -
“Ha! if only your dear father could hear you, wouldn’t it
break his heart | For the seven years we lived together he never
said a crooked word to me, and Ralph, you know it. He was a
man,” said the widow in that earnest tone with which widows
would sometimes fain convey a sense of value of the past
invaluable. “He was a man | *
“I spose he was”—replied the filial Ralph—“you’ve said so
such a many times: all I know is, I know nothing about him—
and I don't want to know nothing.”
“Well, if ever I thought to hear such words come out of that
livery ! Don't you expect that something will happen to you ?
Rnow nothing about your own father | When—only you’re a
shade or two lighter, for your dear father wasn’t ashamed of what
God give him to cover him with—only a shade or two, and you’re
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 177
as like him as one crow's like another.” This Mrs. Gum empha-
tically clenched with—“And you know you are.”
Master Ralph Gum turned a deeper and deeper yellow, as his
mother spoke. His indignation, however, at his avowed similitude
to his departed sire, was too large to be voluble through a human
mouth. He therefore turned abruptly from his widowed parent,
and angrily shouted at St. Giles—“What do you want?”
“I want his young lordship,” answered St. Giles. “He told
me to bring this,” and St. Giles presented the card. +
“Well, I can read this plain enough,” said Ralph.
“And if you can,” cried Mrs. Gum, “who have you to thank
for the blessing but your dear father ? Till his dying day, he
couldn't read, sweet fellow ; but he made you a gentleman, and
yet you know nothing about him.”
“You shan’t come here at all, if you can’t behave yourself.”
cried Master Ralph to his mother, evidently meaning to keep his
word. Then turning to St. Giles, he said—“You’d better take
this to Mr. Tangle.”
“Tangle—a-lawyer 7 ° cried St. Giles, with a quick recollec-
tion of that wise man of Newgate. -
“He’s at the Committee at the Cocoa-Tree: I dare say it’s
'lection business, and he’ll send you down—if you’re worth the
money—with the other chaps. I don’t know nothing more about
it,” cried Master Ralph, perceiving that St. Giles was about to
make further enquiry—“all I can say to you is, the Cocoa-Tree.”
“I’m a going a little that way, young man,” said Mrs. Gum,
“ and I’ll show you.”
“And mind what I say,” cried Ralph to his mother, closing
the door, and speaking with his face almost jammed between it
and the postern, “mind what I say ; if you can’t behave yourself,
you don’t come no more here.” And then he shut the door.
“Ha! he doesn't mean it—not a bit of it,” said Mrs. Gum.
“He’s such a good cretur; so like his father—only a little more
lively.” -
“And he’s dead?” said St. Giles, not knowing well what to say.
“And T’m alone,” sighed Mrs. Gum. “His father was a
flower, that cretur was: he'd a kissed the stones I walk upon.
He was too honest for this world. He caught his death—nothing
shall ever persuade me out of it—upon principle.” *
“After what fashion ?” asked St. Giles. -
“Why you see it was in a hard frost ; and poor soul if there
was a thing he couldn’t 'bide in the world, it was frost. He
hated it worser than any snake; and it was natºral, for he was
born in a hot place, where monkeys and cocoa-nuts come from—
this is the way to the Cocoa-Tree. Well, it was a hard frost, and
N
2
178 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
he was out with the carriage at a state ball at the Palace. He
was in full-dress of course—with those dreadful silk stockings.
All the other servants put on their gaiters; but he wouldn't—he
was so partic’lar to orders. Well, the cold flew to the calves of
his legs, and then up into his stomach, and then—oh, young man
I’ve never looked at silk stockings that I hav'n't shivered again.
That’s the way to the Cocoa-Tree "-And with this, Mrs. Gum,
possibly to hide her emotion, suddenly turned a corner, and left
St. Giles alone.
But he needed no pilotage : the Cocoa-Tree was well known to
him ; and with his best haste he made his way to its hospitality.
Arrived, he enquired for Mr. Tangle, and was immediately shown
into the presence of that very active legalist, who sat at the
head of a table with a heap of papers before him. On each side
of the table sat a row of thoughtful men, each with a glass at his
hand, all convoked to protect the British Constitution, menaced as
it was in its most vital part—a part, by the way, seldom agreed
upon by those who talk most about it—by a candidate for the
representation of the borough of Liquorish ; an intruder upon the
property of the Marquess of St. James. The borough, time out of
mind, had been the property of the family: to attempt to wrest it
from the family grasp was little less felonious than an attack upon
the family plate-chest. Twice or thrice there had been murmurs
of a threatened contest ; but now, on the retirement of Sir George
Warmington from the seat, that his young lordship might grace-
fully drop himself into it, a plebeian candidate, with an alarming
amount of money, had absolutely declared himself. Such audacity
had stirred from its depths the very purest patriotism of Mr.
Tangle, who lost no time in waiting upon Mr. Folder—with whom
since the first Sabbath interview in Red Lion Square, he had kept
up a running acquaintanceship, and immediately offering himself,
body and the precious soul the body contained, at the service of
the Marquess. Mr. Folder had just the order of mind to perceive
and value the merits of Tangle ; and the lawyer was instantly
appointed as the head and heart of the committee sitting at the
Cocoa-Tree, for his young Lordship's return for—in the words of
Tangle—his own sacred property of Liquorish.
“Well, my good young man,” said Tangle to St. Giles, “you
of course are one of the right sort'. You come to give us a vote %
To be sure you do. Well, there's a post-chaise for you, dinners
on the road—hot suppers, and a bottle of generous wine to send
you happy to bed. His lordship scorns to give a bribe; but every
honest voter has a right to expect the common necessaries of life.”
“I’ve never a vote,” said St. Giles, “nothing of the sort. I
wish I had.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 179
“You wish you had, indeed * cried Tangle. “None of your
impudence, fellow. What brings you here, then 7°
“I’ve been to his lordship's house, and they sent me here.
His lordship told me to come to him in London, and give me this
card. He told me as how he’d take me into his service,” added
St. Giles with a slight shudder, for as Tangle looked full upon
him, he remembered all the horrors of Newgate—all brought to
his memory by that legal stare. Years had passed over Tangle,
and save that the lines in his face were cut a little deeper, and
marked a little blacker, his were the same features—the very same
—that frowned on the boy horse-stealer in the condemned cell.
“Well, his lordship's not here,” said Tangle ; “and he's too
busy now to attend to such raff as you. Away with you.”
“Stop, stop,” cried a low, whistling voice; and a gentleman
with a very white, thistledown kind of hair, a small, withered face,
and remarkably little eyes, called back St. Giles. “I suppose,
my man,” said the aged Mr. Folder, putting on his best possible
look of vigour, and endeavouring to make the most of his shrunk
anatomy, “I suppose, my fine fellow, you can fight ! Eh 7 You
look as if you could fight !” And then the querist chuckled, as
though he talked of an enjoyment peculiarly adapted to man.
“Why, yes, sir,” said St. Giles, “I can fight a little, I hope, in
a good cause.”
“Upon my life, Mr. Folder,” said Tangle, “the world’s come
to something when such as he is to judge of causes.”
“But he's a stout fellow—a very stout fellow,” whispered
Folder to the lawyer; “and as I’m credibly informed that the
other side have hired an army of ruffians—I even know the very
carpenter who has made the bludgeons—why, we mustn't be
taken by surprise. I’m never for violence; but when our blessed
constitution is threatened by a rabble, we can’t be too strong.”
Mr. Tangle nodded sagaciously at this, and again addressed
St. Giles. “Well, then, fellow, if you're not above earning an
honest bit of bread, we’ll find employment for you. Besides, you
may then see his lordship, and he may have an opportunity of
knowing what you’re worth.” A.
“I’ll do anything for his lordship, bless him l’’ cried St. Giles.
“There, now, none of your blessings. We’re too old birds to be
caught with such chaff as that. Your duty as an honest man will
be to knock down everybody that wears a yellow riband, and to
ask no questions.” Such were the instructions of Tangle ; and
St. Giles, who had no other hope than to see his lordship, bowed
a seeming acquiescence.
“You may get some refreshment,” whiffled Folder, “and so be
ready to start with the next batch. Mind, however, at least until
N 2
180 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
the day of nomination, to keep yourself sober ; on that day, why
everything's ad lºbitum. When I say ad libiţum, I mean that
you will be expected to take the best means to defend our blessed
constitution. And when I say the best means—” --
“He knows, Mr. Folder; he knows,” interrupted Tangle.
“He’ll drink like a fish, and fight like a cock; I can tell it by the
looks of him :” and with this compliment the attorney waved
St. Giles from the apartment ; a waiter taking possession of him,
and showing him to a smaller room wherein were congregated about
a dozen minstrels, especially hired by Tangle to play away the
hearts and voices of the voters of Liquorish. Our blessed consti-
tution was to be supported by a big drum, two or three trumpets,
as many clarionets, an oboe, a fiddle or two, and a modest triangle.
“There was nothing like music to bring folks up to the poll,” was
the avowal of Tangle. “ Fools were always led by the ears.
When they heard “Hearts of oak,’ they always thought they had
the commodity in their own breasts—and never paused at the
bribery oath, when ‘Britons strike home was thundering beside
'em. He 'd carried many an election with nothing but music,
eating and drinking, and plenty of money. Music was only
invented to gammon human nature ; and that was one of the
reasons women were so fond of it.” And animated by this
forlorn creed, Mr. Tangle had ordered the aforesaid minstrels to
meet that day at the Cocoa-Tree that they might be duly trans-
ported to the borough of Liquorish. There was no doubt that
musicians might have been engaged on or near the spot ; but there
was something tasteful and generous in hiring harmony at the
mart of all luxuries—London. All the minstrels—Apollo is so
often half-brother to Bacchus—were very drunk ; and therefore
gave an uproarious welcome to St. Giles. Trief, however, was
the greeting; for in a few minutes the waiter returned with
the intelligence that “the van was at the door; and that Mr.
Tangle's order was that they should drive off directly ; otherwise
they wouldn’t be at Liquorish that blessed night.” Hereupon
there was a clamorous order for a glass all round; the minstrels
being unanimous in their determination not to stir a foot or strike
a note in defence of the glorious constitution without it. Mr.
Tangle knew his mercenaries too well to oppose such patriotism ;
therefore the liquor was brought and swallowed, and the band,
with St. Giles among them, climbed into the strange, roomy vehicle
at the door; the driver, with the flame of brandyburning in his face,
taking the reins. The horses, employed on the occasion, had evi-
dently been degraded for the nonce. They were large, sleek,
spirited creatures, prematurely removed from a carriage, to whirl
a plebeian vehicle thirty miles from London, at the quickest speed.
*--—
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 181
There seemed a sad, an ominous contrast between the driver and
the beasts. He might continue to hold the reins between his
fumbling fingers; he might maintain his seat ; the horses might
not, contemptuous of the human brute above them, cast off his
government. Such were evidently the thoughts of the waiter as
he cast an eye from the steeds to the driver, and then laughed as
the wickedness of human nature will sometimes laugh at its
inward prophecy of mischief. In that leer, the waiter foresaw
the driver and the contents of the caravan suddenly weltering
like frogs in a ditch.
“All ready, gemmen 7° hiccupped the driver, trying to look
round at his harmonious load.
“Wait a minute,” cried the first clarionet, who was also the
leader ; “jest a minute,” and then he made his instrument give a
horrible scream and grunt, whereupon he cried “all right,” and
burst into “See the conquering hero comes,” his co-mates follow-
ing him with all the precision permitted by rough-riding and hard
drinking. And so they took their way from the Cocoa-Tree,
playing beyond Shoreditch an anticipatory strain of triumph—a
glorifying measure that was to herald the conquest of young St.
James in the cause of purity and truth.
“I think we’ve given 'em their belly-full now,” at length said
the hautboy, removing the peace-breaker from his lips. “We
needn't play to the green bushes,” and the musician looked about
him at the opening country. “I say,” and he called to the driver,
“I do hear that the other side isn’t a going to have no music at
all ; no flags; no open houses for independent voters. A good
deal he knows about the wants of the people. Bless his in-
nocence 1 Thinks to get into Parliament without music ”
“Well, it is wonderful,” observed one of the fiddlers, an old,
thin-faced, somnolent-looking man, with the tip of his nose like
an old pen dyed with red ink—“it is odd to consider what igno-
ramuses they are that think to go into Parliament. Why you can
no more make a member without music than bricks without
straw ; it is’nt to be done. Speechifying's very well ; but there's
nothing that stirs the hearts of the people, and makes 'em think
o' their rights, like a jolly band.”
“One bang of my drum,” observed the humble advocate of that
instrument, “ sometimes goes more to make a Member of Parlia-
ment than all his fine sayings. Bless your souls l if we could only
come to the bottom of the matter, we should find that it was in
fact our instruments that very often made the law-makers, and not
the folks as vote for 'em : my big drum 's represented in Par-
liament, though I dare be sworn there's not a member that will
stoop to own it.” -
182 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“And my clarionet's represented too,” cried the leader, advo-
cating his claim.
“Yes, and my triangle,” exclaimed the player of that three-
sided instrument, wholly unconscious of the satiric truth that fell
from him.
“Capital ale here !” cried the driver, with increasing thickness
of speech, as he drew up at an inn-door. It was plain that the
county of Essex—or at least that part of it that led from London
to Liquorish—was peculiarly blessed with good ale : for at every
inn, the driver pulled up short, and proclaimed the heart-cheering
news—“Capital ale here !” They were the only words he uttered
from the time he had passed Shoreditch-church. Indeed he
seemed incapable of any other speech : he seemed a sort of human
parrot, reared and taught in a brewery, endowed with no other
syllables than “Capital ale here !” And still, as we have hinted,
the words grew thicker and thicker in his mouth ; too thick to
drop from his lips, and so they rumbled in his jaws, whilst he cast
a hopeless look about him, despairing to get them out ; yet at
every new hostelry making a sound that plainly meant—“Capital
ale here.” Happily for him, according to his dim idea of felicity,
he mumbled to quick interpreters. Hence, ere half the journey
was accomplished, the driver seemed possessed of no more intel-
ligence than a lump of reeking clay. He twiddled the reins
between his fingers, and sometimes opened his eyes, that saw not
the backs of the horses they tried to look down upon. But
the brutes were intelligent ; they, it appeared, knew the road ;
knew, it almost seemed so, the filthyimbecility of the driver ; and
So, with either a pity or contempt for the infirmity of human
nature, they took care of their charioteer and his besotted pas-
sengers. True it is, St. Giles at times cast anxious looks about
him ; at times, ventured to hint a doubt of the sobriety of the
driver, whereupon, he was called a fool, a coward, and a nincom-
poop, by his companions, who considered his anxiety for the Safety
of his bones as an extreme piece of conceit, very offensive to the
rest of the company. “You won't break sooner than any of us,
will you ?” asked the first fiddle. “Besides, you’re too drunk
for any harm to come to you.” St. Giles was sober as a water-
god. “A good deal too drunk ; for if you knew anything—I say,
that was a jolt, wasn’t it 7”—(for the vehicle had bounced so
violently against a milestone, that the shock half-opened the eyes
of the driver)—“you'd know that a man who's properly drunk
never comes to no sort of harm. There 's a good angel always
living in a bottle ; you’ve only to empty it, and the angel takes
care of you directly : sees you home, if it’s ever so dark, and
finds the keyhole for you, if your hand is ever so unsteady. No :
*-i-
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 183
it's only your sneak-up chaps, that are afraid of the glass, that
get into trouble, break their bones, and catch rheumatiz, and all
that. Whereas, if your skin’s as full of liquor as a grape's full
of juice, you may lay yourself down in a ditch, like a little baby in
his mother's lap, and wake in the morning for all the world like a
opening lily.”
The latter part of this sentence was scarcely heard by St. Giles,
for the horses had suddenly burst into a gallop ; the vehicle
swayed to and fro, flew round a turning of the road, and striking
against the projecting roots of a huge tree, threw all its human
contents into a green-mantled pond on the other side of the narrow
highway, one wheel rolling independently off. St: Giles, unhurt,
but drenched to the skin, immediately set about rescuing his all
but helpless companions. He tugged and tugged at the inert
mass, the driver, and at length succeeded in dragging him from
the pond, and setting him against a bank. He groaned, and his
lips moved, and then he grunted—“Capital ale here.” The first
clarionet scrambled from the pool, and seizing his instrument, that
had rolled into the mud, immediately struck up “See the con-
quering hero comes | * The first drum, inspired by the melodious
courage of his companion, banged away at the parchment, but
alas ! for the first fiddle : the bacchanal good angel, of which
he had but a minute since so loudly vaunted, had forsaken him
at his worst need; and that prime Cremona was rescued from
water, mud, and duckweed with a broken arm. He was, how-
ever, unconscious of the injury; and before he was well out of the
pond, assured St. Giles that if he would only have the kindness
and good-fellowship to let him alone, he could sleep where he was
like an angel.
It was about ten o’clock at night, but for the season very dark.
St. Giles, from the time that he could see the milestones, knew
that he must be near the wished-for borough. It was in vain to
talk to his companions. Some were senseless and stupid ; some
roaring bravado, and some trying to give vent to the most horrid
music. Again and again St. Giles hallooed, but the louder he
cried, the stronger the big drum beat—the Inore demoniacally the
clarionet screamed. There was no other way: he would instantly
seek the first habitation, that he might return with succour to
the wet, the drunk, and the wounded.
184 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. gº
CHAPTER XVIII.
ST. GILEs had run pretty briskly for some quarter of an hour,
when he discovered in the distance—glowing amid trees—a speck
of light. It was plain, there was a human habitation, though
away from the main road. He paused for a moment : should he
follow the highway, or strike off in the direction of that taper ?
Another moment, and he had leapt the hedge, and was making
fast for the beacon. Tſe crossed two or three fields, and then
found himself in a winding green lane : now, as he ran on, he
lost the light ; and now again, like hope renewed, it beamed upon
him. At length he came full upon the homestead. It was an
old circular dwelling ; so thronged about by tree and bush, that it
seemed impossible that any light within could manifest itself to
the distant wayfarer. A type this, as it will appear, of the heart
of the master. He affected a solitude from the world: he believed
that he was hidden from his fellow-man, and yet the inextinguish-
able goodness that glowed within him, made him a constant mark
for the weafy and wretched. For a brief space, St. Giles con-
sidered the cottage. It was plastered with rough-cast ; at the
first glance, seemingly a poor, squalid nook. But a closer Survey
showed it to be a place where the household gods fared not upon
black bread and mere water. The garden patch before it was
filled with choicest flowers; not a weed intruded its idle life upon
them. It was a place where neatness and comfort seemed to
have met in happiest society. St. Giles listened, and heard low
voices within. At length, he knocked.
“Who’s there 7° said the master of the house. “If it's for
the taxes, come in the morning.” -
“It’s a traveller,” answered St. Giles, “that wants help for a
lot of poor souls that's tumbled in a ditch.”
In a moment the door was opened, and a grey-headed, large-
faced, burly man, with a candle in his hand, stood at the thres-
hold. He warily placed the Hight between the speaker and
himself, shading it, and with a suspicious glance looked hard
upon St. Giles; whose eager soul was in a moment in his eyes;
and then, trembling from head to foot, he cried, “God be blessed,
sir—and is it indeed you ?”
“My name, traveller, is Capstick,” said the man, bending his
brows upon St. Giles, and looking determined to be too much for
the stranger at his door ; a new comer, it was very likely, come
wº ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 185
to trick him. “My name is Capstick, what may be yours ? Here,
Jem, you slug—do you know this pilgrim ; "
Another moment, and Jem—old Bright Jem, with grey grizzled
head, shrunk face, and low bent shoulders—stood in the door-way.
Ere Jem could speak, St. Giles discovered him : “And you, too,
here ! Iord, who’d have hoped it !”
“Don’t know a feather on him,” said Jem, “but he seems to
know us, wet as he is.”
“Why, that's it, you see. A fellow from a horse-pond will
know anybody who 's a supper and a bed to give him. It 's the
base part of our base nature.” And then the misanthrope turned
to St. Giles. “Well, my wet friend, as you know my name and
Jem's, what mark may you carry in the world ! What name
have you been ruddled with ?”
St. Giles paused a moment ; and then stammering said, “You
shall know that by-and-bye.”
“Very well,” cried Capstick, “we can wait.” Saying this, he
again stepped back into the cottage, and was about to close the
door. ge
“Oh, never mind me,” cried St. Giles; “I’ll get on as I can ;
all I ask of you is to come and help the poor Creturs : some of
'em-dying with their hurts for what I know.”
“Jem,” said Capstick, “we’re fools to do it; but it’s clear,
we were born to be fools. So, get the lantern, that we may go
and bury the dead. Do make haste, Jem,” urged Capstick with
strange misanthropy; albeit Jem moved about with all the vigour
time had left him. “How you do crawl—though, after all, I
don’t see why you shouldn’t. What's people in a ditch to them
who’ve a warm bed and a snug roof over ‘em / Then as for
dying, death 's every man's own business; quite a private affair,
in which, as I see, nobody else has any right to trouble himself.
Now, do come along, you old caterpillar,” and Capstick, staff in
hand, stept forth, Jem limping after him.
Whilst Capstick leads the way—a shorter one than that
traversed by St. Giles—into the main road, we may explain to
the reader the combined causes that have presented the muffin-
maker and linkman as little other than eremites on the skirts of
the borough of Liquorish. Mr. Capstick had turned his muffins
into a sufficient number of guineas for the rest of his days, and
therefore determined to retire from Seven Dials to the country.
Mrs. Capstick would never hear of going to be buried alive from
London ; and therefore resolved upon nothing more remote than
a suburban whereabout. Hackney, or Pimlico, or Islington, she
might be brought to endure; but no, if she knew herself, nothing
should make her go and live, as she pathetically put it, like an owl
186 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
in a bush, Capstick met all these objections in his usually lofty
way: “she was a foolish woman, but would learn better.” This,
again and again he avowed ; though no man had less faith in the
avowal than himself. Still, it kept up his dignity continually to
call his wife a foolish woman; albeit, he was generally compelled
lu yield to the folly he imperiously condemned. Matters were
at this erisis, when suddenly Mrs. Capstick fell sick and died.
“She would have been an excellent creature,” Capstick said, “it
it had not been her misfortune to be a woman. However, poor
soul she could not help that ; and therefore, why should he
blame her ?” Very often, Capstick would so deliver himself, his
eyes filling with tears, as he tried to twitch his lips into a cynical
smile at all womankind, and at the late Mrs. Capstick in parti-
cular. “Still,” he would say, “she had her virtues. Every day
of her life would she walk round every one of his shirt-buttons
that no one of them might be missing. He hated all tombstone
flourishes, otherwise he would have had that special virtue—he
meant the buttons—specially named in her epitaph. One comfort,
however, he always had to think of: whatever his love was for
her, he never let her know it. Oh dear no It was like showing
the weak part of a fortress to all comers: some day or the other
'twould be sure to be taken advantage of.”
And the death of Mrs. Capstick—the muffin-maker would never
confess that for months he pimed like a solitary dove at the loss—
left him free to choose his abode. Whereupon he quitted London,
and built himself a house almost buried in a wood some two miles
from Liquorish ; and this house, or hut, setting himself up as a
sort of Diogenes—kind, butter-hearted impostor —he called with
a flourish, The Tub The satire was lost upon nearly all the
inhabitants of Liquorish, many of whom discovered, as they
believed, a very natural cause for so strange a name. There was
no doubt—it was urged by many—that Capstick had, in his day,
made large sums of money by Smuggling : hence, out of pure
gratitude to the source of his fortune, he had called his cottage a
Tub. Indeed, two or three of the shrewder sort dropt mystic
hints about the possibility of finding, somehow attached to the
Tub, an unlawful still. People—this apothegm clenched the
suspicion in the hearts of some—people did not live in a wood for
nothing !
Bright Jem had lost his cordial, good-natured mate, some four
or five years before the death of Mrs. Capstick. He would, in his
despair, tell the muffin-maker that “his poor Susan had somehow
carried away his heart into her grave with her; he had no mind
to do nothing.” Sometimes, too, he would borrow a melancholy
similitude from the skittle-ground, and shaking his head, would
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 187
exclaim that “he was a down pin.” To this sorrow, the muffin-
maker would apply what he thought a sharp philosophy by way
of cure. He would mean to drop gall and vinegar into the hurts
of his poor and poorer neighbour—for, as Jem would often declare,
Susan seemed to have taken away all his luck with her—but he
could deal in nought save oil and honey. Capstick flourished, and
Bright Jem faded. Great and increasing was the fame of the
muffins; but the link waned, and waned, and Bright Jem,
Weakened by sickness, almost crippled by the effects of cold,
would have been passed to the workhouse, as he would often say,
to “pick oakum and wait for the grave-digger.” This fate,
however, was warded from him by the stony-hearted misanthrope,
Capstick; by the muffin-maker, who, declaring that all men were
Wolves and tigers, would, at their least need, tend the carnivora,
as though they were bruised and wounded lambs. Hear him talk,
and he would heap burning ashes on the head of weak humanity.
Watch his doings, and with moistened eyes he would pour a pre-
cious ointment there. For years it was the weekly practice of
Capstick to visit Jem in his lonely room in Short's Gardens, to
enjoy a fling at the world: to find out the bad marks of the
monster, or, as he would say, “to count the spots on the leopard's
coat.” Every Friday, he would come and take his pipe with Jem,
that he might call all men wretches without having his wife to
contradict him ; when, having eased his bile and laid Jem's
weekly pension on the mantelpiece, he would return home with
lightened heart to business. “The world’s a bad lot, Jem ; a
very bad lot ; how it's been suffered to grow as old as it is, it’s
more than I can tell. Like an old block of wood, it’s fit for
nothing but burning: God bless you, Jem.” And with this
opinion, with this benison, would the muffin-maker commonly
depart.
Capstick, however, when his wife died, resolved to carry Bright
Jem into the country with him. “You’ll be a good deal of use
there, Jem,” said the muffin-maker, when he broke the business.
“Not a morsel in the world,” answered the humble linkman.
“I’ve been used to nothing but London streets. I knows nothing
that lives or grows in the country. Poor dear Susan could never
teach me primroses from polyanthuses, though she knowed all
about 'em. I’m a sinner, if I think I ever saw a cock-robin in all
my life. What can I do in the country l’”
“You shall learn to garden, Jem. That's the grand, the true
employment of man,” cried the muffin-maker, warming. “Why,
here have I been for years an old rascal, grinning, and bowing,
and ducking behind my counter to make money out of two-legged
things as false as myself—and do you call that the dignity of
188 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
life 2 Do you call it truth, Jem 7 Now, real dignity's in a real
spade; real truth’s in the earth. She gives us profits—if we
only deserve 'em—a hundred and a hundredfold, and there 's no
telling lies, no cheating one another to have 'em. They’re a little
different, Jem, to the profits we get upon 'Change. The earth,
like dear old Tve, is always a mother to us; whereas when men
deal with men, how often do they go to work like so many Cains
and Abels, only they use thumping lies instead of clubs. I tell
you, Jem, you shall be my gardener.”
“I don’t know an inion from a carrot, afore it's out o' the
ground,” said Bright Jem, showing, as he thought, good cause
against the appointment. Capstick, however, overruled the
objection, and so, in due season, Jem was housed in the Tub.
And thus, journeying across the fields to the scene of St. Giles's
disaster, have we explained to the reader the why and the
wherefore of the sudden appearance of the muffin-maker and his
friend.
Arrived at the place of accident, not a soul was to be found.
The only evidence of the truth of St. Giles's story was discover-
able in the overturned caravan, and the parted wheel. The
horses as well as passengers had been taken on. Capstick took
the lantern from Jem, and looked suspiciously around him. He
then held the light to St. Giles, trying to read his face; and then
he shook his head, as though baulked by what the misanthrope
would call, the “brute-human hieroglyphs; the monkey, and Owl,
and dog, and fox, that lived in every countenance.” St. Giles—he
was wet as a fish—gave a slight shiver.
. “It isn’t above three miles to the Rose,” said Capstick.
“Thank’ee, sir; is it straight on, sir? I can run there in no
time, and a run won’t do me no harm,” said St. Giles.
“The road's narrow ; the hedges are high, there's no moon,
and you can't run very fast with a lantern,” observed Capstick.
“I’ll find my way, sir, I’ve no doubt on it—straight on ?” and
St. Giles prepared to start.
Capstick laid his hand upon St. Giles's arm, and then said aside
to Jem—“The poor wretch is wet as water. He may miss his
road; may take a fever; not that that would much matter, for
there's vagabonds a plenty in the world. Still—there isn't a great
deal of you, Jem ; and he’s a slimmish chap—and, if you ar’n’t
very much afraid of your throat, I think for one night the fellow
might turn in with you. We’re wrong in doing it,” said Capstick
emphatically.
“Not at all,” said Jem, in a louder note.
“Well, you sir,” cried Capstick to St. Giles, “let’s go back
again: you'll find this a nearer road to bed than along the high-
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 189
way.” Saying this, the master of the Tub turned back towards
his dwelling-place. “I can walk faster than you, Jem ; so I’ll
push on ; ” and the muffin-maker mended his pace.
“We live here quite by ourselves, just like a brace o' ermits,”
said Bright Jem.
“All alone !” cried St. Giles, “where's your wife, then 7°
“My wife I don't know how you know’d I ever had one—
my wife, dear Cretur ! is in one of them stars above us,” said Jem,
“ and whichever one it is, this I know, it isn’t the worse for her
being in it.” Jem paused a moment; and then, somewhat sadly,
asked, “How did you know I ever had a wife 7”
“Why,” replied St. Giles, “you look as if you had ; there's a
sort of married mark upon some people.”
“And so there is ; a sort of weddin'-ring mark, just like the
mark of a collar. I didn't know I had it, though ; but here we
are,”—and Bright Jem paused at the Tub, and Capstick imme-
diately came to the door.
“After all, I’ve been thinking you may lose your way, and as
you're a little wet, why perhaps you'd better come in, and when
we’ve had a pipe or so, we’ll see what’s to be done.” Such was
the hospitable invitation of Capstick. St. Giles paused a moment ; *
whereupon Capstick caught him by the arm, and crying—“Don’t
stay there, wasting the candle,” pulled him in. “Now, as we
can’t have any of your wet rags drowning the place to give us all
cold, you'll just go in there, and put on what comes to hand.”
With this, Capstick pointed to an inner room, which St. Giles
obediently entered, and finding there various articles of dress—all
of them more than a thought too vast for him—he straightway
relieved himself of his well-soaked apparel, Bright Jem assisting
at the change.
“You might jump out on 'em,” said Jem ; “but never mind
that ; a bad fit ’s nothin’ to a bad cold : I know that, for
I’ve had colds o' all sorts, and ought to be allowed to speak
on ‘em.”
“Jem, get the supper,” cried Capstick. “You sometimes eat,
I suppose 1 You're not a cherub, quite l’” and the cynic of the
Tub tried to smile very severely at his guest.
“Thank’ee, sir,” said St. Giles, his heart warming towards his
old benefactor; “I can eat up anything.”
“Bad as our slugs, Jem,” observed Capstick; “and they do
crawl and crawl over our cabbages, like the world's slander over
a good name. You may kill’em, it’s true; but there’s the slime,
Jem ; the slime.”
“Here’s the bread and cheese, and all that’s left o' the
gammon o' bacon,” remarked Jem, turning from the metaphorical
190 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
to the real. “There’s one comfort, howsumever; the ale isn’t
out.” And Jem authenticated his speech by speedily producing
a large brown jug, crowned, as he said, “with a noble wig o'
froth. There isn’t a lawyer in all the land,” added Jem, “with a
wig like that.”
“No,” said Capstick, who had by this time lighted his pipe;
“nor with anything like it under it.”
St. Giles, having eaten, and tested the merits of the ale below
the wig–which to his taste covered nothing false or vapid—
looked around him with a look of large content. The hospitable
cynic caught the glance, and despite of himself, Smiled benignly.
“If you please, sir,” said St. Giles, who could have fallen at
Capstick’s feet, “I should like to tell you who I am.”
“Not to-night,” said Capstick, “I don't want to hear it. We’re
early people here, and the cock always calls us out of bed. Take
another horn of ale; or one, or two, or three, and then suppose
you go to rest.”
St. Giles filled the horn; and then looking at Capstick in a way
that made him turn round and round in his chair, for there was
an earnestness in the man that he could not, by his own theory
* of human wickedness, account for, St. Giles cried, “God bless
you, sir!”
“Thank’ee,_that can do nobody any harm, whoever says it,
and whoever it's said to. The same to you, and good night,” and
Capstick rose to retire to his sleep. As he was leaving the room,
he paused at the door, and said in a very loud voice, “You’ve
loaded my pistols, of course, Jem 7”
“Pistols l’’ cried Jem, with all his face all wonder.
“For,” said Capstick, coughing, “I know the heart of man ;
and in a lonely place like this, pistols—double-loaded—ar'n't
sometimes the worst things to have against it. Good night,”
and shaking St. Giles by the hand, Capstick stalked from the
room looking tremendous sagacity.
“Shall I tell you who I am 7” asked St. Giles, placing his hand
on Jem's knee.
“Not to-night,” said Jem. “It’s the only thing that my dear
Susan and me ever quarrelled about—not that we ever quarrelled
—she was too good a soul for that—but I never could be curious.
Now, somehow, women are so. If there 's only a mouse-hole in
the house, it's a relief to their mind to know where it is. Lor
when we talk of quarrelling ! When she was alive, I always
thought she begun it—not, as I say, we ever quarrelled—but now
she's gone, it’s me that seems the brute.”
“And the wives of both of you is dead 7” said St. Giles.
“Both in heaven,” said Jem, with beautiful confidence. “Mrs.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 191
Capstick used to keep herself a good deal above Susan when she
was here ; but, poor thing ! I dare say she 's found out her mis-
take now.”
“That’s a place, depend upon it,” said St. Giles, “where we
make all these matters quite straight.”
“No doubt on it,” answered Jem ; “but after all, it’s a pity we
don't make 'em a little straighter here. 'Twould bring heaven a
little nearer this world, wouldn't it !”
“Well,” cried St. Giles, “’t will be all right at last.”
“In course it will,” said Jem. “Nevertheless, my good feller
—for I think you are a good feller—why should we wait for the
last to begin it ! Will you have any more ale . It isn’t often a
stranger comes here.”
“Not a drop : I’m full; and my heart's fuller than all my
body. Let's go to bed,” said St. Giles; and immediately Jem.
rose, and showed him to their chamber.
Hours passed, and St. Giles could not sleep. All the scenes of
his long life—for how does misery lengthen life, making grey-
headed men of mere maturity, compelling childhood, that should
have beautiful visions, foreshadowing beautiful truths around it
—to keep a day-book of the wrongs committed on it !—all these
Scenes passed before the wanderer. Such a nature knows the
amount of life only by the balance of injury against it. And
such—need we say so to the reader ?—was St. Giles. Hence,
young as he was, he was hoary in the hard experience of a
Sordid world. He lay, and counted year by year, nay, week by
week, of his life—as first lighted by memory—and was melted by
gratitude, by wonder, at the accident that had brought him
beneath the protection of those who, in all his after vice, and
after misery, had still made in him a belief in goodness; in
the world’s charity; in the inextinguishable kindness of the
human heart. All his cares—all his anxieties for the future—
seemed to pass away in the great assurance of his present
fortune. And so he lay sleepless, bewildered with happiness. At
length he slept.
The sun shone reproachfully into his room, as he was
aroused by Bright Jem. “I say,” said Jem, “will you come up,
or will you take another pull atween the sheets? It’s nicer in
the garden, if you can only think so.”
“To be sure,” said St. Giles, “I’m with you in a minute.”
Hurrying on his clothes—he found them already dried and placed
by his bed—he soon joined Jem in the garden.
“I can’t do much of the rough work,” said Jem, as he feebly
managed his spade ; “but it’s wonderful how I’ve taken to the
business for all that. When I think o' the years and years J
192 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
lived in Short's Gardens, never knowing which side o’ the world
the sum got up—never seeing him get up—never hearing a bird
whistle except in a cage—thinking there was hardly anything upon
the earth but bricklayers' and carpenters’ work,+well, I do feel
it a blessing in my old age, that I can see the trees of a summer
111oriling waving about me. I do ſeel happy with all things,
seeing them to be so bright and beautiful, and brimming over, as
I may say, with God’s goodness.”
“That’s true, Jem—very true,” said St. Giles; “and, I’m glad
to see it, you look happy.”
“As a butterfly,” cried Jem. “And, Lord love you ! when I
sometimes think what I was in London ; when I think o' the poor
folks that 's there now—the poor creturs that 's as fine as may-
bugs for a year or so, and then tumble, as I may say, in the mud,
and get trod on by anybody, till they die and are no more thought
on than pisoned rats, well, I am thankful that I’ve been brought
into this place to feel myseºf, as I may say, somewhat cleaned from
London mud, and my heart opened by the Sweet and pretty things
about me.”
“And you didn't know nothing of gardening, Jem, when you
first come 2'' said St. Giles. *-
“I tell you, not a bit. But you've no thought on't how soon
a man with the will in him, learns. I shall never forget what
Mr. Capstick said to me, when we first come, and I did nºt think I
could take to it. ‘Jem,” says he to me, ‘a garden is a beautiful
book, writ by the finger of God ; every flower and every leaf's a
letter; you’ve only to learn 'em—and he's a poor dunce that
can’t, if he will, do that—to learn 'em, and join 'em, and then to
go on reading and reading, and you’ll find yourself carried away
from the earth to the skies by the beautiful story you’re going
through.’”
“Mr. Capstick | He's a kind, humane cretur,” said St. Giles.
“He ‘s not a man,” said Jem with emphasis; “he’s a lump o'
honey that would pass itself off for bitter allys. A lump o' honey !
I often say the bees made him. Yes,” and Jem returned to his
garden—“you don't know what beautiful thoughts—for they’re
nothing short—grow out o' the ground, and seem to talk to a man.
And then there’s some flowers, they always seem to me like over-
dutiful children: tend 'em ever so little, and they come up, and
flourish, and show, as I may say, their bright and happy faces to
you. Now, look here,” and Jem pointed to a flower at his foot.
“I sowed this last year—jist flung it in the mould—and you'd
hardly believe it, it’s come up agin by itself. You wouldn’t think
now,”—and Jem looked suddenly professorial—“you wouldn’t
think it was a Pimlico specissimo tulipum bulbum ?”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 193
“What’s that in English 7" asked St. Giles.
“Ain’t got no other name, as I know of ; but there is no
doubt it’s a tulup. I didn’t think I could do it,” said Jem, with
the smallest touch of self-complacency, “but I know the Latin
names of half the flowers you see.” -
“Well, they don’t smell no sweeter for that, do they 7 ° cried
St. Giles.
Bright Jem paused a moment ; and then, with a half-serious
face, answered, “I don’t know that they don't.”
St. Giles felt no disposition to argue the point ; therefore
Suddenly changed his ground. “Isn't Mr. Capstick late 7 ° he
asked. -
“Late he's never late,” cried Bright Jem, “He’s left the
Tub these two hours. Gone for a walk.”
“The Tub | What Tub '''' asked St. Giles.
“Why, the house. It's called the Tub, after a tub that some
wise man—as Mr. Capstick tells me he was—lived in a many
thousand years ago. Mr. Capstick swears it was a vinegar tub.”
“Well, that’s droll,” said St. Giles. “Call a house a tub 7 °
“Why not ? But if you 've anything to say against it, here
comes the master.” And as Bright Jem spoke, the early misan-
thrope entered the garden.
CHAPTER XIX.
MR. CAPSTICK, however, came not alone. A pace or two behind
him followed an old man, whose kind, familiar greeting of Bright
Jem showed him to be no stranger at the hermitage. “Well,
James,” said the visitor, “ and how is all your blooming family?”
Ringcup and he looked benignantly at the shrubs and flowers.
“Why, thank’ee, sir, as you see,” said Bright Jem, smiling
paternally, and with his spade tenderly patting a lump of earth,
as though he loved it. “My family's jist like any other chil-
dren; some back’ard, some for’ard. Some will run up, and branch
out like this Snapsis Nigger—”
“I perceive,” said the visitor, with his best gravity—“it is the
common mustard.”
“Jist so,” affirmed Jem very stolidly, “ and some will grow
jist as you trim 'em, like this buckShouse semperwirings.”
“Very true ; the box-plant is obedient,” said the new-comer,
with continued deference to Jem's scholarship. “The box is
obedient.”
C)
194 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“The box, or, as we call it, the buckshouse semperwirings, is
a good deal like a ’oman,” said Jem, very confidently.
Capstick trumpeted a loud, short cough ; his frequent manner,
when astonished or offended by any human assertion.
“Like a 'oman,” repeated Jem, at once understanding the
objection of his pation. “Alid I'll prove it. You've only got to
trim it into a shape at first, and what a little trouble makes it
always keep to it !” -
“There may be something in the simile,” said Capstick, with
his best malignity; “for I have seen the tree cut into a peacock.”
“Well, that was all the choice o’ the gardener. You'll own it,
Mr. Capstick; it might have been cut into a dove 7" cried Jem.
“It might, originally,” answered Capstick: “but I know the
nature of the thing. 'Twould have been certain to branch into a
peacock. To be sure, there's this to be said for the gardener,
poor fool! though the thing should grow with a tail as long as a
kite, because he once thought it a dove, he'd think it a dove
for ever.”
“It couldn't be—impossible,” said Jem.
“Why, look there,” cried Capstick, pointing to a yew fantas-
tically mutilated, “ look at that dragon.”
“Dragon ” cried Jem, “it’s a angel, with its outspread
wings. I cut it myself; it's my own angel.”
“Happy, fond humanity 1" said Capstick, turning and laying
his hand upon the visitor's shoulder. “How many a dragon to
all the world beside, seems a blessed angel to its owner | Who
would disturb so comforting a faith ??” And then he added to
Jem, “It is an angel, 'Tis a pity he hasn't a trumpet.”
“It’s a growin,” said Jem ; “it’s there, though nobody but
myself can see it.”
“'Tis sometimes so with the trumpets of men,” observed
Capstick. “And now we’ll to breakfast.”
“And you’ll own,” said Jem, determined upon conquest,
“that the buckshouse semperwirings is like the 'oman specees
To be sure it is. Look at it even in a border; and doesn’t it
remind you of a quiet, tidy little cretur that keeps her house so
nice and clean, and lets nothing dirty in it You'll agree—”
“Is the breakfast ready ?” asked Capstick.
“It is,” answered Jem, “all but the eggs. The fowls have
been very good to us, though ; there's twenty on ‘em.”
“The breakfast ready Then the beast that is raging within
me,” said Capstick, “will own to anything. Twenty eggs 'Tis
wonderful how hunger sharpens arithmetic. It is but five a-piece,”
and the misanthrope for the first time turned to St. Giles; and
then straightway passed into the cottage. A breakfast, solid and
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 195
various, lay upon the board. “There's no whet to the appetite,”
said Capstick, “like early dew. Nothing for the stomach like
grass and field-flowers, taken with a fasting eye at five in the
morning, "Twas Adam's own salad, and that’s why he lived to
nine hundred and thirty.”
“Think you,” said the visitor, chipping an egg-shell, “think
you that Adam, before the fall, ate eggs "
“I can’t say,” said Capstick ; “but recollecting the things I
have read, the question would make a very pretty book. 'Tis a
pity the matter wasn’t stirred two or three hundred years ago.
How many thousand throats might have been cut upon it ! How
many men and women roasted like live oysters | For the wisdom
of humanity, 'tis a great miss. How popes might have thun-
dered about it ! What Te Dewms have been chanted ; what
maledictions—and all with the melted-butter voice of a Christian
—pronounced | The world has had a great loss—a very great
loss.” And Capstick sighed.
“I can hardly see that,” says Jem. “It seems to me that this
blessed world will never want something to quarrel about, so long
as there's two straws upon it.”
“Why, there have been the Battles of the Straws,” observed
Capstick, “although for certain purposes they’ve been called after
other names.” And then, for a time, the breakfast was silently
continued; when suddenly Capstick cried out, “Beast that I
am | I have forgotten Velvet !”
“Welvet ! Who is he l’” asked the visitor.
“An excellent fellow, Master Kingcup,” said Capstick: “a
worthy creature after my own heart. We became acquainted last
frost ; it was a road-side meeting, and I brought him here to the
Tub. You would hardly think it ; but though I saved him from
a wintry death, and have comforted him like my own flesh and
blood—”
“He isn't a bit like it,” cried Jem.
“Like my own flesh and blood,” repeated Capstick, with a
reproving look, “he has neither bitten nor slandered me, nor
lifted my latch to midnight thieves, nor in fact done anything that
a friend you have benefited should do.” At these words, St.
Giles, forgetful of the misanthropic drolling of his host, shifted
somewhat uneasily in his seat. He thought of the muffins
bestowed upon his boyhood, and of the discomfiture he had after-
wards inflicted on his benefactor. “Here, Velvet—Velvet,” cried
Capstick; and Bright Jem sat with a grave smile enjoying the
expectation of Mr. Kingcup. “With all the coaxing bestowed
upon him, 'tis such a humble soul l’’ said Capstick. “He never
puts himself forward—never. I’ll wager ye, now, one of these
O 2
196 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
egg-shells,” and Capstick rose and looked about him, “that I
shall find him quietly curled up in a corner. I knew it—there
he is.” With this, Capstick took two steps from his chair,
stooped, and in a moment returning to his seat, placed a hedgehog
on the table.
“Humph : * said Kingcup, “’tis an odd creature for a bosom
friend.”
“Give me all bosom friends like him,” cried Capstick. “For
then there 'd be no deceit in 'em : you’d see the worst of 'em at
the beginning. Now, look at this fine honest fellow. What
plain, straightforward truths he bears about him You see at
once that he is a living pincushion with the pins' points upwards,
and instantly you treat him after his open nature. You know
he's not to be played at ball with : you take in with a glance all
that his exterior signifies, and ought to love him for his frankness.
Poor wretch 'tis a thousand and a thousand times the ruin of
him. He has, it is true, an outside of thorns—heaven made him
with them—but a heart of honey. A meek, patient thing ! And
yet, because of his covering, the world casts all sorts of slanders
upon him ; accuses him of wickedness he could not, if he would,
commit. And so he is kicked and cudgelled, and made the
cruellest sport of ; his persecutors all the while thinking them-
selves the best of people for their worst of treatment. He bears
a plain exterior ; he shows so many pricking truths to the world,
that the world, in revenge, couples every outside point with an
interior devil. He is made a martyr for this iniquity—he hides
nothing. Poor Velvet !” and Capstick very gently stroked the
hedgehog, and proffered it a slice of apple and a piece of bread.
“'Tis a pity,” said Kingcup, “that all hedgehogs ar’n’t trans-
lated after your fashion.”
“What a better world 'twould make of it !” answered the
cynic. “But no, sir, no ; that's the sort of thing the world
loves,” and Capstick pointed to a handsome tortoiseshell cat,
stretched at her fullest length upon the hearth. “What a meek,
cosy face she has ; a placid, quiet sort of grandmother look—may
all grandmothers forgive me ! Then, to see her lap milk, why
you'd think a drop of blood of any sort would poison her. The
wretch 'twas only last week, she killed and ate one of my doves,
and afterwards sat wiping her whiskers with her left paw, as
comfortably as any dowager at a tea-party. I nursed her before
she had any eyes to look at her benefactor, and she has sat and
purred upon my knee, as though she knew all she owed me, and
was trying to pay the debt with her best singing. And for all
this, look here—this is what she did only yesterday,” and Capstick
showed three long fine scratches on his right hand.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 197
“That’s nothing,” said Mr. Kingcup. “You know that cats
will scratch.”
“To be sure I do,” replied Capstick ; “and all the world
knows it ; but the world don't think the worse of 'em for it, and
for this reason ; they can, when they like, so well hide their claws.
Now, poor little Velvet here—poor vermin martyr –he can’t
disguise what he has ; and so he's hunted and worried for being,
as I may say, plain-spoken ; when puss is petted and may sleep
all day long at the fire because in faith she's so glossy, and looks
so innocent. And all the while, has she not murderous teeth and
talons !”
“And so I hope,” cried Kingcup, “ends your sermon on
hedgehogs. Let us talk of more serious matters.”
“Ay, if properly thought of, you can find them,” said Capstick.
“For my part, little Velvet here carries a text for serious matter,
as you have it, in every prickle. Look at him.”
But the philosopher was interrupted in his theme by a knock
at the door, which, ere an invitation to enter could be delivered,
was opened, and Mr. Tangle, Mr. Folder, and three of the inha-
bitants of Liquorish—voters for that immaculate borough—
crowded themselves into the small apartment. Mr. Capstick rose
in his best dignity. He seemed suddenly to divine the cause of
the abrupt visit, and prepared himself to meetit accordingly. Bright
Jem stared perplexedly in the face of Tangle, as though picking
out an old acquaintance from his features; whilst St. Giles shrank
unseen into a corner, not caring to confront the lawyer and agent.
“Mr. Capstick, good morning, sir. We knew your early habits
—nothing like them, sir, as your face declares—and therefore, we
were up I may say by cock-crow, to do ourselves the honour of
calling upon you.” Thus spoke Tangle.
“We also know, Mr. Capstick, your attachment to our blessed
con—con—” but here Mr. Folder was seized with an obstinate
cough. He, nevertheless, whilst fighting against it, motioned with
his right hand, as much as to say, you understand perfectly well
what I mean.
“And we likewise know’d,” observed an independent freeholder,
name unknown, “how you hates the yellow party.”
“His lordship, Mr. Capstick, will personally do himself the
great delight of waiting upon you. In the meantime, I, his humble
friend, Mr. Tangle, of Red Lion Square—”
Here Capstick, looking dead in the face of the lawyer, gave a
long, loud whistle. He then said, in a low voice of suppressed
astonishment, “And so it is Bless my soul | Well, no doubt,
Providence is very good. Still who 'd have thought you’d have
lasted to this time !”
198 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
Here Tangle seized the hand of Capstick, who suffered his palm
to lay like a dead fish in the hand of that very fervent man.
“Surely—yes, it must be—surely we have met before ? Where
could it have been 7°
“Newgate,” answered Capstick, as though proud of the place.
This frankness, however, somewhat puzzled the criminal lawyer.
He knew not what the amount of Capstick’s obligations might be
to him ; could not, on the instant, recollect whether the tenant of
the Tub, the freeholder of Liquorish, had been a housebreaker, a
highwayman, or simple pickpocket. Mr. Tangle's personal ac-
quaintanceship with so many men, thus variously inclined, had
been so great, it was impossible for him to recollect the benefits,
that, for certain inconsiderable fees, he had from time to time
conferred. Thus, in his uncertainty, he merely said, “Bless me !
Newgate l’ smiling blandly, as though he spoke of Araby the
Happy, or the Fortunate Isles.
“Certainly, Newgate,” repeated Capstick. “I wonder you
should forget the case.”
“Why, the fact is, Mr. Capstick, I have a sort of dim recol-
lection that—but the truth is, when I leave London, I always
like to leave Newgate behind me. Whatever our small affair
was " -
“Nothing but a little matter of horse-stealing,” said Capstick,
with an ingenuousness that even astonished Tangle, whilst Mr.
Folder and the three inhabitants of Liquorish looked very blank
indeed. It was but for a moment, for they sank the horse-stealer,
as they deemed Capstick,in the freeholder, and smiled as vigorously
as before.
“Now, I recollect very well,” said Tangle, “perfectly well. It
was a case of conspiracy against you. I remember, Mr. Capstick,
the affecting compliment the Judge paid you when you quitted
the dock—the cheers that rang through the court—and the very
handsome supper we had on the night of your acquittal. It was
a black case, sir; a very black case. Nevertheless, it is a sweet
satisfaction to recollect that we indicted the witnesses, and that
one of 'em, proved guilty of perjury, was nearly killed in the
pillory. I felt the case so strongly, that I remember it—ay, as
though it was but yesterday—I remember that I gave my clerks
a holiday to see the fellow punished, telling them at the same time
that they might do as they liked.”
“Humph : * said Capstick, “you don’t keep your memory in
Quite as good order as the Newgate Calendar. There was no
acquittal in the case I talk of ; none at all. Sentence was passed,
and execution ordered.”
Tangle looked silently but intently in the face of Capstick,
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 199
as though mentally inquiring, “ which horse-stealer he could
be 2 °
“Execution ordered,”—repeated Capstick—“but it wasn’t to
be. Instead of hanging, there was transportation for life.”
“And so there was—I recollect perſectly well. I am always
glad to welcome back an erring man to the paths of virtue,” said
Tangle. “Of course you have obtained your pardon 2 °
“Pardon Oh dear no—not at all,” said Capstick.
“Why—bless me !”—gasped Mr. Folder—“you don’t mean to
say, fellow—you hav’n’t the effrontery to declare it to the faces of
honest men, that you are an escaped transport 7”
Capstick made no answer, but smiled resignedly. The inference,
however, was too much for bright Jem, who cried out—“Why, in
course not ; and as for talking about honest faces, I should think
them as couldn’t see the honestest that is, here *—and Jem laid
his hand affectionately on Capstick’s shoulder—“ought to put on
their spectacles.”
“Be quiet, Jem,” said Capstick, mildly.
“I can’t ; it would make that dumb cretur speak if it could,”
said Jem, pointing to the pet hedgehog, “to hear sich rubbish.
You ought to recollect, Mr. Tangle, all about it: for wasn’t you
well paid for doin' next-door to nothin’? The bright guineas
Mr. Capstick give you to take the part o' that poor little
child—and ater all, didn’t you leave him to be hanged like a
dog ' "
fººds. face broke into excessive radiance. “Bless my heart
—bless my heart l” he cried, and was again about to seize the
hand of Capstick, when the cynic suddenly lifted the hedgehog
from the table, giving a marked preference to that object.
Mr. Tangle was of a too generous nature to be offended by such
partiality—he had too much true humility. Therefore, in no way
confused, he turned to Mr. Folder, saying—“I think, sir, if there
were any doubt of our cause, this would be a good omen for it.”
Mr. Folder smiled and assented, though in evident ignorance of
Tangle's meaning. “To think that the first man we should have
canvassed, should have been this good—I will say it—this righteous
person You recollect Mr. Capstick; of course, you recollect
Mr. Capstick 7" -
Mr. Folder, feeling, from the lawyer's manner, that he ought to
recollect our muffin-maker, shuffled forward, and with all alacrity
prepared to take his hand: but the misanthrope, leering at that
affable old man, continued to pat his hedgehog.
“You remember the case of that wretched boy,” said Tangle,
“that born bad thing, young St. Giles, who stole his lordship's
pony?” Mr. Folder was immediately impressed—we might say
200 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
oppressed—with a remembrance of the case. “And of course,
you remember the benevolence of this excellent man, who "-
“Tol de rol lol, tol lol lol lol,” sang Capstick, with his best
energy. -
“But he’s a true Christian, and you perceive will hear nothing
about it,” said Tangle. “I’ll say no more, sir; you have your
reward—there, sir, there’—and Tangle pointed his forefinger
towards that part of Capstick's anatomy where in men, as he
had heard, resided the heart. “Nevertheless, sir, for that
young St. Giles—hallo! my friend,” cried Tangle, for the first
time observing the owner of that name, who, agitated by what
he had heard, and further terrified by the sudden recognition
of Tangle, was pale and trembling—“hallo ! what brought you
here 2 ”
“Do you know the young man 7" asked Capstick.
“Know him, sir! I should think I did. He’s one of our men,
hired to shout for us,” said Tangle.
“To fight for us, too,” added Mr. Folder, “if need be, in
defence of our blessed constitution.”
“Well, friend,” said Capstick to St. Giles, “ your clothes are
dry, and I hope your belly's full. That way to the right leads to
the Rose.”
Capstick’s manner told St. Giles to be gone. It was no time
for explanation ; therefore, determining to return in the evening
to the hermitage, and make himself known to his benefactor,
St. Giles moved towards the door. “God bless you, sir,” he said
“for all the good you’ve done to me.” With these words he
crossed the threshold, and was in a moment out of sight.
“What,” cried Tangle, struck by the blessing of St. Giles upon
Capstick, “what, sir, at your old kindness again 7"
“There was no kindness at all in the matter,” said Jem ; “he
was spilt in a pond, and come here with a wet skin.” .
“Oh, I see . The accident that happened to the band. Poor
devils l’’ cried Tangle, “’twas a mercy none of them were
drowned, for the time ’s getting close, and, Mr. Capstick, you who
know life, know that an election without music, why it’s like a
contest without— ”
“Money,” added Capstick, with a grim smile.
“Exactly so. But I perceive in the hospitality you have vouch-
safed to his lordship's servant, your devotion to his cause. Ha, sir!
England has need of such men, now. A few such as he would
put us to rights, sir, in no time; for all the times want, sir, is the
strong arm—nothing like the strong arm. However, to the imme-
diate purpose of our visit ; as I say, his lordship will himself call
upon you. In the meantime”—and Tangle's face looked like Old

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 201
parchment in the sun—“in the meantime, I trust we may count
upon your vote and interest ?”
Capstick cast his eyes upon the ground, then upwards, as though
suddenly rapt by calculation. He then asked, “Is his lordship
fond of hedgehogs'; ”
“I had the happiness and the honour,” piped Folder, “ of open-
ing his youthful mind; and knowing, as I do, how attentively he
was wont to listen to my exhortations of not only considering the
wants of the lower orders, but of especially feeling consideration
towards the lower animal kingdom, I think I can confidently say
—though I never heard his lordship declare his preference—that
he is decidedly fond of hedgehogs.”
“I am very happy to hear it,” said Capstick, “’tis a great thing
to know.”
“You don’t feel disposed—should his lordship take a fancy to
the creature—to sell that hedgehog 2* asked Tangle.
“How could I refuse his lordship anything 7" answered Cap-
stick. “It’s an odd thing: but you’ve heard of what they call
the transmigration of souls' "
“Of course,” answered the scholar, Folder.
“Well, then, it’s droll enough ; and I never thought it. But
until the election is over, I feel that my soul is in this hedge-
hog.”
Tangle put his forefinger to his nose, and said—“Good I
understand you. A man of the world, Mr. Capstick—a man who
knows life.” Whereupon Tangle, ere Capstick was aware of it,
caught him by the hand, squeezing it until its knuckles cracked
again. “God bless you ! We may depend upon all your interest ?
Good bye.”
The canvassing party then quitted the cottage. Mr. Tangle
walked on with Mr. Folder; and was no sooner in the lane that
led to the main road, where they had left their chaise, than he
indulged his pent-up wrath with the freest explosion. “Now,
sir, that 's one of the scoundrels that make the world what
it is . .” t
“Shocking !” said Mr. Folder.
“That’s one of the men who pollute the pure source of par-
liamentary representation.”
“It’s dreadful,” remarked Folder.
“Without such vagabonds, a seat in the house would be cheap
enough. But isn’t it dreadful to think what a gentleman must
disburse to buy such scum !”
“Notwithstanding,” urged Mr. Folder, “we must protect our
blessed constitution. And if the other party will offer money for
the commodity, we mustn't stop at any price to outbid 'em . "
202 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“I know that, Mr. Folder ; I know what is due to our true
interests. And the noble house of St. James has not forgotten
that. The box of gold at the Olive Branch will testify to the
patriotism of that house. Nevertheless, as a Christian it shocks
me—as a Christian, I say—but here 's the coach. Fellow, drive
back to the Olive Branch.” Whereupon the canvassing party
returned to their head-quarters of the pure and independent
'borough.
CHAPTER XX.
As yet the noble candidate of the house of St. James had not
presented himself to the voters of Liquorish. To say the truth,
his lordship had not that reverence for those small pegs of the
glorious machine of the constitution—the freeholders—that, in
his virgin address to his constituency, he deemed it only decent to
assume. Perhaps, indeed, he thought the said machine might do
all the better without them. But this heresy had been so deeply
cut into the bark of his youthful mind, that it grew and enlarged
with it. He had been taught to look upon a voter of Liquorish as
a sort of two-legged hound, the property of his noble house; no
less its goods, because the creature did not wear a collar round
his neck. No : fortunately, men are so made, that though seem-
ing free, their souls may now and then be made fast to an owner,
who can buy the manacles at the Mint : wonderful chains; in-
visible to the world ; of finer temper than any hammered at fairy
Smithies. It was this good, wholesome prejudice—as Mr. Folder
called it—that imparted to young St. James the serenest sense of
security : the voters of Liquorish were the live stock of his house:
their souls stamped, like the Marquess's sheep, with his own noble
mark. Hence, our youthful lord had delayed until the latest
moment the drudgery of personal canvass. Hence, had he post-
poned the practical waggery of soliciting a vote where no vote
could be refused. Nevertheless, guided by the patriotic experience
of his noble father, he would present himself to the people. The
time, the place, had been selected with the happiest sense of pro-
priety. Young St. James, the guest of Doctor Gilead—the humble,
zealous college-friend of the Marquess—would meekly exhibit
himself in the doctor's pew at the parish church : the doctor
himself, on that eventful occasion, preaching an appropriate dis-
course. Doubtless, the doctor felt that oracles to be respected must
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEs. 203
be vocal only at long intervals; hence, Doctor Gilead preached but
rarely to his simple flock. His youthful curate—a spiritual shep-
herd boy—was all-sufficient to lead them to the water-courses
and the pasture: it was only now and then that the elder pastor
would shake before them a mouthful or so of Sweet herbs, culled
from the dainty garden of his own theology. Doctor Gilead was
a learned man; a pious man. Neither his coachman, his butler,
nor either of his three footmen, doubted his wisdom or his ortho-
doxy. He was a man, too, of practical patience. Thrice had he
expected a bishopric; and thrice had the mitre vanished from the
tips of his fingers. Whereupon, he meekly folded his hands, and
Smiling down the gout that each time with burning nippers
seized upon him, he thanked heaven for his felicitous escape.
Excellent man He could no more hide the humility raging
Within him, than he could have disguised the small-pox. It would
break out. He had once preached before George the Third ; and
then from his pulpit, as from the Mountain, did he see the Land
of Promise, the House of Lords. Still, the milk and honey were
untasted ; and still, with patient, smiling lips, he praised the
providence that would have it so.
Such was the owner of Lazarus Hall, the rectory ; an abode
especially prepared for the reception of young St. James, who, two
nights at least, would bless the roof-tree of his father's humble
friend. The house was rich and odorous as nest of phoenix.
Yet was there no golden display; no velvet hangings; no flaunting
tapestries; but luxury in every shape, took the guise of simplicity,
and made every corner of the house a cosy nook for swan-down
Christianity. Then everything was so radiantly clean, it seemed
no part of this dusty earth, but fresh from some brighter planet.
IHad Doctor Gilead been arrayed from head to heel in episcopal
lawn, there was nought within the Hall of Lazarus to smudge it.
The very flies, from habit, would have respected it. Saints and
hermits would not have dared to sit upon the chair-covers.
It was Saturday, about five in the afternoon. Doctor Gilead sat
in his library, garnished about with his wife and three daughters.
The doctor was black and glossy as a newly-bathed raven. As for
the ladies, they might have been taken as specimens of Brobdignag
china: so creamy and motionless were their faces, so prim and
well-defined their flowing gowns. Not a word was said ; not a
Sound was heard, save that the doctor's watch ticked feverishly in
his fob, and a big, blundering blue fly kept bouncing and battering its
head against a window-pane, doubtless puzzled to know why, with
all sovery clear before it, it could not get out. And now the doctor
looked reproachfully at the noisy insect ; and now subsided to his
customary meekness. Once or twice, he strangled a sigh at his
204 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
very lips. Haply—but who shall sound the depths of man's
silent soul ?—haply he thought of the turbot macerating in the
kettle, haply of the haunch scorching on the spit. Say what we
will, it tries the spirit of man, to think serenely of his boiled and
roast, and of the late-coming guest perilling them both. Doctor
Gilead breathed heavily ; then, taking his watch from his fob, he
said with a smile of ghastly resignation, “It’s getting rather
late.”
And what said the doctor's wife Why precisely what every
married daughter of Eve would say. She, in the naturalest manner,
observed—“I shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t come at all.” The
daughters—meek things —said nothing; but they looked down
and about them at their pretty gowns, and slightly bit their lips,
and slightly sighed.
“I don’t think, my dear,” said Mrs. Gilead, “it 's any use
waiting for his lordship, now. Hadn’t they better serve the
dinner } ''
Now, had the doctor assented to this, Mrs. Gilead would have
been pathetically eloquent on the inhospitality of the measure.
She had no such meaning ; all she wanted was the discourse of
her husband. She talked to make him talk. In the like way
that, when a pump is dry, men pour water into it to set it flowing.
“The dinner will be totally spoilt, my dear,” added Mrs. Gilead,
smiling as though she communicated sweetest intelligence. The
doctor spoke not, but suffered an abdominal shudder. “In fact,
my dear,” continued the wife, “ now, we ought rather to hope that
his lordship will not come. There will be nothing fit to set before
him—nothing whatever.” It was strange—she did not mean it—
yet did Mrs. Gilead talk with a certain gust, as though she talked
of a special treat : to have nothing fit for his lordship seemed to
be the very thing desirable. “What did you say, my dear !”
asked Mrs. Gilead.
The doctor had not uttered a syllable. However, again he looked
at his watch, and then said, “It is very late.” We can find no
other parallel to this heroic calmness save in the life of St. Law–
rence ; who when turned, like a half-done steak, upon his gridiron,
merely observed to an acquaintance who chanced to be near, “It
is very warm.” In both cases, cooking was the source of pain,
and the test of resignation : for Dr. Gilead thought of his
haunch as if it had been a part of him. And still the doctor sat,
looking fiercely patient. Mrs. Gilead, the partner of his bosom,
knew well what that bosom felt, and therefore in her own feminine
way remarked, “Now I certainly give his lordship up.”
It was a great pity that Mrs. Gilead had not spoken thus before,
or surely the same effect would have followed the syllables. For
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 205
no sooner had she uttered them than there was a whirl of wheels,
and suddenly a carriage in a cloud of dust stopt at Lazarus Hall.
Mrs. Gilead jumped; her daughters gave a sharp, short, joyful
scream ; whilst the doctor himself—but, reader, did you ever in
broad day mark the night-lamp of man-midwife . It is dully,
darkly red. The sun sinks, night comes ; and that dark
glass burns like a ruby, liquid with glowing light. Such was
Doctor Gilead’s countenance; such the change ; now sulky
coloured, and now flaming with joy. A moment, and he was at
the carriage-door ; another, and young St. James—the son of his
patron and friend—stood, with both hands seized by the grasping,
throbbing palms of the affectionate doctor. The doctor was in
spasms of delight : Mrs. Gilead, full of smiles, opened and folded
her face like a fan; and the young ladies, before so statue-like,
that had they sat in the open air, the birds had perched upon
them, swam about and arched their necks like cygnets, taking a
May-morning bath. And now we jump the dinner-talk, sparkling
and brilliant, as a mountebank jumps through fireworks, and
shift the scene.
We leave the whole household to their dreams. Let Doctor
Gilead think himself a bishop ; let him in his slumbers rehearse
his first parliamentary speech—let his wife dream of her gown
for court—let each of the young ladies see and feel herself a
blushing, stammering bride at church—let St. James dream, he
cannot help it—of poor Clarissa. It is Saturday night. Labour
has flung down his working tools, and sleeps a deep and happy
sleep ; for the next day is a holy breathing-time—a day of rest—
Sunday.
It may be remembered that the band and minor merce-
naries of St. James were posted at the Rose, a hostelry of
modest character compared to the dignified pretensions of the
Olive Branch, made still more important by the judgment of
Mr. Tangle, who had selected that tavern as the head-quarters of
the noble candidate. The Rose, in the agent's own words, did
very well for the rabble always necessary on such occasions; but
for himself, he could not at all feel himself a gentleman in any
meaner place than the Olive Branch. Indeed, now and then he
was compelled to remember the national and patriotic importance
of the cause in which he was engaged, to reconcile him heartily to
the inconvenience of even that abiding-place. “There was no real
life off the stones of London ; but then the condition of the country
demanded some sacrifice of every man: why, then, should he com-
plain 7 No: he would stick to the constitution whilst a plank of it
held together. If the ship—he meant the constitution—was doomed
to go down, why, he would give three cheers, and go down with it.”
206 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
It was Sunday morning, and breakfast being over, the two
patriots—full of meat and drink and the good of their country—
sank back in their chairs, and looked serenely in each other's face.
“We shall have a fine congregation to-day ; all the fashion and
respectability of the neighbourhood, no doubt?”
“They can't do less,” remarked Mr. Tangle, “’twill be only a
proper compliment to his lordship.”
“Nevertheless,” observed the ancient tutor, speaking slowly,
gravely, “I am a little disappointed. I did think that on his
lordship's arrival, they would at least have rung the church bells.
Nor was there even a bonfire.” -
“Pardon me ; I have my scruples: all men have, or should
have. Touching the church bells, I must confess I do not think
they ought ever to be employed in any uses that are secular. I
have my prejudices,” continued Tangle, with the air of a man
very proud of the commodity, “ and church bells are one. Bonfires
are altogether another matter.”
“And fireworks,” added Folder.
“And fireworks,” assented Tangle. “Though I said nothing
at the time, I must own with you, that the absence of so small a
mark of respect as a bonfire on the arrival of his lordship, speaks
very many volumes against the people. A few years ago, and
there 'd been a blaze on every hill. Not a schoolboy but would
have had his cap and pockets stuffed with crackers. Now, painful
as it is to a man who loves the constitution, still the truth cannot
be disguised, there was not a single Squib—not a single squib,”
and Tangle repeated the words with pathetic emphasis.
“I heard none,” said Mr. Folder, with the air of a man who,
nevertheless, forlornly hopes that he may be mistaken.
“Oh no | We must not deceive ourselves. We must look the
truth full in the face, ugly as the truth may be ; it's the only way
to browbeat it. I learnt that maxim, Mr. Folder, from practice
in the courts of law. There, it only wants a brassy look and a
big voice, to make an ugly-looking truth seem a shameful impostor.
Nothing, sir, like learning to boldly face truth, if you want to get
the best of it. And so, sir, though the omission of the bonfires
and the fireworks did pain me—how could it be otherwise —
nevertheless, I feel all the stronger in our cause for kHowing the
revolutionary principles that, as I have more than once observed,
are now arrayed against all that is great and titled in the
country !”
“Don’t you think, Mr. Tangle,” said Folder, “that we had
better visit our toilets, to be ready for church 2 We can then
walk gently over the fields.”
“Walk 1" echoed Tangle, looking glumly.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 207
“Certainly. On the present occasion, it will look better to
the people; more condescending ; more like themselves. His
lordship, depend upon it, will not ride to-day. No : I think
my principles will bear a little better fruit;” and Folder smiled
securely.
“Of course not : I had forgotten: to be sure not ; ” answered
Tangle. “Undoubtedly, we walk—undoubtedly.”
This point resolved, the gentlemen retired to their adjoining
chambers to attire themselves for their devotions. The village
church on a high hill, its base girted with magnificent trees,
was seen from either window ; a simple, rustic, snow-white
building shining in the sun, and standing clearly, purely out from
the deep blue summer heaven. “A charming view, this,” said
Tangle as, having arrayed himself, he was about to quit the room,
when his companion appeared in the passage.
“A beautiful landscape l’” said Folder, entering the chamber.
“I was thinking so, as I looked from my own window. How
very nicely the church there shows itself upon the hill !” /
“Quite right—nothing but proper; ” observed Tangle, with a
sudden touch of solemnity. I’d have every church upon a hill;
I would, indeed, sir. And for this reason; when upon a hill,
everybody can see it. When upon a hill, it seems to stand like a
monitor, an adviser to every body. It preaches, as I may say,
from a high pulpit to the world below ; and so, you will perceive,
it’s apt to make men pause in their sinful, shabby courses. Many
a time—I don’t mind confessing so much to you, Mr. Folder—but
many a time, that is, sometimes, when I’ve felt my soul a little
slack, for the best of us can’t always be braced up like drums—
well, when, as I say, I've been a little slack, the very sight of a
church has pulled me up again, and made me think of virtue just
as I did before.”
“Nobody can dispute it,” remarked Mr. Folder. “A church,
as somebody has observed, is sermons in stones.”
“My opinion to a letter,” observed Tangle; “though it's odd
that anybody should have thought the same as myself. Come
along. Stay. When I come here, I always look once to see if
all be right.” Whereupon Mr. Tangle approached a closet, un-
locked the door, and pointing to an iron-bound box, observed—
“All’s safe. All new, Mr. Folder, all sparkling and burning
from the Mint. What a beautiful substance gold is only to look
at,” cried Tangle with enthusiasm ; at the same moment, unlocking
the box and lifting the lid. “There’s a blaze ’’ he cried, with
a voluptuous smacking of the mouth. “How they twinkle !” he
added: whereupon the parliamentary agent clutched a handful
of bright guineas, and poured them from hand to hand, his eye
208 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
catching yellow lustre from the golden shower. And thus for
some brief minute or two did Tangle play with minted gold.
We are told that the snake-charmers of the East are wont to
ensnare the reptiles with dulcet music. The Snake Apollo plays a
melody upon some magic pipe ; whereupon torpid Snakes coiled in
holes and crannies gradually untwist themselves, and feel their
blood quicken, and their scales rustle, and they glide and undu-
late towards the sound,-readily as School-girls run to a ball.
Great is the voice of gold ! What a range, too, it has Now,
breathing the profoundest notes of persuasion—deep and earnest
as a hermit’s homily—and now, carrying away the heart and
senses with its light and laughing trills, delicious, fascinating as
the voice of bacchante. Gold, too, is the earth's great ventrilo-
quist; speaking from and to the belly of immortal man, and
enslaving and juggling him with its many voices.
And gold worked its vocal wonders in Tangle's bed-chamber.
For no sooner did it sound, than like the pipe of the charmer, it
drew forth a little human reptile—a gutter-snake—a noxious
creature, hatched in a London lane to sting the world. Ay, it
was even so. No sooner, we say, did Tangle rattle the gold, than
a little ragged head was thrust from beneath the bed's foot ; a
head, with eyes bright and snake-like ; sparkling the more, the
more the metal chinked. That little head—what a world of
wicked knowledge was packed within it !—was the property of
St. Giles's half-brother, and it was said, of Tom Blast’s whole
son, young Jingo, the hero of the pocket-handkerchief; the
petted genius of Hog-Lane. How that adroit youngling had
gained the eminence of Tangle's bed-chamber, we will not pause
to explain Of that in due season.
Our whole business is for the present with Tangle and his com-
panion. As the old war-horse pricks his ears at the murderous
music of the trumpet—as some retired and erewhile sharp attorney,
reading some successful juggle juggled in the name of justice, feels
his heart trickle as it ran red ink, and dreams himself again in
court—so did the sound of the gold, as it fell from hand to hand,
awaken in the soul of Tangle all its metallic strength. Nay, his
soul for a moment left him, and ducked and dived and took its fill
of liquid pleasure in that golden river—that Pactolus embanked
in a box — like Triton wallowing in the foamy sea. He felt
he was in his true element ; and eloquence flowed from his
lips, free as a silver thread of rivulet from some old granite-
hearted rock.
“Wonderful invention, gold coin, sir! Wonderful thing ! If
there’s anything, sir, that shows man to be the creature that he
is, it’s this. Scholars, when they want to raise man above the
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. - 209
monkey—heaven forgive the atheists—call him a laughing animal,
a tool-making animal, a cooking animal. Sir, they’ve all missed
the true description ; they should call him a coining animal. I’ve
thought of the matter much, Mr. Folder; and this *-and Tangle
rattled the coin—“this is the true weapon against the atheists,
sir—and nearly all scholars are every bit the same as atheists—
just as toadstools are very near to mushrooms. No, sir, no ;
they may call men what they like, but I see proofs of the im-
mortality of the soul in this, sir. No unbelief—I’m sure of it,
Mr. Folder—no unbelief can stand against this,” and Tangle
again laid his hand upon the gold.
“The theory is ingenious—perhaps true,” said Folder.
“A glorious invention, coining, sir,” again cried Tangle, ex-
panding with his subject. “Now, look here ; these guineas are,
I may say, nothing more than the representatives of the voters of
Liquorish. Here we have 'em | Here I take 'em up with my
hand, any number of 'em, body and soul.” Whereupon, Tangle
scooped up the guineas in his palm and poured them down again,
young Jingo still looking from beneath the bed, and grinning, and
twitching his lips as the music continued. “Here they are—
men, women, and children—all packed close ; all snug, Sir, a
man who carries these, carries heaps of his fellow-creatures with
him. A tremendous art, sir, coining. They talk about the inven-
tion of printing: why, what was coining but printing, that is,
the better part of printing ; the Soul, I may say of it, without
its wickedness' There’s no dangerous notions in these, sir; no
false ideas; no stuff to dizzy the heads of fools; making them
think themselves as good as their betters; no treason, sir; but
all plain and above board—plain and above board.” And again,
Tangle took up the coin, and dropt it—and took it up, and dropt
it again, his heart-strings vibrating to the music.
And the church bell rang out its summons to the world. And,
for some moments, the eloquent man heard it not; he only listened
to his church bells—the ringing that sounded of his heaven. Still
he plays with the gold: still the church bell sounds.
Toll—to!!—chink—chink—to!!—chink—to!!—chink /
“Is not that the church bell ?” at length asked Mr. Folder.
“Bless me ! so it is. I'd forgotten—nothing secular to-day ; ”
and Tangle closed the box; locked it : closed the closet-door;
locked it too. “Stop a minute,” he observed. He then went to
his trunk, and took therefrom a large prayer-book, bound in
morocco, Scarlet as blood, and daubed with gold. “Never travel,
Mr. Folder, without this,” said Tangle, dropping his eyelids, and
tenderly pressing the book with his fingers, “never, sir. Now,
P
210. - ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
if you please.” Folder stept from the room, and Tangle vigorously
locked the door; tried it once, twice, and putting the key in his
pocket, descended the stairs.
It was a lovely day; there seemed a Sabbath peace on all
things. The drudged horse stood meek and passive in the field,
patiently eyeing the passer-by, as though it felt secure of one day's
holiday; the cows, with their large, kind looks, lay unmoved upon
the grass ; all things seemed taking rest beneath the brooding
wings of heaven.
We have climbed the hill—have gained the churchyard ; the
dust of the living dust of generations. The bell is swinging still;
and turning on every side, from distant hamlets we see men,
women, and children—age with its staff, and babyhood warm at the
breast—all coming upward—upward—to the church. Still they
climb, and still from twenty opposite paths they come, to strengthen
and rejoice their souls in one common centre. By bigotry's good
leave, a fore-shadowing of that tremendous Sabbath of the universe,
when all men from all paths shall meet in Paradise.
Long ere the bell had ceased to summon the congregation, the
church was filled. There were, however, two causes for this
Christian alacrity ; although, it is our belief that few even to
themselves acknowledged either. Nevertheless, it was plain from
the eager, half-anxious looks of the people, that they expected
something beyond the usual Sabbath comforting: that they had
come to see some interesting novelty, as well as to hear the cus-
tomary promise of good tidings. Suddenly the rustic beadle—he
has but little external glory to mark his function—gives a short
significant cough, and hurries towards the door. All heads turn
with him, and in a few moments, there is a low murmur, a hush-
ing sound of surprise and satisfaction, as the handsome candidate,
theyoung Lord St. James, with Mrs. Gilead and her two daughters,
enter the church, and ushered by the beadle, glide to the
family pew.
The church, we say, was thronged. A beautiful sight, doubt-
less, to behold in that small village temple, men of all conditions
gathered together to confess their common infirmities, to supplicate
for common blessings: to appear for a time, as in the vestibule of
eternity, in common adoration of the Eternal; all distinctions and
disguises of earth cast aside, and all in nakedness of soul bending
before God. A beautiful sight ! And yet, the devil pride will
follow some folks to church, to play unsightly pranks even before
the altar. He will not be left at the church door, even for a poor
two hours: but with hypocritical demureness moves up the aisle,
and enters a pew, all the better to mutter deep devotion. Look
down the middle aisle. It is filled with the common people—with
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 211
God’s commonest earth: farming men, labourers, artisans: the
drudges of the world, who are nevertheless told by the good man
in the pulpit that they have, every one within them, an immortal
angel. They are assured that all wealth is vanity: they are pas-
sionately desired to look upon pride and arrogance as deadly sins;
and with these lovely precepts touching their heart-strings, they
look on each side and see ladies and gentleman—called by the
clergyman their fellow-creatures—shut up in pews, set apart in
closets; as, though in the presence of their Maker, and whilst
denouncing themselves miserable sinners, they would vindicate
their right of money, and buy of heaven itself the privilege of first
consideration. Poverty and humbleness of station may sit upon
the middle benches: but wealth and what is mouthed for respect-
ability must have cribs apart for themselves: must be considered
Christian jewels to be kept in velvet boxes; lest they should catch
the disease of lowliness by contact with the vulgar. Surely there
are other masquerades than masquerades in halls and play-houses.
For are there not Sabbath maskings, with naked faces for masks?
How many a man has himself rolled to church, as though, like
Elijah, he would go even to heaven in a carriage 7
The church was full. Faces, familiar to the reader, were there.
Capstick and Bright Jem sat on the middle benches; whilst St.
Giles, at the extreme end of the church, fixed in a corner, had
anxiously watched for the appearance of St. James; and when he
again beheld him, appeared to give fervent thanks for the blessing.
Mr. Kingcup with about twenty red-faced little boys, Kingcup,
be it known, was a schoolmaster—sat in the gallery. Mr. Tangle
and Mr. Folder were, of course, provided with comfortable seats
in a most comfortable pew. -
Doctor Gilead preached the sermon. Possibly the doctor himself
was ignorant of the bias, nevertheless he was a party parson. Hence
—he could not help it—he selected a text from which he evolved
the social necessity of the many trusting the few. We may not
transcribe to our profane page the sacred text and Solemn discourse
delivered on the occasion. All we may do, is to assure the reader
that the excellent doctor preached with his best earnestness.
Again he bade his hearers live in the days of the patriarchs;
again he conjured them to put away conceit, and faith in their own
weak judgments, and disobedience to their betters happily ap-
pointed to guide and protect them. (Here—all unconsciously—
the doctor turned towards St. James's pew, and looked benignly
down upon his lordship.) It was plain that the doctor thought
himself a shepherd of the patriarchal times; and it was no less
plain that he thought all his hearers merely sheep. He made a
deep impression upon many. At least two old dames—farmers'
P 2
212 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
wives in red cloaks—wept ; whilst half a dozen grey heads were
seen to nod approvingly. Capstick, it was evident, had a cold ;
hence, twice he coughed so loudly, that both the beadle and
Bright Jem looked anxiously at him, whilst two or three
others seemed to say, “people with such a cold should not come
to church.”
It was, in sooth, no wonder that Doctor Gilead melted his
hearers. His words were so soft, so flowing ; they fell like sum-
mer honey-dew. Then his aspect was so calm—so very comfort-
able. He had the cure of, we know not how many thousand souls.
IHehad souls in Oxfordshire—souls in Norfolk—souls in Middlesex
—nay, souls in at least half-a-dozen counties: good Mother
Church had so bountifully endowed her pet son ; and yet there
was not a wrinkle in his cheek to tell the anxiety of so tremendous
a responsibility. Had the thousands of souls been so many
thousand chickens, Doctor Gilead could not have looked more
self-complacent under his charge.
But the service is over. The small organ peals its farewell notes.
The organ, be it known, given by the house of St. James for a
political purpose; thus adroitly blending the music of party with
the music of religion. What a world's harmony
CEIAPTER XXI.
“HE's grown a fine young man,” said Bright Jem, whose talk
was of St. James.
“Why, he's tall enough for a member of Parliament,” said
Mr. Capstick.
“He’s a good un, too, I know it,” said Jem. “I’m sure, if
he didn't look as meek and as humble, and wasn't as attentive to
the discourse ! And it was a nice sermon, wasn’t it ! Perhaps a
little too much o' putting people over people's heads; but still it
was comfortable; though now and then to be sure, the doctor did,
as I think, take a little too much upon himself. How he did give
it to 'em who he said were out of the palings of the Church How
he did dress 'em to be sure | And how, upon his own authority,
he said they’d suffer.”
“James,” said Capstick—for so he dignified Jem when wishing
to be solemn—“James, do you recollect the words, “And God
said, Tet us make man in our image, after our likeness ''”
“I should think I did,” said Jem, unconsciously pulling off
his hat.
ST GILES AND ST. JAMES. 213
“Ha! that’s beautiful and consoling, isn’t it And what a
fine creature is Man, so long as he always has these words before
his eyes, and so tries to do nothing but what shall be some way
worthy of his likeness . To do this, James, is to make this world
a pleasant place—and to have everybody happy about us. “And
God said, Let us make man in our image l’ This is beautiful: but
it’s sad, it's melancholy work, Jem, when Man says, “Let us make
God in our image . **
“I beg your pardon,” said Jem, “it’s utterly unpossible.
'Tisn't to be done, no how”
“Jem, it's been done for thousands of years; it's being done
every day.” Jem stared. “Yes, Jem ; for when man, in
spiritual matters, persecutes man—when in the name of religion,
and as he says, vindicating God, he commits violence and cruelty
upon his fellow-creatures, then does he in his own ignorance make
for a time his Maker after his own erring and revengeful nature—
then does he make God in his own image Look at the burnings
and roastings of poor human flesh—its hangings and quarterings,
its imprisonment and exile in the name of religion. What are all
these, but that man does all this wickedness in the name of
God; that is, he thinks God is pleased with what pleases his own
vile, vindictive nature ; and as I take it—and it can’t be denied
—after such fashion it is, that man makes God after his own
image. Many folks—poor souls—think this the best religion.
Jem, it’s nothing more nor less than worst blasphemy.”
Saying this, Mr. Capstick rose from the grave-stone, where-
upon in summer time he was wont to sit for half-an-hour or so
after the service, talking with his old companion and enjoying the
lovely prospect below and around him. “Now, Jem, to dinner;”
and Capstick was proceeding in laudable pursuit of that object of
man's daily cares, when he paused and pointed towards St. Giles,
who was loitering in the churchyard. “Jem, isn’t that our wet
friend ?” w
“In course it is,” said Jem. “I)idn’t you see him in the
church There's a strangeness about him, but for all that I
don’t know that I don’t like him.”
“I don't know that I do,” said the misanthrope. “But it's
plain that he's been dodging hereabout after us.” With this,
Capstick advanced towards St. Giles. “ Glad to see you here,”
he said. “Reading the tombstones, eh? Ha! they’re books
that now and then we all ought to read, seeing that one day we
shall all have our names in ‘em.”
“All as can afford 'em,” said Jem, with a literalness that
sometimes tried the temper of his patron.
“I don't care for stones,” answered Capstick. “Show me a bit
214 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
of green turf; why, sometimes I can fancy written in the grass as
nice an epitaph as was ever chipped by stone-cutter.”
“I wanted, sir, to see you,” said St. Giles to Capstick. “I left
you in a manner so sudden. I wanted to say something.”
“Speak out,” cricd Capstick. “A man can’t speak the truth
—whether it be sweet or sour—in a better place.”
Still St. Giles hesitated. Looking full at Capstick, at length
he asked with an earnest voice, “And you don't know me, sir?”
Japstick, after a full stare, shook his head. “You ought, sir;
indeed, you ought ; for you did me a deal of good. I’ve a secret
about me, that if known would hang me: but I’m safe in telling
ou.”
“I don’t know that,” said Capstick. “I wouldn't answer for
myself at all. It might be my duty to hang you : as an honest
and respectable man, as the world goes, I might consider it a
praiseworthy thing to strangle you. Mind what you’re about,”
cried the misanthrope, moving gradually away.—“I’m rather
given to hanging ; I am indeed, young man.”
“I’d trust a thousand lives with you, sir,” said St. Giles,
approaching him. “And so, sir, you must know”—
“Well? What ?” cried Capstick, alarmed at the terrible news
about to be revealed. “I shall hang you ; but if you will,
speak—speak.” -
St. Giles looked round; then suddenly, as though death-struck,
turned ghastly pale. He stammered out—“Not now, sir;
another time,” and walked swiftly from the churchyard.
“Jem,” said Capstick, “we shall hear of burglary, perhaps
murder, before to-morrow. That’s a desperate fellow, Jem.”
“Not a bit on it,” answered Jem. “Poor soul he looks as
if he was deeper in trouble than in wickedness.” In truth, this
was Capstick's own opinion, albeit he chose not so to deliver it.
He had to keep up a character for suspicion and misanthropy,
and therefore would see, as he called them, hanging lines in every
other human countenance.
However, leaving the pair to pursue their way to the Tub, we
may at once narrate to the reader the cause that startled St. Giles
from his purpose, making him slink “like a guilty thing away.”
When, in a preceding chapter, St. Giles quitted Hog Lane, he
was, it may be remembered, followed to the burial-ground by his
half-brother. It was the hope of St. Giles that he had taken final
leave of his old destroyer, Tom Blast. However, that master of
iniquity would not have it so. Hence, he commanded the ready
imp Jingo stealthily to follow St. Giles—to watch wheresoever he
might go, and straightway return with the news. Jingo faith-
fully performed the bidding. At the Cocoa Tree Tom learnt the
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 215
whole story of the election. He also picked up the grateful
intelligence that the Yellow party had need of fighting patriots;
and though Tom's character was more of Ulysses than Achilles,
he nevertheless scrupled not to take the wages of a warrior in
the cause of purity of election. And then, ardent in the cause, it
appeared to him that the talents of his son—as on occasion he
ingenuously declared Jingo to be—would potently assist the noble
struggle. “The boy piped like any nightingal, and would sing
'em all to sticks in ballads.” Whereupon, young Jingo received
an appointment as minstrel to the cause ; and with his father was
dispatched straight to Liquorish.
Now the vehicle that contained Tom Blast and his singing-boy,
also carried some dozen other humble Yellows. The merits of the
opposing candidates were discussed with that freedom which is
one of the happy privileges of our constitution. Whereupon it
came out in discourse that the agent for the Blues had taken with
him a chest filled with gold; more than enough to bribe every
honest man in the kingdom. This news sank into the heart of
Blast like water in sand. All the remainder of the way, he
thought of that chest of gold devoted to corrupt honest men, and
thought how sweet, how justifiable it would be could he save
honesty from such temptation by making the pelf his own. St.
Giles was of the Blue party : somewhat, no doubt of it, in the
confidence of the agent of St. James. It was only to hang on to
St. Giles, to work upon the terrors of the transport, to obtain a
potent ally in the felony. Already, Blast saw himself the master
of a golden treasure ; and perhaps his first luck might so come
back to him, things might so be managed, that St. Giles alone
might be left to pay the penalty. It was plain that chance
had intended the chicken-hearted fool the gull for wiser fellows,
and Tom was determined not to forego his privilege.
Arrived at Liquorish, Tom in vain sought St. Giles. Never-
theless, he had made all use of the boy. The urchin being shown
the abode of Tangle, hung about the house, until he discovered
the sleeping-room of that Sagacious man. Such discovery was
soon made, Mr. Tangle appearing at the window of his bed-
chamber. Tangle was a cautious man: it was his reputation—his
pride. It has been seen with what especial care he locked the closet
—locked the chest that contained his gold—locked the chamber-
door : but—by one of those accidents with which Beelzebub
delights himself to cheat his best friends—Mr. Tangle forgot,
when he descended to breakfast, to close his chamber window.
This tremendous error was not unobserved by Jingo and his
paternal tutor, both being on the watch for accidents. The win-
dow, we say, was open ; and chance seemed to offer a glorious
216 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
means of success; for an old vine, growing at the wall, offered to
the agile limbs of Jingo a most accommodating ladder. He
watched his moment. It was early Sunday morning ; and nobody
was in the street. In a couple of minutes the boy had mounted
the topmost branch of the vine, was in at the window, and in a
second was under the bed of Tangle. Here he lay a few minutes,
taking breath : he then stole forth, and approaching the case-
ment, announced by signs to his anxious father in the street, that
all was right. Whereupon, his parent, with few but significant
gestures, replied to the boy. We are fortunately enabled to anti-
cipate to the reader the meaning of this pantomime. It was, that
Jingo should keep close until night ; and then perform a feat
that would gild him with renown. Jingo felt the importance of
the part put upon him by his adventurous yet careful father : for
Tom Blast had provided the boy with apples and biscuits in his
pockets, that he might solace and sustain himself the while he
lay in wait. And Jingo showed himself worthy of his early
training. True it is, that Molly the maid—having for a short
time begged the key of Mr. Tangle—entered the chamber, yet
Jingo, braced for the occasion, silently munched his biscuit
and trembled not. Molly made the bed, singing a rustic ditty
the while, and Jingo, cosy and quiet, rather enjoyed the melody
than feared the singer. Could Mr. Blast have known the com-
posed heroism of his child, he would have felt in all its fulness,
the paternal pride He, however, continued his search for
St. Giles. At length he gathered at the Rose, that his friend—as
he had denominated him—had gone to church. He had caused
Some merriment among the band and others by such eccentricity
—nevertheless, he had gone to his devotions. Blast cared not to
follow him inside the edifice, but lingered about the churchyard,
watching the congregation depart. Already he saw St. Giles
approach ; but seeing him about to accost Capstick, shrank behind
a tomb-stone: and thus it was, whilst watching from this posi-
tion, that he was recognised by the quick eye of St. Giles, who
fled as from a wild beast.
We have now to return to Tangle and Folder. To their
astonishment and delight they had, even at the church porch,
been invited to dine at Lazarus Hall. There was a condescen-
sion, an urbanity, about dear Doctor Gilead, that was not to be
refused ; and the doctor's carriage being sent to the Olive Branch,
the happy couple departed for the rectory. The dinner was mag-
nificent. Of this we feel assured ; for Tangle on his progress
back to the inn, at least fifty times declared as much. “What
wine too !” he cried—“the man, sir, who can give wine like that
ought to be a bishop—a bishop, sir; certainly, a bishop.” This
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 217
opinion Mr. Tangle emphasised by again and again slapping the
knee of Mr. Folder, who in vain endeavoured to moderate Tangle's
admiration, by feebly answering—“My dear sir,”—“My very
dear sir,”—but it availed not.
It was evident from the condition of Mr. Tangle that he did not
place wine among secular things: otherwise he had not on such a
day meddled so busily with the rector's port. For Mr. Tangle was a
particularly sober man. It was the boast of Mrs. Tangle that he
had never been seen intoxicated: a boast that has with it a certain
equivocation. But—it is a truism—every man has his weak
moments. Had he not, what an awful person would he be—how
set apart, how distantly removed from his fellow-men—frail, daily
sinners : No ; it is because great men have their weaknesses,
that we may assert our common nature with them. We should
be abashed, indeed utterly confounded, by their heads of glittering
metal, did we not espy their little toes of clay, that reconcile us
by the assurance, that they have about them our father Adam's
common loam. Hence, our reverence may be softened into love.
Common weakness breeds common affection.
But—we owe the palliation to Tangle—sure we are, had the
patriot not been so strong, the man would not have been so
drunk. He had been so animated, so rapt by the prospect of
Lord St. James's success, so inexpressibly indignant towards the
corrupt and villanous machinations of the Yellows, that when he
wanted words, as he so very often did, to express the intensity of
his feelings, he invariably applied himself to his wine-glass. At
a very early hour of the evening, he had got drunk out of pure
admiration of the English Constitution. Nor, let the truth be
said, was Mr. Folder innocent of liquor. But, he had this saving
clause for himself—if he was drunk, he was drunk like a gentle-
man. That is, he neither sang, nor roared, nor slapt his comrade
On his knee or shoulder; but sat silently winking his eyes like an
owl in the sun, and now and then performing a slight cough, as it
appeared to him to set right his dignity.
What change of climate often is to a sick man, change of
house is to a drunken one. He feels the stronger ſor the renuoval,
and therefore drinks again. It was thus with Mr. Tangle. Hence,
when safely seated in the Olive Branch, he declared that he
must have “one glass more—only one *—the glass, that shows
the tippler “many more.” Briefly—for why should we linger
with the bacchanal – Mr. Tangle was led by the Boots and
Chambermaid to his bed-room, Mr. Folder, with a hard struggle
for seeming sobriety, carrying a candle which in his unsteady
hand let fall anointing drops of tallow on the head of the vinous
and patriotic lawyer. Arrived at the top of the stairs, Tangle
218 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEs.
insisted upon being left to his own guidance. Did they want to
insult him ; Did they think him drunk? He knew the way to
his own room ; and would have no spies upon his doings. A dim
sense of the treasure in his dormitory seemed to steal upon him,
and make him of a sudden savagely resolute. He tried at three
or four doors, insisting that each was his proper door; and then
gradually giving it up as in no way belonging to him. Then he
burst into a loud laugh, and declared it was droll—devilish
droll. “This reminds me of another inn I once slept at,”
he cried—“ another tavern, where all the doors always changed
places after twelve o’clock.” At length, he was half-shuffled,
half-guided into his own apartment ; where, forbidding any
one on pain of death to follow him, he was left alone. He
cautiously locked the door, and taking therefrom the key, proceeded
with devious steps to place it under his pillow. He then stag-
gered to the door of the closet that contained his treasure ;
and grinned, and pawed and stroked it up and down as though
he was caressing some animate thing. By the dim twinkling of
the rushlight, young Jingo, his head protruded from the bed's
foot—like the head of a tortoise from beneath its shell—watched
the drunkard; and, it must be owned, felt something like a sense
of contempt for his condition. It was plain the urchin
thought the glory of the robbery greatly lessened by the helpless
state of the victim to be robbed. The boy, in the vivacity of
youthful blood, had expected to see the gentleman gagged at
least and tied to the bed-post ; and now he would be made to
render up his gold patiently as a sheep its wool. Leaving the
closet, Tangle approached the bed, and still Smiling at his won-
drous cunning, placed his watch under the mattress. He next
drew from his waistcoat a small pair of pistols which, having eyed
with a look of maudlin tenderness, and addressed as his dear pre-
servers, he attempted to place in the watch-pocket at the head of
the bed. Unfortunately, they slipped from his fingers, fell at the
bed-side, and were instantly secured by young Jingo. Tangle
paused ; stooped ; fumbled about the floor, then with a grunt of
resignation, gave up the search. “He shouldn’t want ’em—no ;
he knew he shouldn’t want ‘em.” At length Mr. Tangle found
himself between the sheets. His head fell like a lump of dead
clay upon the pillow ; and in two or three minutes, he was sunk
fathoms deep in drunken oblivion.
Jingo—hopeful child !—had a quick eye for business. Mr.
Tangle had divested himself of his wardrobe at the bedside ;
and it was a pretty sight, it would in sooth have warmed the
paternal bosom of Tom Blast, could he have beheld Jingo seize
garment by garment, and with unerring Sagacity, instantly apply
ST GILES AND ST, JAMES. 219
himself to every pocket. Purse, handkerchief, pocket-book—nay,
even a curious old steel tobacco-stopper, a Tangle heir-loom—was
quickly in the possession of young Jingo. And so, ending the
present chapter, we leave them—Tangle in his bed dreaming of
triumph; and Jingo under it, really tasting the delicious fruits of
plunder.
CHAPTER XXII.
JINGo was born for greatness. He had in his character the great
element of a great general, a great statesman; marvellous self-
possession. Meaner boys would have been in a flutter of impa-
tience; not so with the pupil of Tom Blast. Hence, he sat under
the bed, with critical ear, listening to the hard breathing of the
drunken man, who soon began to snore with such discordant
vehemence that Jingo feared the sleeper might awaken his bottle
friend, Mr. Folder. (Jingo knew it not ; but his testimony would
have been very valuable to Mrs. Tangle : for the snoring of her
husband was one of the disquietudes of that all-suffering woman;
the rather, too, that the man constantly denied his tendency to the
habit. He never snored. Nobody ever does.)
With knowing, delicate ear, the child continued to listen to the
stertorous agent. At length, the boy crept from beneath the bed,
and treading lightly as a fairy at a bridal couch, he made his way
to the window. Now, had anybody attempted to open it for any
honest purpose—had Molly, the maid, for instance, sought to
raise it merely to give her opinion of the moon and the night
to any rustic astronomer below—it is very certain, that the window
would have stuck, or jarred, or rattled ; it was too old and crazy
to be made a comfortable confidant in any such foolish busi-
ness. Ten to one, but it had awakened the mistress of the Olive
Branch, who would inevitably have nudged the master. And now
—a robbery was to be done—a most tremendous robbery, perhaps,
to be further solemnised by homicide—for who should say that
the Parcae who wove the red tape of the life of Tangle, attorney-
at-law, were not about to snip it : who shall say that so awful a
crisis did not at that moment impend ?—and yet silently went
the window up ; easily, smoothly, as though greased by some
witch; yes, smeared with fat “from murderer's gibbet.” Thus
does the devil so oft make wickedness so very easy to the meanest
understanding.
220 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
Two or three minutes passed, not more, and Tom Blast thrust
his head and one of his legs into the chamber. There was a grim
smile upon his face, a murderous simper at his mouth, a brassy
brightness in his eyes, that showed him to be upon a labour of love.
No soldier ever scaled a wall—to receive it may be a bullet or a
bayonet, with the after-leaf of laurel that the Gazette punctually
lets fall upon his grave—no hero, we say, his nerves strung by
shouts, his heart beating to the beating drums, his blood boiling
at slaughter heat, his whole soul breathing fire and gunpowder,
and all to gloriously slay and sack, and burn—no such adven-
turous plumed biped ever looked more grimly beautiful than did
that low-thoughted burglar, that leprous-minded thief. Strange
and mournful this to think of ! For what was there good or noble
to make his muscles iron 7 What holy flame of patriotism raged
in his heart, refining its grossness—what laurel could he hope for,
wet with a nation’s tears—nations always weeping when the
private soldier falls' He had none of these exalting elements to
sublimate him, for a time, into an immortal imp of glory. His
motive was gold : brutalising gold. His enemy, if he came to
close quarters, a weak, wine-soddened old man. His fate, if he
should fail, no laurel wreath, but suffocating rope. And yet,
alas, for the conceit of poor humanity | Thomas Blast, prepared
for robbery, and it might be, bloodshed, looked as horribly ani-
mated, as ferociously happy, as though he had mounted some
Indian rampart, then and there graciously commissioned to
slay man, woman, and child ; to pillage and to burn, and all
for glory—all for the everlasting fame—of who shall count how
many years, or months, or days? How very different the picture
—the fate of the two men And then, again, there is no Old
Bailey (at least in this world) for the mighty men of the bully
burglar, Mars
Whilst writing this piece of villany, as, should it perchance
find its way into any barrack, it will be called, we have not kept
Tom Blast astride upon the window-sill. Oh no he has busi-
ness to perform—stern, worldly business, as he deems it—and
he has entered the chamber ; and with much composure, a
placidity which it has been seen he has transmitted to his son,
he gazes at the sleeping, hard-breathing Tangle. Mr. Blast was
not a man, in any way, above his profession. He never neglected,
however petty they might be, any of the details of his art. This
feeling of precision was, possibly, born with him ; any way,
long custom had brought the principle, or whatever it was, as
near to perfection as may be allowed to any achievement of
fallible humanity, Had destiny put Blast in the respectable
position of the attorney in the bed, sure we are, it would have
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 221
been the same with him. Certain we are he would have been
as particular with his inkhorn, his parchment, his ferret, as he
now was with his equipments of dark lantern, crowbar, and rope.
For some moments, Blast, by the aid of his lantern, looked
meditatingly upon Tangle. Possibly he felt such a deep sense of
security that he liked to dally with his subject, to coquet with
robbery, to gently sport with sin, to give it a sweeter flavour.
For this is a trick of humanity : in evidence of which, we could
and we would quote rosy examples: but no ; we will not treat
the reader—in this history we have never yet done so—as though
his bosom was stuffed, doll-like, with bran: we believe that he
has a heart beating within it, and to that interpreter, we write,
as we should say, many things in short-hand : sometimes we may
lose by it ; nevertheless, we disdain to spell every passion with its
every letter.
“He’d never be stole for his beauty, would he, Jingo 7” asked
Blast, in a loud whisper, blandly smiling.
“And whatever beauty he has, he shuts it up when he goes to
sleep,” replied the child, “Oh, isn't he drunk 1" the boy added,
with considerable zest.
“He is,” said Blast, who still looked contemplative. Then
shading the lantern, to catch the best view of Tangle's face, he
continued—“What a horrible pictur ! He looks as if he'd come
from Indy in a cask of spirits, and was jest laid out, afore he was
to be buried. Jingo, my boy,”—and the paternal hand was
gently laid upon the boy's head—“Jingo, your poor father may
have his faults, like other men ; I can’t say he mayn't ; no ; but
he isn't a drunkard, Jingo ; else he hadn’t got on the little he
has in the world—he hadn't, indeed. And so, take warning by
what you see—by what you see,” and Blast stretching his arm
towards the sleeper, said this in a low voice—touchingly, pater-
nally. “And now, Jingo,” asked the man of business, “where's
the shiners ?”
A thoughtless reader may deem it strange, unnatural, that a
man about to perpetrate gibbet-work should thus coolly delay,
and after his own fashion, moralise. But then such reader must
ponder on the effect of long habit. In his first battle—though
common history says nothing of it—Julius Caesar, not from
cowardice, but from a strange inward perturbation, bled at the
nose: similar accidents may have happened to other heroes when
they have drawn what with an odd gallantry is called their maiden
sword. Still the reader may not yet comprehend the composure
of Tom Blast. The more his loss. But then, probably, the reader
has never been a housebreaker.
Return we to our colloquy. “Jingo, where’s the shiners ?”
222 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“There !” said the boy, pointing to the closet : “and see,” he
whispered, with a proud look, at the time producing Tangle's
pistols—“see, I’ve got his pops!”
This touch of early prudence and sagacity was too much for
a father's heart. Tom felt himself melted, as with undisguised
tenderness he said, taking an oath to the fact—“Well, you are a
bloomer, you are l’”
At this moment, Tangle rolled upon his side, gabbling some-
thing in his sleep. On the instant, Jingo was at the couch, with
both his pistols presented at the sleeper's head. The eyes of the
little wretch glittered like a snake's—his lips were compressed—
his eyebrows knit—his nostrils swelling. At a thought, he looked
an imp of murder.
“There's a beauty,” said the encouraging Blast, “don’t let
him wag; if he should”—it was needless for Blast to finish the
injunction ; a terrible grin, and a nod from Jingo, showed that he
clearly understood the fatherly wish.
“This is the closet, eh?” said Blast, with a very contemptuous
look at the frail partition between him and El Dorado. Then
Blast took a small crowbar from his pocket ; a remarkably neat,
portable instrument. For some seconds he stood twirling it in
his hand with the composed air of a professor. Had he been a
fashionable fiddler, he could not have fondled his alchemic
Cremona more tenderly, more lovingly.
One moment he looks at the door. Ha! that was the touch of
a master How it was done, we know not. By what sleight,
what dexterity of hand, we cannot guess, but in a few seconds,
the door yielding to the instrument, opens with a dull, sudden
sound; and Tom Blast surveys Tangle's chest of gold, Blast's son
and heir still presenting two pistols at Tangle's drunken head.
At the opening of the door, Jingo looked round and laughed.
Before, his eyes were bent upon the sleeping man; and it was
plain, from the working of the boy's face, that he was fighting
with some horrid thought—some damnable temptation. There
was he with death in his two little hands; there was he with a
terrible curiosity growing in his features: his lips trembled, and
he shifted uneasily on his feet; he breathed hard ; he glanced,
for an instant, down the muzzle of each pistol. There was the
man—sleeping—still alive, though seethed in drink, and looking
like death. There he was—the dreaming man with his dreaming
murderer. For should the devil—and the boy felt him at his side
—should the demon only jog his elbow, crook his finger—and how
odd, how strange, how very curious it would be, to see that
sleeping face, with a flash, asleep in death; to catch the look—
the brief one look—as the soul shot into darkness |
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 223
But Tom Blast suddenly burst the door, and the boy laughed
and trembled. He thought it very strange—very odd–he could
have wept. *-
“All right,” said Tom, “we’re lords for life ” He then
laid hands upon the box—paused—and looked suddenly blank.
Wayward, obstinate Plutus ! The god would not be lifted—no,
in his heavy divinity, he would not be made to budge. Again
and again Tom Blast essayed to stir the god —to take him
in his loving arms, and, hugging him to his breast, to bear him
to some sweet solitude, and make him all his own. Provoking,
was it not, that that which added to the treasure, added to the
difficulty Tom could have cursed the patriotism of the voters
of Liquorish, that—the immovable box declared it—bore so high
a price. He had no belief that their virtue could have been so
very valuable to themselves. Tom, however, would not be
baffled. No ; a voice issued from the box, that, like the voice or
jeering beauty, at Once piqued and animated him. And now he
was resolved. His sinews might crack—his Adam's clay might
be flawed beneath the load—nevertheless, he would lift it.
“Jingo,” whispered Tom, “don’t move a foot. The damned
box”—in this way does ungrateful man too often treat his super-
flux of wealth !—“can’t be lowered out of window; 'twould go
Smash. I’ll creep down and unbolt the door, and then”—Blast
had said enough ; Jingo nodded his perfect comprehension of his
father's plan ; and the robber, silently as a shadow glides along
the floor, passed from the room. Jingo was alone—alone, with
his murderous toys—for to him they were very playthings—and
the sleeping sot. Again, did strange thoughts tingle in that
mistaught little brain ; again did a devilish spirit of mischief
begin to possess him ; when his paternal monitor returned, with
a lightened, a pleased look. -
It was, doubtless, a charming sight—a spectacle hugely enjoyed
by the few select spectators—to behold Hercules make his final
muscular preparation for the achievement of any one of his
labours. The majesty of will—that moral regality of man—
must have so beamed and flashed around his brows, that even the
gods may have looked from the windows of heaven, pleased with
a royalty that seemed a shadow of their own. And so be of
good heart, ye many sons of Hercules, fighting, wrestling with
the monsters of adverse fate—be of good faith, though ye combat
in the Solitude of a desert ; nevertheless, believe it, if ye fight
courageously, there are kind looks from heaven always beaming
On you.
We incline to the belief that Tom Blast had never heard of
Hercules; or if indeed he had, the name was so associated with
224 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
the Pillars, that if he ever considered the matter at all, he may
perchance have thought Hercules some very famous tapster, and
that certain London hostelries known as Hercules' Pillars merely
eternised his reputation. We forget, too, the name of the anti-
quary who wrote a very thick book, proving that the pillars set
up by Hercules—vulgarly supposed to commemorate his labours
—were no other than a very classic public-house, wherein, after
his last day's work, he drained his cool tankard. Be this as it
may, Blast was in no way strengthened by the thought of the
reforming Hercules, when he prepared himself to lift upon his
shoulder that bitter sweet—that “heavy lightness, serious vanity”
—that sustaining, crushing weight of gold. Nevertheless, the
preparation of Blast was worthy of the best scoundrel hero of the
world's old age and weakness. He looked at the box with flash-
ing resolution—set his teeth—fixed his feet—and put forth his
arms, as though he would root up an oak.
And now shout, ye imps : Scream, ye devilkins—for it is
done ! The gold is on the thief's shoulder His knees quiver
beneath the sudden wealth—his chest labours—his face grows
purple as grapes—and the veins in his gibbet brow start thick
and black with blood, yet a proud smile plays about his iron
mouth, and he looks a Newgate hero !
Breathing hard, in hoarse whispers, the robber gives directions
to the boy—“Jingo—good fellow—don't stir–only a minute—
only a minute—when I'm clear off—then—you know.” And
with this broken counsel, Blast, his strength strained to the
utmost, turned to the door—and staggered from the room. Young
Jingo's face darkened, and now he glanced towards the window,
to secure himself a retreat, now he listened to catch the sounds
of his father's footsteps. To trip—to stumble but an inch—and
what a crashing summons to the whole household would burst
from that fallen heap of gold ! Still Jingo listened, and still he
felt re-assured! The robber made silent and successful progress. It
was a difficult passage—that narrow, crooked staircase ; and as
the thief accommodated his burthen to its winding way, thoughts
of mortality would come into the thief's brain ; for he marvelled
how when anybody died—and it was an old, old house—they
carried the coffin down that confined, sinuous path ! But gold—
heart-strengthening gold—is on his shoulders, and he bears up
with Atlantean will, the whilst he moves along noiselessly as the
hare limps on the greensward. He has crossed the threshold—
closed the door behind him—he is in the wide world, with his
fortune on his shoulders. Whither shall he go
Direct, assist him, ye good genii that, all unseen, favour and
strengthen the mere money-maker; the man, who only eats, and
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 225
drinks, and takes his temperate rest, that he may be keener at a
bargain, sharper for profit. How many, save that their golden
burdens are lawful gains; that is, obtained by no gross violation
of the statute—are, like Tom Blast, puzzled, confounded, by the
very treasure they have toiled for 7 What a hard, ungrateful
weight, their monstrous wealth ! Somehow, with all the bless-
ings mingled with it, they cannot extract heart's ease from it.
They sweat and toil under the load, when—though they know not
how to secure the happiness—they would fain sit themselves down
On some green, pleasant spot, and enjoy their long-toiled-for
delight. No, it may not be. The spirit—the sole possessing
spirit that, day and night, made them subdue all gentler, softer
influences, to the one exhausting purpose, wealth—the spirit is
still their despot, and rules them as tyrannously when in cloth of
gold, as when in frieze. They have worked—sweated for the
precious load ; and, when obtained, it is hung about with fears.
How many have crawled, brute-like, on all-fours through dirty,
winding ways to wealth, with the Sweet unction at their souls
that, arrived at the glorious bourne, they would then walk very
erect ; would cleanse themselves of the inevitable defilements of
the road: would, in sooth, become very sweet men indeed. Well,
they have reached the shrine ; they have learned the true “Open
Sesame !”—they are rich, past all their morning dreams of
wealth—but somehow, there is the trick of old habit, they
cannot well stand upright; and their hands have been so dirtied,
feeling their way to Plutus, it seems to them a foolish task to try
to whiten and purify them. This, however, they can do. They
can, somehow, blind the world : yes, they can put on very white
gloves.
Take from Tom Blast the spot of felony, and—as he staggers
onward in darkness and uncertainty, almost crushed with his
weight of wealth, knowing not where to find repose—he is no
other than your monstrously rich man, who has exchanged his
heart at the Mint for coined pieces.
Fatigued, perplexed with rising fears, the robber goes on his
unknown way. He strikes wide from the village—goes down
lanes, crosses fields. And then he pauses ; and casting his load
upon the earth, he sits upon it, takes off his hat, and wipes the
streaming sweat from his brow, a myriad of unthought-of stars
looking down upon his felon head.
Yes; he has taken the good resolution. He will henceforth be
an honest, respectable man. Det fate be only so kind as to assure
him his present spoil, and he will wash his hands of all such work
for the rest of his days. He will, he thinks, leave London.
Yes; he will discipline his soul to forego the Sweet allurements,
Q
226 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
the magic wiles of that city of Comus. He will go into the
country, and be very good to the poor. He will change his name.
With such change, he cannot but slough much of the bad repu-
tion that the prejudice of society has fixed upon him. He will
become a country gentleman. He will give away a hullock and
blankets at Christmas. He will go regularly to church. Yes;
he will show that he can be truly religious ; for he will have a
pew as fine, if not finer, than any pew he had peeped into
yesterday. If fate for this once, this last time, be only kind to
him . This virtuous determination so befooled the felon, that he
felt his heart opened; felt all his nature softened to receive the
best and kindliest impressions. Though, in his various crooked
ways, Tom Blast had gulled many, many men, yet had he never
so completely duped any man, as, at that moment, Tom duped
Tom. He felt himself mightily comforted. He looked around
him at the hedges, the trees; as though carefully noting their
particular whereabout. He rose blithely, with some new resolu-
tion. With renewed strength he swung the box upon his
shoulder, and in a few minutes he had hidden it. He would
come back at a proper season, and with proper means, to take
sure possession of it.
Return we to Tangle's chamber. Oh, innocent sleep ! There
was the parliamentary agent—the man with the golden key to
open the door of St. Stephen's to young St. James—there was
he, still in port-wine slumbers—still sunk in the ruby sea
Beautiful was the morning ! The uillible air frolicked in at the
open window, for the mercurial Jingo had not closed it when he
departed with Tangle's treasures. The glorious sun rose blushing
at the ways of slothful man. The sparrows, tenants of the
eaves, flew from distant fields, many a one proving, by the early
worm that writhed about its bill, the truthfulness of proverb lore.
And still the attorney slept | Sleep on, poor innocence | Thou
knowest not the gashes cut in thy pocket : thou knowest not how
that is bleeding mortal drops of coined blood ; for how much
seeming gold is there, that, looked upon aright, is aught other
Substance | Sleep on.
And Tangle sleeps and dreams. A delicious vision creases
and wrinkles his yellow face like folds in parchment. Yes;
Tangle dreams | And we know the particular dream, and—sweet
is the privilege ſ—we may and will tell it. Somnus did not
kindly send to the lawyer a visionary courier to apprise him of
his loss; and so to break the affliction to his sleep that, waking,
he might perhaps the better endure it. Oh no there would have
been no sport in that. Contrast is the soul of whim; and Somnus
was inclined to a joke with the attorney.
ST. GII,ES AND ST. JAMES. 227
Whereupon, Tangle dreamt that he was on his death-bed ; and
nevertheless, bed to him had never been so delicious. He knew
his hour was come : a smiling angel, all effulgence, had told
him so. And Tangle, calling up a decent look of regret at his
wife and children, standing about him, told them to be comforted,
as he was going immediately to heaven. This he knew ; and it
showed their ignorance to look any doubt of the matter. That
chest of gold—the gold once taken to pay the electors of Liquor-
ish—was, after the manner of dreams, somehow his own property.
And therefore, he ordered the chest to be placed on the foot of
his bed, and opened. The lid was raised ; and Oh, what a glory !
It was filled to the edge with bright, bright guineas, all bearing
the benevolent face—a wonderful likeness; in fact, as every face
on gold is, a speaking likeness, for it talks every tongue—of
George the Third ' When Tangle saw them he smiled a smile—
ay, could we have followed it—to the very roots of his heart.
“I am going to heaven,” said he ; “I have toiled all my
life for that goodly end ; I have scraped and scraped those
blessed things together, knowing that if I had enough of them
to bear my weight, they would carry me straight to Para-
dise. No, my dear wife, my darling children, think not my brain
is wandering ; think me not light-headed ; for at this solemn
time, this awful moment, I only hope to consummate the great
object of my life. I have made money in this world, that, by its
means, I might make sure of heaven in the next. And they’—
and Tangle again pointed to the guineas—“those bright celestials
will carry me there !” And now comes the wonderful part of
the dream. When Tangle had ceased speaking, every guinea
rose, as upon tiny wings from the box; and, like a swarm of
bees, filled the death-chamber with a humming sound. And
then gradually every King George the Third face upon the
guinea grew and rounded into a cherub head of glittering gold,
the wings extending and expanding. And who shall count the
number of the cherubim glorifying the chamber with their
effulgence, and making it resound with their tremendous music
A short time, and then Tangle dreamt that the cherubim were
bearing him from his bed—all lifting, all supporting him, all
tending him in his upward flight. And then again he smiled at
his worldly wisdom, for he felt that every guinea, he had made—
no matter how, upon earth—was become an angel, helping him
to heaven. And still in his dream—Smiling and smiling, he went
up—up—up !
Now, if any cavilling reader disputes the authenticity of this
dream—if, pushing it aside, he calls it extravagant and ridiculous,
We are, without further preparation, ready to prove it a very

Q 2
228 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
reasonable and likely dream ; a dream that is no other than a
visionary embodiment of the waking thoughts of many a man,
who hoards and hoards, as though every bit of gold was, as the
lawyers have it, seizin of Paradise. When (and it does some-
times happen,) a high dignitary of the Church dies with a coffer of
Some hundred and forty thousand pounds, who shall say that the
good man has not hoarded them, in the belief that every pound
will serve him as an angel to help him to bliss'. He knows he
cannot take them to heaven ; but, with a wisdom unknown to
much of the ignorant laity, he evidently believes that they can
carry him there. Hence, even Church avarice, properly con-
sidered, may be excellent religion ; hence, a crawling, cater-
pillar miser may only crawl to Soar the higher—a triumphant
Psyche
And still Tangle, in his dream, was ascending to the stars.
—Was ever man brought back to this earth with so terrible a
shock?
“Hallo! Bless me ! My good friend ? Well, you have a con-
stitution | Sleep with the window open "
Such were the exclamations of Mr. Folder, up and arrayed for
an early walk. Though by no means unwell from the last night—
certainly not, for he was never soberer in his life—he thought he
would take a ramble in the fields just to dissipate a little dulness,
a slight heaviness he felt ; and being of a companionable mature,
he thought he would hold out to Mr. Tangle the advantage of
Society. Whereupon, Mr. Folder tried the attorney's door, and,
finding it unlocked, with the pleasant freedom of a friend he
entered the chamber. The opened window struck him with asto-
nishment. The election was not over, and Mr. Tangle might
catch his death. Again Folder gave voice to his anxiety. “My
dear sir, Mr. Tangle—the window"—
“Ten thousand cherubs,” said Tangle, still in the clouds,-
“ten thousand, and not one less. I knew I had ten thousand;
and all good : not a pocket-piece among 'em. Cherubs l’”
“Bless my soul l’” said Folder, “he’s in some sweet dream :
and with the window open. Well, if I could dream at all under
such circumstances, I should certainly dream T was in a saw-mill
with a saw going through every joint of my body. And, what’s
more, I should wake and find it all true. Mr. Tangle !”
With other exclamations—with still more strenuous pulling—
Mr. Folder saw that he was about to achieve success. There were
undeniable symptoms of Mr. Tangle's gradual return to a con-
Sciousness of the £ 3, d. of this world. Gradually, cherub by
cherub was letting him down easily to this muddy earth. The
attorney stretched out his legs like a spider—flung up his arms
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 229
—and with a tremendous yawn opened his mouth so wide, that
Mr. Folder—but he was not a man of high courage—might
perhaps have seen that attorney's very bowels. Tangle unclosed
his stiffly-opening eyelids. It was plain there was a mist—pos-
sibly a cloud, as from burnt claret—passing before his orbs : for
it was some moments before the face of Mr. Folder loomed through
the vapour. At length, Tangle—with every vein in his head
beating away as though it would not beat in such fashion much
longer; no, it must burst—at length Tangle, resolving to be most
courageously jolly, laughed and cried out—“Well, what's the
matter 7 °
“Why, my dear friend,” said Folder, “as to-day is a busy
day, I thought we could not be too fresh for work: and so, as we
were a little late, I may say, too, a little wild last night "-
“Pooh, pooh; not a bit. I never felt better: never, in all my
life. I always know when I’m safe, and drink accordingly. Never
was yet deceived, sir; never. There’s no port in the world I’d
trust like the port you get from certain gentlemen of the
cloth : they’re men above deceit, sir; above deceit.”
“Nevertheless, I do think a walk in the fields—just a turn
before breakfast ’’—
“No,” said Tangle, turning upon his side, evidently set upon
another nap : “no ; I like buttercups and daisies, and all that
sort of thing—breath of cows, and so forth—but not upon an empty
stomach.”
“Well, to be sure,” said Folder, “you economise. You get your
air and sleep together.”
“What do you mean 2° grunted Tangle.
“Why, you sleep with your window open, don’t you ?” asked
Folder.
“Never,” replied Tangle.
“No : then who has opened it for you ?”
Mr. Tangle raised himself in his bed. We will not put down
the oath which to the astonishment of Folder, Tangle thundered
forth, when he saw his casement open to the winds. Suddenly
he leapt ſrom the bed; and as suddenly Mr. Folder quitted the
chamber.
“Robbery! Murder 1" cried Tangle, with amazing lungs.
Now, we have never known this confusion of terms in any way
accounted for. True it is, Mr. Tangle saw, as he believed, the
clearest evidence of robbery; but there was no drop, no speck
of blood, to afford the slightest hint of homicide. Wherefore,
then, should he, falling into a common error of humanity, couple
murder with theft 2 Why, is it, we ask, that infirm man, sud-
denly awakened to a loss of pelf, so often connects with the
230 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
misfortune, the loss of life 2 Are purse-strings and heart-strings
so inevitably interwoven We merely let fall this subject for
the elucidation of the metaphysician ; and so pursue our story.
“Robbery ! Murder " yelled Tangle, dancing in his shirt
about the room, like a frantic Indian. Mr. Folder, at the door,
took up the cry, and in a few minutes, landlord and landlady,
chambermaid, waiter, and boots, with half-a-dozen tenants of the
Olive Branch, were at Tangle's door. “A minute—only a minute,”
cried Tangle, as they were about to enter—“Not dressed yet—the
murderous thieves—nearly naked—the scoundrel malefactors
—guineas, guineas—gone—gone—where's my stockings' "
Very distressing to a soul of sympathy was the condition of
Mr. Tangle. As he hunted about the floor for his scattered
articles of dress, his face—he could not help it—was turned
towards the empty closet, as though in his despair he thought some
good fairy might replace the treasure there, even while he looked.
—Thus, looking one way, and seeking his raiment in divers
others, he brought his head two or three times in roughest com-
panionship with the bed-posts. At length, very sternly rebuked
by one of these monitors, he made a desperate effort at tran-
quillity. He ceased to look towards the closet. Setting his teeth,
and breathing like a walrus, he drew on his stockings. He then
encased his lower members in their customary covering; and then
the turned-out pockets once more smit his bruised soul. He dropt
upon the bed, and sent forth one long, deep, piteous groan.
“The murderous villains ! Even my 'bacco-stopper ' " he cried:
and then his eyelids quivered ; but he repressed the weakness,
and did not weep. “Somebody shall swing for this—somebody l’”
he said ; and this sweet, sustaining thought seemed for a time
mightily to comfort him. And thus, the attorney continued to
dress himself, his hand trembling about every button-hole; whilst
the crowd at his chamber-door exchanged sundry speculations as
to the mode and extent of the robbery, the landlord loudly
exclaiming that nothing of the sort had ever been known in
his house : a statement emphatically confirmed by his dutiful
helpmate.
“And now,” cried Tangle, tying the while his neckcloth like a
hay-wisp ; “and now, ladies and gentlemen, you may come in.”
Instantly the chamber was thronged. “Look here—look here,” he
said, waving his hand towards the empty closet as a tremendous
show—“this is a pretty sight, I think, for a respectable house !”
“What's the matter, sir?” said the landlord. “Have you
lost anything 7 °
“Lost anything !” exclaimed Tangle; “only a box of gold !
Yes—I—I won’t say how many guineas.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 231
There was something touching, awful, in this intelligence; for
every one of the hearers, in some way or the other, called upon
Heaven to bless him or her, as the case might be ; everybody also
declaring, that he or she had never heard of such a thing.
“But, sir,” said the landlord, very provokingly, “are you sure
there's no mistake—was it there when you went to bed ?”
To this impertinent, insulting, unfeeling question, Tangle made
no verbal answer. He merely looked daggerwise in the face of
the querist, and laughed scornfully, hysterically. He might as
well have laughed in the dead face of a dead-wall, for the landlord
continued:
“Because you know, sir, and this gentleman’—he meant Folder
—“ and Molly Chambermaid, and boots, and my wife, all know
that you was a little the worse or the better for liquor, as you may
think it, when you come home from Lazarus Hall. You must
feel that, sir; I’m sure you do feel it.”
“I tell you what, landlord,” said Tangle. “I tell you what,
sir ; this insolence shall not serve your turn—not at all. You
shall not rob me of my reputation to cover the robbery of my
money.”
“I rob you ! I rob you cried the landlord, advancing
towards Tangle, and followed by his wife, the maid, and boots,
all taking part in the music “He rob you ! Master rob
you!”
“Look there ! Itake you all to witness,” cried Tangle, running
to the bed, plucking away the pillows, and showing a key—“the
key of the closet ; of that very closet. Now, had I forgotten
myself for a moment as a gentleman or a man of business, is it
likely that I should have been so particular with that key?”
“They must have come in at the winder,” said the boots, gaping
at the open casement.
“Hallo my fine fellow,” cried the too subtle Tangle ; “you
seem to know something about it !”
“Acause,” answered the unshaken boots, “acause this gentle-
man said he found the winder open.”
The landlord approached the closet, looked about it as though
possibly the box might still be in some corner; then scratched his
head; then with his thumb and finger felt the bolt of the lock,
and then sagaciously observed ; “He was an old hand as did this.
All the marks on it, sir; all the marks on it.”
“A great consolation,” answered Tangle, with a ghastly grin.
“Well, Mr. Landlord, seeing yourself in this condition—what
do you propose ?” And the looks of the landlord answered—
Nothing.
“You see, sir,” at length the Olive Branch made answer,
| ??
232 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“you see, sir, this is 'lection time. Now, there isn’t a homester
place in the world—though I was born in it, I must say it, than
Liquorish. But at lection time, all sorts of villains come about
us, as you must know. I don’t see what you can do Yes;
you can send the bellman round with a reward for the thief—
and *-
“Pooh, pooh, foolish man ” cried Folder, who then drew
Tangle aside. “Don’t you see, my dear sir, how such a step
would damage us? Don't you see how it would serve the other
party'ſ Imagine ! ‘Ilost, a box of guineas from the Olive Branch l’
Consider; what squibs they’d fire at us. They'd swear;--that
is, they would insinuate, that we had brought down the gold to
bribe the electors.”
“That never struck me,” answered Tangle; “’tis more than
likely. Heaven help us ! What's to be done? Five-and-thirty
years have I been in practice; and never—never before such a
blow. Stript, sir—stript,” he said, in a tone of maudlin sorrow—
“stript even of my 'bacco stopper.”
At this moment, Doctor Gilead’s carriage drove up to the door,
and the footman entered the Olive Branch, bearing a letter for
Mr. Folder. This arrival, coupled with the silence of Tangle,
caused the landlord, landlady, boots, and chambermaid to quit the
room ; and they were speedily followed by others, some of whom
said, “What a pity 1 ° some, “How very odd 1 ° and some, “It
was very mysterious; but doubtless time would show.”
“My dear friend,” said Folder, having read the missive, “it is
a summons from his lordship, who observes that we may as well
blend breakfast with business. We’ve no time to lose.”
Tangle looked blankly at the floor—blankly at the ceiling. He
then wailingly observed, “That such a calamity should happen to
me ! To me, above all men in the world ! How can I ever face
his lordship !”
“My good friend, it’s not so bad. The loss, heavy as it is,”
said Folder, with a smile, “can’t be ruin.”
“You’re a kind comforter, Mr. Folder; indeed you are,” said
Tangle, trying hard at a smile on his own account.
“For you’re a rich man, Mr. Tangle; a very rich man, and
can make up the loss without ’’—
“I make up the loss, Mr. Folder! I make—pardon me, my
dear sir, you really speak in total ignorance of such matters.
No, the gold being his lordship's—for his lordship's special use
—if an accident has unfortunately happened to it—why, of
course’—
“Well,” replied Folder, catching the drift of Tangle, “that
you can settle with his lordship himself. In the mean time,
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 233
we had better prepare for our visit. I sha’n’t be five minutes—
but you—you need a little preparation. Don't you shave this
morning 7 °
“Not for millions would I attempt it, Mr. Folder. In my state
of mind, not for millions. I couldn’t do it, sir—I couldn’t so
provoke fate. I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll walk on : in my
present condition, I'd rather walk. I shall find a barber in the
village, and—I shall be at the Hall as soon as you—tell his lord-
ship quite as soon as you.”
And Tangle, with a wandering eye, and unsteady hand, sought
and took his hat. He then ran from the chamber, and Mr. Folder
retired to his own apartment.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE borough of Liquorish possessed two barbers—only two.
Happily, however, the number was sufficient to admit of deadly
rivalry; for let this truth never be forgotten—two can hate as
well as twenty. Now, the hatred of Rasp and Flay welled up
from their love of the same thing, the British Constitution.
Mr. Rasp loved that elastic object with a tender and reverential
love; he always approached its consideration with a fluttering,
a sweet concern. The British Constitution was the apple of
his eye—the core of his heart. He loved it beyond any other
thing appertaining to this loveable earth. His wife—meek, in-
jured woman l—has often considered herself slighted and despised
by the libertine preference. “A married man with a family,”
Mrs. Rasp would sometimes patiently observe, and sometimes not,
“shouldn’t trouble his head with such nonsense.” Occasionally,
too, she would very much like to know what the Constitution, as
they called it, had ever done for the poor . And when Rasp—
in moments of ale—has expressed himself perfectly willing, nay,
rather anxious, to lose his head for the Constitution, his wife has
only placidly remarked, “that it was more than he'd ever think
of doing for her.”
Now, Flay loved the Constitution after a different fashion. It
was a pretty object—very pretty, indeed; very desirable, very
essential for the happiness, or at least for the enjoyment of man.
Flay loved the Constitution with a sort of oriental love ; it was
the passion of the Great Turk for some fair, stag-eyed slave; the
affection of one who is the master, the owner, of the creature of his
delights—the trading possessor of the lovely goods; and therefore,
234 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
when it shall so please him, at perfect freedom to sell or truck,
or bow-string, or put in a sack or in any other way to turn the
penny with, or dispose of the idol of his adoration. Yes: Flay
thought the Constitution, like the flesh-and-blood pearl of a harem,
might now be devouringly loved, and now be advantageously
bartered. Where the man, living in the twilight obscurity of
Liquorish, learned such principles, we know not. Certain it is,
they were very far beyond his social condition.
We have now to task the indulgence of the reader to endeavour
to remember that Mr. Tangle, dizzy and tremulous, quitted the
Olive Brânch, summoned to Lazarus Hall by his lordship. The
wine still sang in his ears, and the evil spirits that men swallow
as angels in their cups over night, beat in Tangle's beating heart,
and twitched his nerves, and seemed to turn his eyes into burning-
glasses, as he found himself in the street. And then came the
loss of the gold upon his brain—came with a crash, stupifying,
stunning, as though the metal itself had fallen upon that divine
web-work of nerves—wherein Tangle's soul, spider-like, lurked
for human flies—and smitten him out of life. And then his
stomach seemed to hold within it one possessing nausea; and he
looked at the rosy children about him—the red-faced, laughing
neighbours, and wondered what they were made of.
Nevertheless one thought like a star shone brightly through
this fog of soul, for the said soul was much obscured by the wine-
mists from the stomach—the thought of the barber. Tangle must
be shaved. It had been one of the principles of his existence—
one of the bundle of determinations with which he had set out on
the pilgrimage of life—or rather, this principle he had taken up
at the twenty-mile stage—to suffer no man to take him by the
nose save himself. In the vanity of his philosophy, he had believed
that no possible blow of fortune could have rendered his hand
unsteady at the morning razor; and now, with the loss of the gold
upon him, he shuddered at the thought of the sacrificial steel. In
the disorder of his soul and the sickness of his stomach, he saw
himself shaving; and saw a very numerous family of imps laughing
and winking in the glass—and pointing their fingers at his throat
—and then grinning hard again—and nodding, and Smacking
their forked tongues, as revelling in the hope of a delicious
tragedy. And Tangle—for we choose to give the whole truth—
Tangle did for a moment sympathise with these murder-hinting
demons. It was weak—it was wicked ; but in another moment,
the idea was sternly banished. For Tangle remembered that his
life was insured ; and how every dreadful it would be, should he
leave the world in a way to forfeit the policy With these
thoughts, Mr. Tangle entered the shop of Rasp. He entered and
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 235
shrunk back. “Come in, sir,” cried the hospitable barber. “Here,
Tim, finish this gentleman.” Saying this, Rasp instantly quitted
the beard he was about to reap, for the chin of the new-comer.
Tangle looked about him, and felt himself a little wounded, some-
what disgraced by the meanness, the rustic poverty of the shop.
He looked too at the man lathered to the eyes—the man consigned
to Tim, Rasp’s little boy, who quickly mounted a stool, that he
might the better possess himself of the nose of the customer.
Now, albeit the features of the man were very thickly masked by
soap-suds, it was the instant conviction of Tangle that he saw
coarse, dirty lineaments beneath; and thereupon his pride started
at the thought of losing his beard in such company. Had Tangle
felt himself the prosperous man of yesterday, certainly he would
as soon have offered his neck to the axe, as his chin to the self-
same brush that had lathered the beard of that very vulgar man;
but adversity had chastised pride, and after a natural twinge or
two, Tangle sank resignedly on the wooden chair, and with an all
but Smothered sigh, gave himself up to the barber. Certainly, he
had never been shaved in such company; but then—the thought
was a great support to his independent spirit—nobody would
know it.
(Nobody would know it ! How much insult, injury—how many
hard words, fierce threats—may, how many tweakings of the nose
might be borne by some forgiving souls, if—nobody would know
it ! What a balm, a salve, a plaster to the private hurt of a sort
of hero may the hero find in the delicious truth that—nobody
knows it ! The nose does not burn, for nobody saw it pulled !
It is the eye of the world looking on, that, like the concentrated
rays of the sun, scorches it ; blisters it ; lights up such a fire
within it, that nothing poorer than human blood can quench it !
And all because everybody knows it !)
Tangle was reconciled to his humiliation—for it was nothing
less to be handled in such a shop and by such a barber—by the
belief that the world would remain in ignorance of the de-
grading fact. And much, indeed, at the moment, did Tangle owe
to ignorance. He knew that he was a crushed, despoiled, do-
graded being: he knew that with the box of gold he had lost his
sense of self-respect. Compared to the Tangle of yesterday, he
was no better than a Hottentot ; for he had lost his better part.
This he knew : but, ignorant sufferer, he did not know that the
man seated in lathered companionship beside him was the mid-
night burglar, the robber of his more than peace, the felonious
Tom Blast. Now, Mr. Blast himself immediately recognised the
parliamentary agent; but feeling that he had the advantage
of having looked upon him when Tangle could not return the
236 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
attention, the robber gazed very composedly through his lather:
may more, he was so tickled by the sudden advent of Tangle that,
in the gaiety of his soul, he chuckled.
“If you please, sir, if you laugh,” said little Tim, “I must
cut you.”
“The child has a hand as light as a butterfly”—said the barber
father to Blast—“but the boy's right; he must cut you if you
laugh. Steady, Tim.”
“All right,” cried Blast, from his sonorous chest ; and he
stiffened the cords of his visage.
“Very odd, sir”—said Rasp, vigorously lathering Tangle, as
though he was white-washing a dead wall—“very odd, sir; when
a man’s being shaved, what a little will make him laugh.-Never
heard it properly accounted for, sir, did you ?”
Tangle spoke not ; but shivered out a long sigh, evidently pro-
vocative of the mirthful Blast, for little Tim again cried, “If
you please, sir, I must cut you.”
“Don’t blame the child, sir; that's all. Steady, Tim *—said
the barber, who again addressed himself to Tangle. “ Glad to
find there's no laugh in you, sir.” Tangle made no answer; but
again sighed as with the ague.
“There ! I know’d I should cut you !” cried Tim, as Blast
winced, and the blood came from his cheek. “I know’d I should
do it.”
The barber turned from Tangle to take a view of the mischief
done upon Blast, gravely observing, as he eyed the blood—“Not
the child’s fault, sir. Never cut before in his life; never.”
“Well, it's no use a stifling it,” cried Blast; and gently putting
Tim aside, he flung himself back in the chair, and roared a laugh,
all the louder and the deeper for its long repression. Tangle
looked round. Most strange, nay, most insulting was it to him—
to him with the load of affliction weighing on his brain—that
any man should laugh so vehemently, so brutally. On his way
to the barber's, Tangle had felt a little hurt that even the birds
should chirp and twitter ; that the flowers in the gardens should
look so happy in their brightness | The very fineness of the day
seemed unkind to him ; nevertheless he tried to bear it like a
man. But to have his solemn thoughts, deep as they were in a
lost money-chest, outraged by the vulgar merriment of a very
vulgar man,—it was cruel, barbarous; surely he had done nothing
to deserve it.
“It’s very odd,” said Tangle, speaking both angrily, and
sorrowfully, “very odd that a gentleman can't be quietly shaved
without people.”—
“Ax your pardon,” said Blast. “Hope the barber’s not
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 237
nicked you ; but I couldn’t help it. You know what a little will
make a man laugh sometimes. All right now I’ve got rid of it.
Go on, little shaver. I’ll keep a cheek as stiff as a mile-stone.”
And Mr. Blast resolved to control his merriment, Sorely tempted
as it was by the proximity of the melancholy man he had plun-
dered. It was a most capital joke, a most provoking piece of fun,
yet would the thief be serious. For some seconds not a sound
was heard, save the mowing of beards.
“Well, Measter Rasp, here be a rumpus ! here be a blow for
the Blues here be luck for the Yellows Ho ; ho ho There
never was sich a mess. I ha'nt laughed so much since they put
the tinker in the stocks Sich a glory !” This announcement,
brokenly uttered through roars of laughter, was delivered by
Skittle, the cobbler of Liquorish, who, exploding with the intelli-
gence, burst into the shop.
“What's the matter ?” asked the barber, so alive to the luck
of the Yellows, of which party he felt himself a very shining
particle, that he paused in his shaving ; holding twixt finger and
thumb the nose of Tangle. “Luck for our side, Bob | What
is it, , ”
“Why you must know that the Blues—jest like 'em—brought
down a box of golden guineas. You know, in course, what for 7°
observed the cobbler, severely winking one eye.
“I should think I did,” answered Rasp, and he stropped his
razor on his hand very impatiently. “That’s the way they
serve the Constitution. That’s how they’d sell and buy the
British Lion, for all the world like veal. Well, a box of guineas'
I should like to catch 'em offering me any, that's all,” cried
Rasp : and with a grin of indignation, he again stropped his
blade.
“My good man,” said Tangle, very meekly, for he was over-
come, brokenhearted by the mirth of the cobbler,-" my good
man, will you proceed and finish me?” -
“Wouldn’t trust myself, sir, till I’ve heard all about the Blues.
You don't know my feelings,” said Rasp. “I should slice you,
sure as pork. Go on, Bob. Ha! haſ Down with the Blues | *
And still Tangle sat half-shaven and wholly miserable, listening
to the blithe story of the cobbler, whose notes of exultation struck
like steel into the flesh of the outraged agent. Was ever man so
tried ? He could not bounce from his chair, and with half his
beard upon him sally forth into the street. No ; he was doomed
by decency to sit and hear the history of his wretchedness and
the brutal mirth it occasioned. The cobbler and barber roared
with laughter; little Tim Smirked and giggled, and Tom Blast,
with his eyes leering towards the agonised Tangle, showed that
238 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
the sweetest and deepest satisfaction filled the bosom of the thief.
His felon Soul hugged itself in vast enjoyment of the fun
“Well, you must know that the Olive Branch was broke open
last night,” said the cobbler, “and the box of guineas brought to
the borough—we know what for ”—and Skittle put his forefinger
to his nose.
“I should rather think we did,” responded Rasp, returning the
digital signal. “Rather.”
“The box of guineas carried off; all took wing like young
goldfinches. The landlord says, and his wife says, she’s sure of
it, too, that it's the devil has done it.”
“Ha haſ hal’ shouted Tom Blast, mightily enjoying the
false accusation. “Poor devil | *
“I don’t wonder at your laughing,” said the barber, gravely.
“It wasn't no devil ; the devil’s a better judge than to carry
away gold of that sort ; it would do his work all the better left
behind. And is there no suspicion of who 's stole it !” Here
Blast and Tangle listened attentively, but assuredly with a
different sort of curiosity.
“Why, that 's the worst of it,” answered the cobbler; “they’ve
tried hard to suspect everybody, but somehow they can make no
hand on it.”
Hereupon the barber wrinkled his brow, and thoughtfully and
tenderly with his fingers Gwiddled at the end of his nose, as
though he had the secret there, if it could only be coaxed out.
“I tell you what it is ; ’tisn't seldom I’m wrong—I know the
thief.”
“You !” exclaimed Tangle; and “You !” was at the lip of
Blast ; but that cautious man Smothered the impatient word with
a sort of grunt that passed for nothing.
“He’ll never be found out ; oh no, he’s too cunning for that,”
said the barber ; “but I shouldn't wonder if the fellow that had
the keeping of the money isn't him that stole it.”
“Was there ever such an infamous !”—exclaimed Tangle,
when he was suddenly stopped by the peremptory coolness
of the barber; who, tapping him on the shoulder, observed
—“Bless you ! it’s a thing done every day. Nothing more
likely.”
“Nothing,” said Blast, in his deepest bass, and his eye
twinkled enjoyingly.
“Am I to stay here half-shaved all day ?” cried the goaded
Tangle. “Fellow, finish me !”
“Tell you, couldn't trust myself till we hear the rights of the
guineas,” said the patriotic barber. “They was brought here to
violate the Constitution, and whomsoever’s got em, I’m glad
2
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 239
they’re gone. Though mind, I’d take a bet that him that’s lost
'em knows best where they’re to be found.”
“Ha 1 Master Barber,” cried Blast in a loud tone of compli-
ment, “it’s plain you know life.”
“Why, I've seen a few 'lections at Liquorish,” said Rasp,
“and this T will say—the Blues, if they know’d him, would rob
their own father. I might, in my time, have had my hat full of
guineas.”—
“I shouldn't brag of that, if I was you, Mr. Rasp "-said the
barber's wife, suddenly descending to a cupboard in the shop, for
Some domestic purpose—“I shouldn't brag of that, and you to
keep me and your children as you do.”
“Women have no love of country,” said the barber in a soft
voice as his wife departed.
“Don’t understand a bit on it,” said the cobbler. “There’s
my old Margery Daw at home—she says that women have enough
to do to love their husbands.”
“And that's hard work sometimes,” said the barber. “I’m
afeard it is.”
“Am I to be shaved to-day !” roared Tangle, the lather dried
to a plaster on his face.
“I tell you what it is, sir,” said the barber. “You’re half
shaved as clean as any baby : Inow shaving’s a penny: well, if
you can't wait, you’re welcome to the ha'porth you’ve had for
nothing. A ha'penny sir,” and the barber looked loftily about
him, “a ha'penny won’t ruin me.”
“I’m in no 'urry,” observed the accommodating Blast. “Your
little boy can finish the gentleman—I’ll wait.”
“Thank you—very kind—come along, boy,” cried Tangle, and
Tim moved his stool beside the lawyer. “Now you’ll be very
particular; and mind, don’t cut.”
“Then don't shake, sir, if you please,” said Tim ; for Tangle,
agitated by what he had heard, by the delay he had been com-
pelled to suffer, trembled as the boy touched him, like a jelly.
And as he trembled, the barber leered suspiciously, directing the
cobbler's looks to the shaking gentleman ; and Tom Blast very
Soon made one of the party of inspection, communicating by
most eloquent glances, the strongest doubts and suspicions of
the individual then impatiently undergoing the discipline of the
Y’a,2OY".
“If the thief's caught, I suppose he’ll be hanged,” said the
cobbler, staring at Tangle.
“IHeaven is merciful! I hope so—heartily hope so,” exclaimed
Tangle vivaciously, earnestly ; at the same time jumping up, his
shaving completed. “I hope so : I’d go fifty miles to see it—
240 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
fifty miles. Give me change.” Saying this, and tying his neck-
cloth, Tangle laid down sixpence. “Make haste.”
Very leisurely, and as with a soul by no means to be dazzled
by sixpences, the barber took up the tester. He then approached
the bottom of the staircase ascended by his helpmate, and with
measured syllables Inquired, “Eliza Jane, love, have you change
for sixpence 1 °
And this gentle query was answered by another, running thus:
“Have I change for the Bank of England 7"
“It never happened so before, sir,” said Rasp, feeling the six-
pence, “but we hav’n’t a copper halfpenny in the house. The
child, sir, shall run out for change. Won't be ten minutes;
nothing beats him at an errand.”
Tangle looked savagely about him. He could not wait : he
would not be thought to give the sixpence. He therefore observed,
very emphatically, “Very well, barber; I'll call again,” and
Hurried away. -
“Don’t you know him 7” cried the cobbler, “he's one of the
Blues.”
“Well, if I didn't think he was one of them thick-skinned lot
while I was shaving him,” said Rasp; who then turned to Blast.
“He knows something of them guineas, eh, sir, I’m bound for it !”
“’Yactly,” answered Blast. “They’re a pretty set—them
Blues. I’m a Yellow.”
“I’d know that, sir”—observed the barber as he finished the
undone work of Tim—“I'd know that, sir, by the tenderness of
your face. Now for that old Blue, a man might as well shave a
brass knocker. I can tell a man's principles by his skin, I can.”
“Not a doubt on it,” averred Mr. Blast, very sonoroº::sly ; who
then rose from his chair, and proceeded into a corner to consult a
fragment of glass, nailed to the wall. Whilst thus courageously
surveying his face, his back turned to the door, another customer
entered the shop, and without a syllable, seating himself, awaited
the weapon of Rasp.
“Heard of the robbery, sir?” asked the barber. “Ha! haſ
haſ Rare work, sir. What I call fun.”
“What robbery 1” cried the stranger, and immediately Blast
turned at the sound, and knew that it was St. Giles who spoke.
Silently, the burglar grinned huge satisfaction.
“Thousands of guineas stole last night, nothing less. I wish
you and I had 'em, sir, that's all, for they come here to do
Beelzebub's work, sir; to be laid out in perjury, and all that ; to
buy the honest souls of honest men like mackerel. Therefore,”
concluded the barber, “I say I wish you and I had 'em. Don't
you ?”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 241
Hereupon Blast quitted the mirror, and the while serenely
tying his neckcloth, stood face to face with St. Giles, chuckling
and echoing the barber—“Don’t you wish you had 'em 7”
“If you jump in that way,” cried Rasp to St. Giles, “I won't
answer for your nose.”
“And you hav'n't heard nothin' on it, eh, sir?” said Blast, in
his light, waggish manner. “Well, I should ha’ thought you'd
ha’ known all about it.” -
“Why ' " stammered St. Giles, for he felt that he must make
SOIſle anSWei".
“Oh, I don't know,” said Blast ; “some people have sich a
knowin' look, that's all. They 're born with it. An ‘praps you
wouldn’t like to have the guineas stole from the Blues, if they
are stole. But as you say, Mr. Barber, I don’t believe it. Bless
your heart, it's my 'pinion a Blue would swear anything.”
“You won't have a drop of ale this morning " " asked the
cobbler—that sympathetic Yellow being mightily touched by the
large-heartedness of Blast. “Jest a drop 7" -
“'Tis a little early,” said the very temperate Blast, “but I
can’t refuse a Yellow nothin’.” And to the astonishment and
relief of St. Giles, histormentor followed the inviting cobbler from
the shop. Uneasily sat St. Giles whilst Rasp performed his func-
tion ; brief and wandering were the replies made by his customer
to the barber, very eloquent on the robbery, and especially grate-
ful to Providence for the calamity. “Whomsoever has taken the
guineas—always supposing they are taken—has done a service to
the country,” said Rasp. “For my part, and I don't care who
knows it, I hope they’ll live long and die happy with 'em. Pretty
fellows they must be Come to sell the Constitution; to rob
us of our rights; and then sing out about thieves | What do
you say, sir!” cried the barber, liberating his customer from his
uneasy chair.
“Just so,” said St. Giles, “I shouldn't wonder : to be sure.”
“Why you look,” said Rasp, marking the absent air of St.
Giles, “you look as if you was looking a hundred miles away.
You can’t tell us what you see, can you ?”
Now, St. Giles, had he been in communicative mood, might
have interested the barber, making him a partaker of the vision
that would reveal itself to his customer. St. Giles plainly beheld
Tom Blast with the stolen guineas. Had he watched him stag-
gering beneath the pillage, he had not been better assured of the
evil doing. Again, he had marked the thief's face; it wore the
Smug, lackered look of a fortunate scoundrel; the light as of the
stolen guineas flickered in his eyes, and his lips were puckered
with inaudible whistling. St. Giles took little heed of the talkative
R.
242 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
barber, but laying down the price of his yesterday's beard, quitted
the shop. Anxiously, fearfully, he looked about him from the
door. He stood, like a lost traveller fearful of the sudden leap of
some wild beast. Blast was not in the street : he mow avoided
St. Giles; new evidence that the old ruffian was the robber.
St. Giles hastily struck into the fields, that with less chance of
interruption, he might ponder on the present difficulty. He was
only known to young St. James as the vagabond of a prison;
and, therefore, open to the heavier suspicion. If arrested,—how
to account for himself? Should he at once boldly seek the young
lord?—for as yet he had not seen him. Or should he at once
turn his steps towards London 7
His heart sank, and the sickness of death fell upon him, as
again he saw himself beset by inevitable peril. Was it not folly,
sheer, brute-like stupidity, in a doomed wretch like him, to yearn
for innocent days, for honest bread ' Was it not gross impudence
in him to hope it—in him, so formed and cast upon the world to
be its wrong, its misery, and disgrace 7 Why not go back to
London, dash into guilt, and when the time came, die gallantly on
the tree ? Why not clap hands with Blast, and become with him,
a human animal of prey ! Such were the confused, the wretched
thoughts that possessed St. Giles, as with feet of lead he crossed
the fields. Divinely beautiful was the day! The heavens smiled
peace and hope upon the earth, brimming with things of tenderness
and beauty. The outcast paused at the winding river. Did his
eye feed delightedly upon its brightness—was his ear solaced by
its sound ! No : he looked with a wild curiosity, as though he
would look below—and he heard tongues talking from the stream
—tongues calling him to rest.
“Ain’t lost nothing?” cried a voice; and St. Giles, aroused, to
his delight beheld Bright Jem.
“No ; nothing,” said St. Giles. “I was thinking though that
I might lose something, and be all the richer for the loss. But
the thought's gone, now you’re come.”
Jem looked like a man who catches half a meaning, and cares
not to pursue the other half. So he said—“I thought, mayhap,
when you left us in the churchyard, you’d have come over to the
Tub. Master Capstick said he knew you wouldn’t, but I know
he was sorry you didn't.”
“I tell you what it is,” said St. Giles, “I hadn't the heart.”
“That’s the very reason you ought to ha’ come to us. Master
Capstick's got heart enough for half-a-dozen.”
“God bless him : " Cried St. Giles.
“I’ll jine you in that, whenever you say it. But I can see by
the look of you—why, your face is full on it—I can see, you’ve
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 243
something to say. I'm afeard the world hasn’t been as careful
of you as if you’d been an image of gold, eh? Come, lad”—and
Jem laid his hand gently upon St. Giles's shoulder, and spoke
tenderly as a woman—“Come, lad, let 's know all about it.”
“You shall know all—you shall,” and St. Giles seized Jem's
hand, and with moistening eyes and choaking throat—it was such
a happiness to see such looks and hear such words—shook the
hand eagerly, tremblingly.
“There, now, good lad, take your time,” cried Jem. “I’m
going to Master Kingcup, the schoolmaster; not above two mile
away. And so we’ll gossip as we trudge. Jest over that style,
and *-and Jem paused, with his looks directed towards a stunted
oak some bow-shot from him. “I say ”—he cried, pointing to a
boy sleeping in the arms of the tree—“I say, that's a London
bird, perched there—I’m sure on it.”
Instantly St. Giles recognised his half-brother, the precocious
Jingo, “You 're going to the good gentleman, you say, the
schoolmaster 7" cried St. Giles, animated as by a sudden flash of
thought. “I’ve a notion—I’ll tell you all about it—we'll take
that boy with us. Hallo come down here !” cried St. Giles to
the sleeper.
“What for 7" said Jingo, stretching himself and yawning.
“You’re no constable, and I sha’n’t.”
“He knows what a constable is, depend on 't,” said Jem,
shaking his head.
“Well, I'm a coming,” said the philosophic Jingo, observing
that St. Giles was about to ascend—“I’m a coming.” And in a
moment, the urchin dropt like an ape from branch to branch and
fell to the earth. As he fell, a guinea rolled from his pocket.
“Where did you get this?” exclaimed St. Giles, picking up
the coin.
Whereupon little Jingo bowed his arms, and in his shrillest
treble, answered—“Found it.”

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE candidate for Liquorish has, it may be thought, been too
long neglected in our attention to his agents, and their meaner
creatures. Seemingly we have been unmindful of his lordship,
but in reality not so. We felt more than satisfied that we had
placed him, like a treasure in a temple, at Lazarus Hall. For
- R 2
244 ST. GII,ES AND ST. JAMES.
there was Doctor Gilead, the good genius of larder and cellar,
big, perspiring with anxiety to assuage, by the most recondite and
costly means, the hunger and thirst of his exalted guest. Had it,
been possible to purchase a live unicorn, its haunch would have
smoked before young St. James; the sole phoenix would have
been roasted in its spicery, and dished in its plulues; and
Ganymede might have had any price of Doctor Gilead for pecu-
lated nectar. In the fulness of the Doctor's hospitality there
lurked a grief that no new animal—no yet unheard-of tipple could
be compassed. He must therefore—at last he was resigned to it
—make the best of the good things of the earth such as they
were ; he, by the way, possessing the very best for the experiment.
Mrs. Gilead, too, had her anxiety; though, it pains us to confess
it, her husband—it is too common a fault, crime we should rather
say—did not respond with all his heartstrings to the vibrating
chords of his partner. But how rare is it to find a wedded man
with a proper sympathy for the distresses of his wife . The
elements may have suddenly conspired to spoil her bonnet—she
may have broken her dearest bit of china—the cat may have
run off with her gold-fish—and at that very moment, above all
others, her husband will insult her with his philosophy. And so
it was with the anxieties of Mrs. Gilead. She felt that, whilst
young St. James lay pillowed under her roof, she was answerable
for the sweetness, the soundness of his slumbers; nay, almost
for the pleasantness of his dreams. She was wakeful herself
in her tenderness for the repose of her guest. “I do hope his
lordship will sleep,” she said, twice and thrice to her wedded
master.
“Bless the woman ’’ cried the Doctor, at the time perplexed
with the thought of some possible novelty for the next day's
dinner, “of course he’ll sleep. Why not We have no fleas,
have we ?” -
“Fleas, Doctor Gilead Don't insult me ! Fleasin my beds!”
and Mrs. Gilead spoke tremulously, as though hurt, wounded in
her huswifery—the weakest place of the weakest sex. And
Doctor Gilead knew there was not a flea in the house ; but it was
like the man—it was like the brotherhood at large—to suggest to
a wife the probability of the most impossible annoyance. Of
course, it was only said to hurt her.
Nor let us forget the Miss Gileads. For each, saying no syllable
to the other, was sleepless with the thoughts of providing life-long
bliss for the noble, the beautiful guest. How delightful to make
him happy for the rest of his days, and how very advantageous
to be a legal partner in the felicity. If eyes ever did dazzle—if
lips ever did take man’s heart from his bosom, like a stone from a
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 245
black cherry (we think that simile perfect), eyes and lips should
do the double deed to-morrow.
And young St. James, in a deep sea of eider-down, took his
rest; none the worse, it may be, that he knew not of the con-
spiracy working against his freedom. Three sets of hymeneal
chains were almost all night long hammered at by three young
ladies, and yet the unconscious victim slept ; even as the culprit
takes unbroken rest, whilst hammers fall upon the scaffold for
to-morrow.
If the reader will pass the intentions of the young ladies as at
least benevolently purposed, he must confess that we have for the
last three chapters left young St. James most tenderly cared for.
Sleeping and waking he has had the prettiest cares, the sweetest
attentions, like a shower of rose-leaves, cast upon him. And now
Monday morning was come. The morning of the day of nomina-
tion was arrived. A law-maker was to be made by the voice of
a free people ; a Senator, without crack or flaw ; a perfect crystal
vessel of the state was to be blown by the breath of unbought
man. Nature seemed to sympathise with the work; at least,
such was the belief of Doctor Gilead, his imagination kindling
somewhat with the occasion. He rose only a little later than the
sparrows; and from the beauty, the enjoyment of out-door objects,
took the happiest omens. A member was to be returned to Par-
liament. Certainly the lark never fluttered nearer heaven—never
sang so hopefully. Such was Doctor Gilead’s sweet belief; and
rapt in it, he did not the next moment hear the voice of an ass in
a distant meadow—gave no ear to his own geese gaggling near
his barn. Happy the superstition that on such occasions will only
listen to the lark -
Everybody appeared at breakfast with a face drest for triumph.
“Had his lordship slept well ?” asked Mrs. Gilead; and with
voices that would melt the heart of a man, were the thing really
soluble, each Miss Gilead put the same question, but with a manner
that plainly said her peace of mind depended on an affirmative
reply. His lordship had slept well. Each and all of the Miss
Gileads were blest for their existence
“How do you do, Mr. Folder " '' asked his lordship, as that
worthy man, with his old equable look, entered the breakfast par-
lour. Now, Mr. Folder had never looked better—never felt better.
His calmness, his philosophy was astonishing, admirable ; the
more so, as it was his friend and not himself who had lost a
treasure of gold. In few words, and in his own smiling way,
Mr. Folder said he was charming.
“But where’s Tangle eh?—not left Tangle behind 7" cried
his lordship.
246 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“No, no,” said Folder, with a happy smile. “He preferred a
walk across the fields.” -
“Poor fellow ! he doesn’t often get a bit of grass in London,
I dare say,” said the Doctor; who then turned to his lordship,
and rnhhing his hands, and laughing as at the enjoyment of a
sweet secret, said, “It wouldn't do, my lord, to lose Tangle ; no,
no, we must take care of Tangle.” Innocent Doctor Gilead At
that moment he thought the agent the happy keeper of thou-
sands of metal birds of Paradise; and alack they had made
wings for themselves, and flown away. Had the Doctor known
the condition of Tangle, what an abject, forlorn varlet would
he have seemed in the offended eyes of his admirer
Mr. Tangle was announced. He entered the room ; his face
galvanised into a smile. It was plain, at least to Folder, who
knew all, that the agent had laboured so hard to get that Smile
into his countenance that it would be very difficult to dismiss it—
it was so fixed, so very rigid. It seemed the hardest smile cut
in the hardest oak.
“Quite well, I trust, Mr. Tangle " None the worse, I hope, for
last night !” said young St. James, gaily.
Tangle's knees struck each other at his lordship's voice. Last
night 2 Did his lordship, then, know of the robbery'. Such was
the first confusion of Tangle's thoughts; and he then remembered
that his lordship doubtless hinted at the wine swallowed, and not
at the gold carried away. Whereupon, Tangle declared that he
was quite well—never better. And then he resolutely put down
a rising groan.
“Nothing the worse for anything last night, I’ll be bound, eh,
Mr. Tangle 7" cried Doctor Gilead, alive, as every man ought
to be, to the reputation of his wine, when the wine, like the
Roman’s wife, is not to be suspected, “I should think not. And,
Mr. Tangle, I’ve not forgotten the carp that pleased you so much.
There’s plenty in the pond; and we’ll have some of the finest, I
can tell you.” At this moment the Doctor was summoned from
the room ; whilst new visitors continued to arrive, assembling to
escort the noble candidate to a very modest fabric, largely chris-
tened as the Town Hall. Young St. James knew everybody—
welcomed everybody. There was not a man present with whom
he would not and could not have shared his heart ; it was so
unexpectedly large upon the happy occasion.
“Don’t you wish, my lord, that your noble father the excellent
Marquess was here to see your triumph : * exclaimed one of the
artless Miss Gileads. Rosy ignorance She knew not that,
however the paternal heart might have yearned to be present, it
was sternly checked by a strong sense of constitutional duty. For
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 247
the Marquess, as a peer of England, could not, must not, directly
or indirectly seem to interfere in the election of a member of
Parliament—in the free assertion of the people's choice. Therefore
it was only permitted to the father, the peer, and the patriot to
send his banker.
And still the visitors poured in ; and as the crowd grew, every
man looked more important, as though catching zeal and constancy
of purpose from new comers. “The borough 's been in the family
these thousand years,” cried a spare, fibrous, thin-faced man, with
a high piercing voice, “and the constitootion had better go to
sleep at once if any nobody’s to come to represent us.”
“Tell 'ee what, Muster Flay, we own’t stand it,” said a free-
holder in a smock frock, that in its unspecked whiteness might
have typified the purity of election. “We own’t stand it. My
father and his father—and hism after hisn—all on 'em did vote for
the family,–and when folks come to ax me for my vote agin em,
—why, as I says to my wife, it’s like a flyin' in the face of
Providunce.”
“To be sure it is ”—answered Flay—“it’s ungrateful; and
more, it’s unconstitootional.”
“No, no, Muster Flay: the Blues have always paid me and
mine very well”—
“Hush | Not so loud,” said Flay, with his finger at his
eloquent lip.
“Bless 'ee, everybody knows as everybody's paid,” answered
the clean-breasted voter.
“To be sure they do; nevertheless,” observed Flay, “it isn't
constitootional to know it. It 's what we call a fiction in the law ;
but you know nothing o' these things, Master Stump,” said the
barber, who then drew himself back a little to take a better look
of the fine specimen of ignorance before him.
“What's a fickshun ?” asked Stump. “Somethin’o’use, I’spose?”
“I believe you—the constitootion couldn't go on without it.
Fiction in the constitootion is like the flour in a plum-pudding—it
holds all the prime things in it together.”
“I See,” answered Sluimp, with a grin ; “if they hadn't no
fickshun, they’d make a very pretty biling of it !”
And after this irreverent fashion, comparing the lofty uses and
the various wisdom of the constitution to the ingredients of a
Christmas pudding, did Flay, the Blue barber, and his pupil in
the art of government, discourse amid the mob assembled in the
grounds of Lazarus Hall ; when a faint cheer, an ineffectual
shout, rose from some of the mob gathered about a horseman
arrived in haste, with special news. This intelligence was speedily
conveyed to Doctor Gilead, whose face suddenly glowed like
248 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
stained glass, he was so delighted with the tidings. Making his
way back to his lordship, the Doctor cried—“Joy, my lord
Joy Joy The enemy won’t stand . The Yellow's mounted
the white feather | No contest, my lord—no contest Three
cheers gentlemen, for our member 1 ° And Doctor Gilead, for
awhile forgetful of the meekness of the pastor in the zeal of
the patriot, sprang upon a chair, and loudly huzzaed. His note
of rejoicing was responded to, but somehow not heartily. The
assembly tried to look very delighted, very triumphant ; yet, it
was plain, they felt a latent annoyance. Was it that they were
disappointed of the pleasing excitement of a hard-contested
constitutional fight ! Was it, too, that every man felt himself
considerably lowered, not only in his self-estimation, but in the
value that would otherwise have been set upon him by opposite
buyers ? It is a painful feeling to be at the tyrannous, the
ignorant valuation of any one man ; and doubtless, many of the
electors of Liquorish shared in this annoyance, for now they
might be bought at young St. James's own price. When a
man does drive his principle, like his pig, to market, it must
try the Christian spirit of the seller to find only a solitary
buyer. The principle, like the pig, may be a very fine prin-
ciple ; a fine, healthy, thorough-going principle ; and yet the
One buyer, because the only one, may chaffer for it as though
the goods were a very measly principle indeed. The man must
sell ; so there goes a principle for next to nothing : a principle
that, with a full market, would have fetched any money. To sell
a principle may be the pleasantest thing in the world, but to
almost give it away is surely another matter.
In Mr. Tangle, the news excited mixed emotions. He rejoiced
that the money would be less needed than had an opposing buyer
been in the market : and then he felt doubly sad at the loss: for
with the gold in his possession, and there being the less necessity
for its wide expenditure, he might—he felt sure he could have
done it somehow—yes, he might have levied a heavy per centage
upon what remained. There would have been a larger body of
metal for the experiment; and let this be said of him, Tangle
always preferred such experiments on a grand scale, Thus Tangle,
confused in Soul, and downcast in demeanour, suffered himself to
be led to one of the half-dozen carriages prepared for the procession
to the Town Hall.
Shall we attempt a description of the mob in vehicles—the mob
on horseback—and the mob on foot, departing from the rectory,
bound on the solemn duty of making a fire-new senator | No :
we will merely chronicle the touching truth that, as the mob
moved on, they sent forth a cheer, that was shrilly answered
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 249
from the topmost windows of the rectory, whereat all sorts of
maids, covered all over with blue ribands, Screamed, and flut-
tered handkerchiefs and napkins in glad augury of triumph.
The order of the rector for the profusest display of St. James's
colours had been carried out with responding zeal by his re-
tainers. Blue fluttered everywhere. The dairy-maid had decked
Crumple's horns with blue, and the cow, as the maid averred,
seemed very proud indeed of the badge; had she worn it in
honour of her own son, then only a fortnight old, she could not
have looked more complacent, happy. There was not a single
ass belonging to the rectory that did not somewhere carry the
colour ; and we do assure the reader, very grave and very wise
the asses looked under it. They seemed, as Jock the hind ob-
served, to understand “the thing, like any Christian.” A blue
flag fluttered from the top of the rectory—and blue streamers
from every out-house. Even the gilt weathercock—the fact some-
how escaped the eye of the rector—bore at its four points a long,
long strip of blue riband in honour of the political principles of
the Blue candidate.
The mob, we say, cheered as they set forward from the rectory,
and the men-servants and the maid-servants cheered again. The
household gods of Lazarus Hall drew a long breath as relieved
from the crowd and tumult of the mob that had hustled and con-
fused them ; and the solemn row of Ecclesiastical Fathers, stand-
ing in Church-militant file upon the library shelves, once more
seemed to feel themselves the undisturbed possessors of their
oaken home. Poor old fellows —many of them, too, such won-
derful hands at chopping one hair into little bundles of hairs, the
better to make springes with—so many too, the Eloquent Dumb
—the Great Forgotten—the Illustrious Dim—the Folio Furniture
in calf or truly pastoral vellum,_for five-and-twenty years had
stood upon the shelf, and no rude hand had ever touched them.
They had been bought by Doctor Gilead, and made to stand
before all men visiting the library, as vouchers for the learning of
the rector. But when Scipio—of course, sir, you remember the
story—when Scipio, by the fortune of war, was made the some-
time guardian of a beautiful princess, Scipio himself was not
more respectful of her charms, than was Doctor Gilead of the
fascinations of the Fathers: he never knew them—never. We
are aware that there may be vulgar souls who, judging from
their simial selves, may doubt the continence of Scipio; we think
this very likely ; for sure we are that many folks, seeing the
scholastic beauties possessed by Doctor Gilead, believed he must
enjoy them : for the Doctor, like Scipio, never bragged of his
abstinence. He, good soul, suffered men to think just what they
250 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
pleased: but this we know, although the Fathers were for five-
and-twenty years in the power of Doctor Gilead, yet, a Scipio in
his way, he never—to speak scrupulously, like a matron—he
never so much as laid his little finger on them.
Therefore, shortly before the arrival of his lordship, was it a
great surprise to the Fathers to find themselves one morning
taken from the shelves and opened. How stiff, poor fellows, were
they all in the back | And no doubt, very much astounded was
Origen, and Basil, and Theophylact, and Jerome and Tertullian,
and other respectable Fathers, to find themselves dusted and
thwacked as they, when in the flesh, were wont to dust and
thwack their disputants; the man-servant and the maid-servant,
otherwise intent, taking no more account of them than if they
were old day-books and ledgers. In the vanity of their hearts—
at least, in as much vanity as can belong to churchmen—they
thought they were to be consulted and reverenced ; in a word,
made much of And their owner, Doctor Gilead, did make much
of them. He paid them the deepest devotion of which the good
man was sensible; for he had them all packed off to be newly
furbished and newly gilt ; and there the dead Fathers of the
Church stood glistening with living gold; and possibly feeling as un-
easy in the splendour forced upon them as any bishop in a coach-
and-four. There they were, like the cherubim, “in burning
row ; ” doomed, however, to perpetual silence—perpetual neglect.
Now and then the good Doctor would, of course, glance at them
to satisfy himself that they stood in order: he would occasionally
run his eye along the shelves, like an officer inspecting his regi-
ment ; but the Doctor no more thought of consulting some of
those picked men of the army of martyrs, than would the very
gorgeous colonel pause to gossip with the drummer. There they
stood, a sort of divinity guard of honour. A body, very neces-
sary to assert the importance of the rank of the great man in
whose service they were called out, but on no account to be made
familiar with.
And, we say, the tumultuous mob departed from the Hall
and left the Fathers—with their newly-gilt backs glittering in the
Sun—to meditate on human turbulence and human vanity. Poor
Fathers twice were they doomed to be fed upon. They had
been duly eaten in the grave, and now their body of divinity,
embalmed, as they vainly thought it, in printer's ink, was drilled
and consumed by that omnivorous library worm, of the birth and
history of which entomologists have, we are sure of it, a very
false and foolish notion. For it is our conviction that, as the
worms that consume the body of the author are bred not in his
grave dust, but in his own flesh, so do the worms—the only living
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 251
things that go entirely through some tomes—found in books,
wholly originate and take their birth from the written matter of
the volume. Hence, the quiddities, and concetti, and what Eve,
once in her pouts with Adam (for the phrase is as old,) called the
maggots of the brain, that abound in much controversial theology
do, in process of time, become those little pestilent things that
entirely eat up paper, print, and all. A warning this to men, if
they would have their printed bodies last, to take care and avoid
the aforesaid quiddities, and concetti, and maggots. For little
knows the thoughtless beholder of many a tall, sturdy volume,
what certain devastation is going on among its leaves. Many a
controversialist who has shaken thunderbolts, but which, indeed,
were nothing worse than little pebbles in a tin-pot—(by means of
which, by the way, we have seen boys make asses gallop, pebbles
jingled in a pot being thunder to asses,)—many a Jupiter of syl-
lables in his day is, at this moment, being slowly but surely de-
voured, and that too by the vermicelli bred in what he deemed
his own immortal thunder. Was there not, to give a very familiar
instance, the famous Miianbettimartinius, who wrote a mighty
folio to prove that there were no fleas in the Ark 2 Did he not
stand upon his flea as a postdiluvian creation—stand upon it as
the great pyramid on its base, for the bows and Salaams of all
posterity . And where and what is Miianbettimartinius now %
A dead body of polemics. Now and then we see him handsomely
bound upon a rector's, a bishop's shelf. Doctor Gilead had a
very fine tall copy; but we can see through the binder's cuticle;
our mental vision can pierce through calf-skin, and behold the
worms at work. Pooh the whole thing is as alive and wriggling
as an angler's box of gentles.
But we must quit the Fathers, and fall in with the mob.
We shall not attempt to count the number of votes upon horse-
back—the number of votes on foot—that preceded and followed,
and on each side hemmed about the carriage of the noble candi-
date. Everybody, save Tangle, looked happy. And he, although
he rode in a very fine coach, would insist upon looking as though
he was taking a final journey in a cart ; and although a young
clergyman of excellent family, one in whose Orthodoxy Doctor
Gilead had great hopes for one of his daughters—although the
young gentleman let off some capital jokes, bran-new from Cam-
bridge, in Tangle's private ear, for his private delight—he,
Tangle, did nothing but slightly bow, and look glassily about
him, as though that very promising young clergyman was, at
the moment, imparting the most solemn consolation ; which, it
is but hard justice to him, again to assure the reader, he was
not. Tangle's soul was with his guineas. And it was as if
252 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
every guinea had a particular hold of his soul, and each guinea
was flying a different way,+tearing and tugging at the poor
soul in a thousand directions. The young clergyman was inces-
Sant in his attentions. “I say, old Death's-head "-thus familiar
did the great cause in which both were riding make the man
of Cam and the man of law, “I say, look at that girl with
cherry ribands.”
Tangle was determined to put down this libertine familiarity at
Once and for ever. He, therefore, never deigning to look at either
cherry lips or cherry ribands, observed, “Sir, I am a married
man.” Mr. Tangle believed that he had at once abashed, con-
founded his free acquaintance. He had uttered that, which he felt
ought to silence any decent person : he had spoken his worst, and
looked to be, at least, respected. He wished, however, to be very
Secure, and therefore repeated,—“Sir, I am a married man.”
Whereto the young clergyman responded, and let us do him jus-
tice, with evident sympathy—“Poor devil | *
The procession moved on—the music played—and there was
not one of the mob who did not feel a huge interest in the very
handsome young lord who was going up to Parliament to take
especial care of all of them.—In the like way, that when the
knight of old was armed, and about to go forth to slay the dragon
that carried off men, virgins, and cattle, and continually breathed
a brimstone blight upon the crops and herbage, making dumpish
the heart of the farmer, in the like way that he was attended
by Sage, grey-headed reverence, by youths and maidens, bearing
garlands and green boughs, and accompanying him with shouts,
and prayers, and loving looks,—so did the young lord St. James
take his way to the hustings, that he might therefrom depart for
Parliament, there to combat with and soundly drub the twenty
dragons always ready to eat up everybody and everything, if not
prevented by the one particular member. Young St. James would
be the champion against the dragon taxation : he would keep the
monster from the farmer's bacon—from the farmer's wife's eggs
—from the farmer's daughter's butter: he would protect their
rights; and the farmer, and farmer's wife, and farmer's daughter,
all felt that they had a most dear and tender interest in that
splendid young gentleman, who would do nothing but bow to
them, and Smile upon them, just for all the world as if he was not
a morsel better than they.
“He’ll let 'em know what’s what when he gets among 'em,”
said an old countryman to Flay, who, that he might be as near as
possible to the lord about to be made a law-maker, walked with
his hand upon the carriage. “They’ve had it all their own way
long enough ; he'll make 'em look about 'em.” -
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 253
“The man for the constitootion. That 's plain with half an
eye ; he’s born with it all in his head, like a cock with a comb,”
said Flay. “It’s in the family,” continued the barber; “in the
family.”
The procession halts at the Hall. We pass the cheering, the
groaning of the opposite parties. It was plain, that it was already
known there would be no contest ; whereupon dark and blank
were the looks of the Yellows, and very loud and fierce their
denunciations. The Blues, too, though they put a boldly happy
face on the matter, were ill at ease. A sharp opposition would
have given them great delight, inasmuch as their tried patriotism
would have shone all the more effulgent for the test.
And now the solemn business is opened by Mr. Mayor, too
oppressed by the greatness of the occasion, to suffer one word of
his very eloquent address to be heard by the multitude ; who, no
doubt, in gratitude, cheered uproariously.
The Reverend Doctor Gilead then stept forward; and suddenly
the crowd seemed to feel themselves at church, they were so
hushed. The Doctor said that nothing but his long know-
ledge, his affection for his lordship, could have induced him to
break from that privacy which they all knew was his greatest
happiness. But he had a duty to perform ; a duty to his country,
to them, and to himself. That duty was to propose the distin-
guished nobleman before them, as their legal and moral repre-
sentative in Parliament.
And young St. James was duly proposed and seconded. “Is
there no other candidate 2* asked the Mayor, with a conscious
face that there was not.
“Yes,” cried a voice; and immediately a man stept forward,
whilst the Yellows roared with triumph. “I have to propose,”
Said the man,—and reader, that man was no other than Ebenezer
Snipeton, husband of Clarissa Snipeton, “I have to propose, as
the representative of the borough of Liquorish, Matthew Cap-
stick, Esq.”
A shout of derision burst from the Blues. For a moment,
the Yellows, taken by surprise, were silent : they then paid back
the shout with shoutings vehement.
“Does anybody second Matthew Capstick 7" asked the Mayor,
aghast.
“I does,” cried Rasp; and again the Yellows shouted.
The Reverend Doctor Gilead looked haughtily, contemptuously,
at the farce acted about him. Nevertheless, he thought it neces-
sary to demand a poll for young St. James ; the show of hands—
as the astounded Mayor was compelled to own—being “decidedly
in favour of Matthew Capstick, Esq.”
254 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
CHAPTER XXV.
“WHY you never mean to do it !” asked Bright Jem anxiously,
sorrowfully.
“A man is wedded to his country, Jem ; and being wedded,
must listen to her voice,” was the answer of Capstick.
It was nearly midnight, and the late muffin-maker and his man
sat alone in the Tub. The news of his probable election for
Liquorish had fallen upon Capstick explosively. He had, in
truth, been much startled, agitated by the tidings; but, the
muffin-maker was a philosopher, and after a brief hour or two
he had subdued the flesh-quakes of the merely modest man
trembling at his own under-valuation, and sat —re-assured and
calm, contemplating his possible appearance amidst the sages of
the land, himself a sage—with the quiet resignation of a patriot.
Capstick industriously essayed a look, a manner of monumental
tranquillity. He smoked apparently, for all the world, like a
common man ; and yet—it did not escape the affectionate glance
of Jem—yet did Capstick's eye now and then burn and glow
with a new light, even as the tobacco, at the breath of the smoker,
glowed through the embers. Rapidly was his heart enlarging
with the good of the nation. Orations, to be uttered to the world
at the proper season, were conceived in the muffin-maker's brain;
and as he sat, like a pagan god, in a cloud of his own making,
they already grew and grew, and he already felt for them the
mysterious love of the parent towards the unborn. Already his
ears rang with the shoutings of an instructed, a delighted senate.
His heart beat thick with the thought of Magna Charta, and the
tremendous uses he would yet make of that sublime text. With
no hope, no thought of Parliament, it had been the pride of the
muffin-maker to despise the world and its doings; a hopeless
world, overstocked with fools and knaves, altogether unworthy
of the consideration of a philosophic mind. And now, with the
chance of becoming a senator, Capstick felt a sudden charity for
the universe. After all, it was a universe not to be neglected.
And for the men and women inhabiting it—poor two-legged
emmets —they must not be suffered to go to ruin their own per-
verse way. He would, therefore, go to Parliament and save them.
Now, when a man has once for all determined upon a mag-
nanimous line of conduct, he cannot but for the time look the
better, the bigger, for the resolution. It is thus in all cases. For
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 255
instance, when a virgin, with lowered lids and lips trembling at
their own courage, drops the “yes” that is to make a man beatific
for the term of his natural existence—a “yes” at which all the
wedding-rings in all the goldsmiths' shops sympathetically vibrate
—she, the virgin, looks as she never before looked in her life;
sublimated, glorified, with a halo of beauty about her; a halo
catching light from her liquid eyes, and rosy, burning face. And
when, too, the widow, with a sweet audacity, facing the mischief,
man, as an old soldier faces a cannon, says “yes,” tolling the
monosyllable shortly, boldly as a bell tolls one—she, too, expands
a little—just a little, with the thought, the good determined upon,
—she, too, has her halo, though certainly of a dimmer kind; just
a little dulled, like a second-hand ring. So true it is, that mag-
nanimity has an expansive, a decorative quality. And so when
Capstick, for a moment, felt himself a member of Parliament, he
felt for the time his waistcoat much too small for him. In the
like way that when, stirred by great emotions, the female heart
takes a sudden shoot, it is sometimes necessary to cut the stay-
lace to allow for the growth.
And Capstick sat enlarged by his own thoughts; with the ears
of his soul up-pricked—for souls have ears, and at times pretty
long ones—as though listening for the trumpets that should sound
a blast for his triumph. But Bright Jem had a heavy, a dolorous
expression of the divine countenance of man. His master was in
danger of being made a member of Parliament. He was, at that
moment, in the imminent peril of being taken from rustic delights,
from the sweet, the flowery leisure of the country, to be turned
into a maker of laws. His condition weighed heavily upon the
sense of his faithful, his affectionate servant : who gazed upon
him as Pylades would have regarded Orestes, had dear Orestes
been sentenced to the pillory. Capstick already felt himself in
the House of Commons, and smiled through his own smoke, as
he thought of one of the hundred speeches he would make, and
the cheers that would celebrate its delivery ; and Bright Jem
Only thought of the unsavoury missiles to be hurled at his friend
in the hour of his trial,
“A man is wedded to his country, Jem,” repeated Capstick,
with a growing love for the assertion.
“His country | Why, you don’t call Liquorish your country,
do you ? Besides, what does the country know about you, 'xcept
your muffins : if the country hasn’t quite forgot them by this
time ! If you are made a member of Parliament—heaven pre-
serve you, says I–you'll only be made out of spite and malice,”
cried James. .
| Mr. Capstick took his pipe wide away from his mouth, and
256 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
began what would doubtless have been a very eloquent speech.
Bright Jem, however, suffered him to get no further than—“The
choice of the people, Jem.”
“The people ! The choice of the guineas, that 's it, Mr. Cap-
stick. A member for Liquorish Well, they might as well make
a little image of the golden calf over agin, and send that to Par-
liament : for that's the people's choice hereabouts. Why, you
must know, that it's for no love of you that Snipeton—as they
call him—put you up. To carry his pint agin his young lordship—
for there’s some sore at ween 'em—he'd send a chimbly-sweeper
to Parliament without washing him.”
“Impossible !” cried Capstick, with very considerable dignity.
“Certain of it,” insisted Jem, “else why, may I be so bold to
ask, should he pitch upon you ?”
“I am not exactly a chimney-sweeper, Mr. James; not exactly,”
observed Capstick, majestically.
“A course not : a good way from it: but you know what I
mean, dont’t you ?” said Jem.
“It is no matter. Mr. Snipeton has very briefly satisfied me
of the purity, the patriotism of his intentions, and—good night
Mr. James,” and Capstick rose. “I must rise early tomorrow.”
“Don’t say Mr. James, then : it 's a putting a stone in my
pillow that I couldn’t sleep on, seeing I’m not used to it. God
bless you, sir—good night,” and Jem held forth his hand.
“Good night, Jem,” said Capstick, taking Jem's hand. “And
mind, to-morrow, early, Jem—very early, Jem.”
Almost at dawn Jem was in the garden, digging, digging as
though he would get rid of thought. At times, very savagely
would he plunge the spade into the earth, as though it relieved
him. And then he groaned—hummed—and sighed. And the
morning broke gloriously ; and the birds sang and whistled ; and
the flowers came laughing out in the sunshine. The summer
earth, one wide altar, steamed with sweetest incense to heaven.
Jem had laboured for a couple of hours before Capstick joined
him in the garden. “Why, Jem, you've done a full half-day's
work already,” said the candidate for Liquorish.
“Somehow I couldn’t rest : and when I did sleep, I had
nothing but nasty dreams. If I didn't dream you was taken
to the Tower for pulling the Speaker's nose—and I know
your temper, sir — nothing more likely — I wish I may die,
Never had such a clear, clean dream in all my life. It was
all made out so.”
“And what did they do with me at the Tower 7” asked Cap-
stick, a little tickled by the importance of the imprisonment.
“Why they chopped your head off as clean as a sheep's,” said
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 257
Jem, earnestly. “I saw 'em do it; heard the chopper go right
through bone, gristle, and all.” Capstick clapt his hand to his
neck, then suddenly took it away again, and shook his head and
smiled. Jem continued. “They chopped it off, and I heard it
fall from the block with a bump. And after that they cut you
into four quarters to be hung up for an example.”
“Ha! haſ and that's the worst they did,” cried Capstick;
“there was an end, then 7° &
“No there wasn’t,” said Jem ; “for I dreamt that they made
me pack up one of the quarters, like spring-lamb, and carry it to
your old muffin-shop, and hang it jest over the door at ween the
two windows, as a warning to all traitors. And I hung it up.
And then I dreamt I sat down on the door-step, and it was as
much as ever I could do to keep the birds from pecking at you,
for all I did nothing but pelt 'em with dollars.”
“Very extravagant,” said Capstick, who added gravely, laying
his hand very tenderly upon Jem's shoulder, “when the time
really comes, don’t throw away silver; first try penny pieces.”
Jem shook his head: he could not relish the humour of the
economy.
“If, now, they really should make a member of parliament of
you,”—Jem shuddered at the notion as at the thought of some
nauseous drug—“you don’t mean to say you’ll leave the Tub,
the garden and all?” *
“The voice of the country, Jem, must be obeyed. We’ll come
down here, and recruit ourselves when the House is prorogued.
We shall enjoy it all the more for the work of the session.” Cap-
stick already spoke like a member.
“Well, I know somethin’ of parliament, for I knew poor Sam
Chilterns, the linkman, as was killed by the late hours. He used
to tell me a good deal about it. Whatever pleasure you can have,
to go and sit steaming among a mob of folks—and hearing speeches
and sums of figures that you don’t know nothing about—and never
opening your own mouth *—
“Never think it, Jem,” cried Capstick, “I shall speak, and very
often—very often.”
“The Lord help you !” exclaimed Jem, amazed at such deter-
mination. “At your time of life, too !”
“That's it, Jem. Twenty, ten, years ago, I shouldn’t have
been ripe for it. Really great men are of slow growth ; I feel
that I have just now reached my prime, and my country shall
have it. You don’t know—how should you ?—what I may meet
with in parliament.” - -
“A little on it,” said Jem. “You’ll meet with bad hours and
noisy company; and you’ll turn night into day, and day into
S
258 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
night, and so do no good with neither one nor the other. Meet !
Will you meet with any such company as you leave I should
like to know that.”
“Why, what company do I leave 7" asked Capstick coldly,
and with dignity.
“Why, the company about you,” cried Jem, and Capstick
shortly coughed. “Look at 'em : will you meet with anything like
them roses, jest opening their precious mouths, and talking to you
in their own way—for how often you’ve said they do talk, if
people will only have the sense to understand ’em You’ll go to
court, perhaps; and, if you do, will you meet with finer velvet
than's in them heartsease ? will you see any diamonds”—and here
Jem struck a bush with his spade, and the dew-drops in a silver
shower trembled and fell from it—“any diamonds brighter and
wholesomer than them 7 Will you hear anything like that in
parliament 7 °–cried Jem, emphatically, and he pointed upwards
to a lark singing in the high heavens.
“These things are to be enjoyed in their due season; when, as
I say, the House is prorogued,” said Capstick.
“And what’s to become of all the animals that I thought you
so fond on ? They’ll none on 'em come to good when you’re
away. There 's them beautiful bees—sensible things —you
don’t think they’ll have the heart to go on working, working,
when you ‘re wasting your time in the House of Commons?
And you’ll go and make laws Ha! We sha’n’t have no luck
after that. If the bantam hen that 's sitting doesn't addle all
her eggs, I know nothing of bantams. Why, how,”—and Jem
spoke in a saddened tone—“how in six weeks do you think
you’ll look 7”
“Look how should I look?” cried Capstick, bending his brows.
“Why, you’ll look like a act of parliament; and a precious old
act, too ; all parchment like, with black marks. And you’ll go
to bed when the Sun gets up ; and instead of meeting him, as you
do now, with a head as clear as spring water—and looking at
him, all health and comfort—and walking about hearing the
birds and smelling the cows, the flowers and the fresh earth—
why, you’ll be slinking home to your bed with no heart to stare
in the sun's face—and your precious head will seem biling with a
lot of talk ; all wobbling with speeches you can make nothin' on
—and you’ll soon wish yourself a mushroom, a toadstool, anything
to be well in the country agin.” -
“Jem,” said Capstick, “you mean well ; but you're an enthu-
siast.”
“You may call me what names you like,” said Jem, very re-
signedly, “but you’ll never be happy away from the Tub.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 259
“You’ll lay the breakfast,” observed Capstick, peremptorily
ending the conversation as he turned from the garden to the
house, whilst Jem—as if he had a new quarrel with the soil—dug
his spade into the earth with increased energy.
In a few minutes a hen broke out into the customary proclama-
tion of a new egg.—“Well, I know,” cried Jem, pettishly, “I
know : you're like a good many people, you are ; can’t even give
poor folks an egg without telling all the world about it. Humph!
he may as well have 'em fresh while he can ; ” and Jem took his
way to the hen-roost—“poor soul! he 'll get nothing fresh when
he’s a member of parliament.”
In very dumpish spirits did Jem prepare the breakfast. But
when he saw Capstick, habited in his very best, issue from his
chamber, Jem groaned as though he looked upon a victim arrayed
for the sacrifice. Capstick would not hear the note of tribulation,
but observed—“You’ll go with me, Jem.”
“I’d rather not,” said Jem ; “but I’spose I must go in the
mob, to see as nobody pelts you. Well ! I wonder what any Jew
will give for that coat when you come home. But I’spose it's all
right. People put their best on when they’re hanged, and why
shouldn’t you ? All right, o' course.”
Capstick managed to laugh, and tried to eat his breakfast with
even more than customary relish—but it would not do: he had
no appetite. He felt himself on the verge of greatness. And his
heart was so big it left him no stomach. Suddenly was heard the
sound of distant music. “Heaven save you !” cried Jem; “they’re
coming after you.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said the philosophic Capstick, and the music
and the shouting seemed to enter his calm bosom like flame, for
he suddenly observed, “It’s very warm to-day, Jem.”
“Nothing to what it will be,” said Jem. “Here they come.
Afore it’s too late, will you hide under the bed, and I’ll say
you’re out 7 ° Jem rapidly put the proposal as a last desperate
I'êSOUIrCé.
“Don’t be a fool,” again cricó Capstick, and with increased
vehemence. “Open the door.”
“It’s all over—too late,” groaned Jem, and almost immediately
the music came clanging to the window, and the mob huzzaed,
and Rasp, and others of Capstick's committee, filled the cottage.
“Hurrah 1 ° cried Rasp, “three cheers for Capstick | Cap-
stick and the Constitution 1 ° and the mob roared in obedience
“Now, Mr. Capstick ; all right, I can tell you. His lordship
hasn't a toe to stand upon—not a single toe. This blessed night
you 'll sleep member for Liquorish Down with the Blues
The Constitution and Capstick Hurrah! Why, Jem,” —
c. 92
26ſ) ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
cried the barber, Suddenly astounded—“you hav'n't got no colour.
Here’s one.”
“Well, if I must make myself a canary,” cried Jem, and he
took the proffered riband, and shook his head.
“Now, then, strike up, and three more cheers for Capstick and
the Constitution,” roared Rasp. The trumpets sounded—the
drums beat—the mob roared,—and amidst the hubbub, Capstick
suffered himself to be carried off by the committee to one of the
three carriages drawn up at the end of the lane, whilst Bright
Jem, as though he walked at a funeral, pensively followed.—In a
few moments the line was formed ; and musicians and mob,
taking new breath, gave loudest utterance to their several instru-
ments. And Capstick, the philosopher, smiled and bowed about
him with all the easy grace of an old candidate. Bright Jem
gazed at him with astonishment. Could it be possible that that
Smiling, courteous, bending man was the rigid muffin-maker :
After that, there was nothing true, nothing real in humanity. At
once, Jem gave up the world.
The procession reached the Town Hall. Hurrahs and hootings
met Capstick ; who felt warm and cold at the salutations. It was
plain, however, that Capstick and the Constitution—as Rasp
would couple them—must triumph. The great confidence in
young St. James had, somehow, been severely shaken. It was
known even to the little children of the borough that the myste-
rious chest of gold had been carried off; and as the customary
donation to the electors was not forthcoming, it was believed
that young St. James would rashly trust to purity of election.
Tangle, secure in his belief that there would be no opposition to
his lordship, had said no word of the robbery; hence, he had
suffered very valuable time to be lost—time that had been im-
proved to the utmost by the agents of Snipeton, who, though he
scarcely appeared himself, laboured by means of his mercenaries,
with all the ardour that hatred and gold could supply in the
cause. When, however, it became certain that his lordship would
be opposed, Tangle felt the dire necessity—dire, indeed—of telling
the truth. And then he felt he had not the courage to carry him
through so unusual a task. Whereupon, he sneaked to his inn,
Ordered a post-chaise, placed himself and portmanteau therein,
and late at night secretly drove towards London. Ere, however,
he departed, he left a letter for the noble candidate. We give a
correct copy.
“MY LORD,-Deeply, indeed, do I regret that a circumstance—
a tender circumstance—to which it is needless more particularly
to allude (for what—what right have I, at such a time, to force
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 261
my domestic sorrows on your lordship's attention ?)—a tender cir-
cumstance, I say, compels my immediate attendance in London.
You may judge of the importance of the event from the very fact
that, at such a time, it can sever me from your lordship. I leave
you, however, in the full assurance of your triumph—in the full
belief that parliament, which has received so many ornaments
from your noble house, has yet to obtain an unparalleled lustre in
the genius of your lordship. With the profoundest respect, I am
your lordship's most devoted servant, “LUKE, TANGLE.”
“P.S.—We are all, in this mortal world, liable to accidents.
My good friend, Mr. Folder, will inform your lordship of a cir-
cumstance that has given me much pain: a circumstance, however,
that when I shall have the honour of next meeting your lordship,
I doubt not I shall be able most fully to explain to your lordship's
most perfect satisfaction.”
“There is great villany in this, great villany, my lord,” said
Doctor Gilead, possessed of the contents of the letter—“but it
isn’t so much the money that 's lost; that may be remedied—it’s
the time, the precious time. There is no doubt that the other
side have taken the most unprincipled advantage of the calamity,
and have bribed right and left. Nevertheless, we must not de-
Spair. No ; certainly not. We must look the difficulty in the
face like men, my lord—like men.” The Doctor, too, spoke like
One determined to fight to the last minute, and the last guinea.
And the Doctor was not merely a man of words. No. With a
fine decision of character, he immediately drew a cheque for a
much larger amount than was ever dreamt of by all the apostles,
and confiding it to a trusty servant, he shortly, but emphatically,
said to him—“Gold.” The man smilingly acknowledged the
magic of that potent monosyllable, and departed blithely on his
errand. Nevertheless, there was a strong sense of honour in the
hearts of the majority of the patriots of Liquorish ; for although
Some took double bribes—although some suffered themselves to
be gilt like weather-vanes, on both sides—the greater number
remained true to the first purchaser. It was the boast—the con-
solation that made so many of the Yellows walk upright through
the World—that they stuck to their first bargain. The double
fee would have been welcome, to be sure; but as some of them
touchingly observed, they had characters to take care of Besides,
the same candidate might come again.
“Can you have any notion of the cause of the motives of this
man, Snipeton 7" asked Doctor Gilead of young St. James, who
slightly coloured at the home question. “Why should he have
started a candidate 7 ° -
262 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
“Possibly—I can’t tell—but I say possibly he has strong
political feelings. But, 'tis no matter, 'twill only add to the
excitement: at the most, 'twill only be a joke. A muffin-maker
sitting for Liquorish ! For our borough 'Tis too ridiculous to
imagine,” and young St. James laughed.
“A very contemptible person, certainly,” said Doctor Gilead;
“nevertheless, he’s twenty a-head of your lordship, and as there
is not above another hour for polling, and we know the number of
votes, matters do look a little desperate.” Such was the opinion
of Doctor Gilead, very dolorously pronounced at an advanced
period of the day; and young St. James—although he had com-
bated the notion like a man and a lord—began to give ground :
it no longer seemed to him among the impossibilities of the world
that the family borough of Liquorish might be usurped by a
muffin-maker. And then St. James—thinking of Clarissa—
meditated a terrible revenge upon her husband.
In the meanwhile, the contest raged with every variety of
noise and violence consequent upon the making of a member of
parliament. Songs were sung;-how the poet was so suddenly
found, we know not ; but discovered, he was potently inspired by
ready gold and ale, and in no time enshrined the robbery of the
money-box in verse. Every verse, like a wasp, had a sting at the
end of it, aimed at the corruption of the Blues. The concluding
stanza, too, breathed an ardent wish for the future prosperity
and happiness of the thief—an expression of kindness that Tom
Blast, as he mingled among the mob, received with the silence of
modesty. Tom's only regret was that Jingo, his own child, had
not been entrusted with the ballad, as the melody and the Senti-
ment of the song were beautifully adapted to the voice and
intelligence of the young minstrel. Besides, there would have
been something droll—very droll, a matter to be chuckled over
with private friends—had Jingo chaunted the satirical lament for
the stolen gold; he being, above all others, peculiarly fitted for
the melodious task. And where could he be?—once or twice
thought the father, and then the paternal anxiety was merged in
the deep interest of the hour; for Tom Blast with all his might
roared and cheered and hooted in the cause of the Yellows.
Much, we think, would it have abated the patriotic zeal of
Capstick, had he known how vociferously he was lauded by the
thief of Hog Lane. But at such a time, applause must not be too
Curiously analysed.
And now both parties began to number minutes. A quarter of
an hour, and the poll would close. The Blues had for the past
twenty minutes rallied; and Doctor Gilead rubbed his hands and
| “. that, in spite of the corrupt practices of the Yellows, in
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 263
spite of the soul-buying bribery that had been resorted to by
unchristian men, the rightful seat of St. James would not be
usurped by a muffin-maker. Poor Jem hung about the Committee-
rooms, and secretly exulted when Capstick receded; as secretly
mourned when he advanced. At length the final numbers were
exhibited; and to the joy of the Yellows, the despair of the
Blues, and to the particular misery of Jem himself, Matthew
Capstick, Esq., was declared ten votes a-head of his opponent
“Three cheers for Capstick, our member,” cried Rasp from the
window of the Yellow Committee-room. “ Three cheers for
Capstick and the Constitution . "
“Give it him,” cried Flay from an opposite house, and the
obedient loyal mob of Blues discharged a volley of mud and
stones and other constitutional missiles in use on such glorious
occasions. Crash went the windows; and, on the instant, the two
factions in the street were engaged in a general fight; all moving,
as they combated, towards the Town Hall, already beset by a
roaring mob.
A few minutes, and Mr. Capstick appeared. Whereupon, the
high bailiff declared him duly elected a knight burgess, and
buckled the sword about him—the sword with which, by a pretty
fiction, the knight was to defend the borough of Liquorish from
all sorts of wrong. Capstick, with the weapon at his thigh,
advanced with great dignity; for a time regardless of the showers
of eggs and potatoes that, from the liberal hands of the Blues,
immediately greeted him. The young Lord St. James—how
Snipeton leered at him —also appeared on the hustings, and acci-
dentally received full in his face an egg, certainly intended for
the visage of the successful candidate. It was plain, too, that
Capstick thought as much, for he turned, and taking out his
pocket-handkerchief, advanced to his lordship, and in the politest
manner observed,—“My lord, I have no doubt that egg was
intended to be my property: will you therefore permit me to
reclaim my own 7 °–and saying this, Capstick with his white
kerchief removed the offensive matter from his lordship's face,
Whilst the crowd—touched by the courtesy of the new member—
laughed and cheered uproariously.
Mr. Capstick then advanced to the front of the hustings. At
the same moment a potato fell short of him, near his foot.
Whereupon the member drew his sword, and running it into the
potato, held it up to the mob. Another laugh—another cheer
greeted the action. “Silence he’s a rum 'un-hear him l’’ was
the cry, and in less than ten minutes the new member was
permitted to proceed. Whereupon he said: &
“Gentlemen—for gentlemen in a mob are always known by
264 ST. GITIES AND ST. JAMES.
their eggs and potatoes—I should, indeed, be unworthy of the
honour you have placed and showered upon me, did I in any way
complain of the manner in which you have exercised the privileges
I see lying about me. I am aware, gentlemen, that it is the free
birthright of Englishmen—and may they never forget it !—to pelt
any man who may offer himself for the honour of representing
them in Parliament. It is right that it should be so. For how
unfit must be the man for the duties of his office—for the trials
that in the House of Commons he must undergo—if he cannot,
properly and respectfully, receive at the hands of an enlightened
constituency any quantity of mud, any number of eggs or
potatoes. I should hold myself a traitor to the trust reposed in
me, did I at this moment of triumph object to either your eggs or
your potatoes.” (Very loud cheering; with a cry of “You’re
the sort for us.”) “No, gentlemen, I look upon eggs and potatoes
as, I may say, the corner-stones of the Constitution.” (“Three
cheers for the Constitution,” roared Rasp, and the Yellows
obediently bellowed.) “Nevertheless, permit me to say this much.
Feeling the necessity that you should always exercise for your-
selves the right of pelting your candidates with eggs and potatoes
—permit me to observe that I do not think the sacred cause of
liberty will be endangered, that I do not believe the basis of the
Constitution will be in the smallest degree shaken, if upon all
future elections, when you shall be called upon to exercise the
high prerogative of pelting your candidates, you select eggs that
are sweet, and first mash your potatoes.”
Laughter and loud cheers attested the reasonableness of the
proposition. When silence was restored, young Lord St. James
stood forward. His rival, he said, was for a time nominally their
candidate. A petition to the House of Commons would, however,
speedily send him back to his proper obscurity. His lordship was
prepared to prove the grossest bribery •
“The box of guineas *—“Who stole the gold 7” was shouted
from the mob, and Tom Blast himself boldly halloed—“Who
stole the guineas' "
Doctor Gilead stept forward. “My friends,” he said, “it is
true that a box of money was stolen—but, my friends, you will
rejoice with me to learn that the box is recovered.”
“Gammon l’’ cried Blast wildly.
“The thief or thieves had cast the box into my fish-pond ; but
I have just been informed that on dragging the pond for carp—I
had given the order before I quitted home—the box has been
found ! Three cheers, my friends !”
Blast groaned and the Blues huzzaed.
The ceremony of chairing was duly performed, Bright Jem
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 265
witnessing the triumph with a heavy heart : but Matthew Cap-
stick, Esq., M.P., (he had been duly qualified by Snipeton,) as he
was paraded along the streets of Liquorish had no wish ungratified
—yes, there was one, a little one. It was merely that the late
Mrs. Capstick could, for a very brief time, look up from her grave
and see her elected husband in his moment of glory !
CHAPTER XXVI.
IT is fit we now explain a few matters of the past for the better
apprehension of the future. Let us therefore gossip five minutes.
Let us pause awhile in this green lane—it is scarcely half-a-mile
from the Town Hall of Liquorish,_ere mounting Pen, our familiar
hippogriff, with you, sir, on the crupper, we take a flight and in a
thought descend upon the mud of London. The sweet breath of
the season should open hearts, as it uncloses myriads of buds and
blossoms. So, let us sit upon this tree-trunk—this elm, felled and
lopped in December. Stripped, maimed, and overthrown, a few
of its twigs are dotted with green leaves; spring still working
Within it, like hope in the conquered brave.
Is not this an escape from the scuffling and braying of immortal
man, moved by the feelings and the guineas of an election ? What
a very decent, quiet fellow is Brown And Jones is a civil,
peaceable creature And Robinson, too, a man of gentle bearing !
Yet multiply the three by one, two, three hundred. Let there be
a mob of Browns, Joneses, and Robinsons, and then how often—
made up of individual decency, and quietude, and gentleness—is
there a raving, roaring, bullying multitude? The individual Adam
sets aside his dignity, as a boxer strips for the fight ; and whether
the thing to be seen is a lord mayor's coach, fireworks, or a zany
On a river, goose-paddled in a washing-tub, the sons of Adam will
throng to the sight, and fight and scream for vantage-ground, with
a violence that would shame any colony of monkeys, clawing and
jabbering for stolen sugar-cane. Sweet, then, is it to the philo-
sopher to moralise upon the hubbub and the jostling crowd. He
pities the madness of the multitude, and respects the serenity of
his own soul: the more so, if looking from a window, his own toes
are untrodden, and his own coat-tails untorn.
And so, reader, let us breathe awhile in this green solitude—if,
indeed, it be a solitude. For who shall count the little eye-like
flowers peeping at us from the hedges—looking up from the sward
in our face, openly as loving innocence A solitude : What a
266 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
world of grasses do we tread upon, a world so crowded and
humming with insect citizens ! If only one turn of the peg we
would let down our pride—of all the heart-strings the bass and
grumbling one—we might compare many of these children, fathers,
and grandfathers of a day with the two-legged kings of creation,
the biped majesties of threescore years and ten. We might watch
their little runnings to and from their hoards; their painful
climbings to the very needle point of some tall blade of grass;
watch them and smile, even as the angels, at their pleasant leisure
watch and Smile at you, Grubbings, when you go to the Bank
and add to your sweet salvation there, the balance: smile, as at
poor Superbus when, climbing and climbing, he rose to great
Gold Stick, and kept it twenty years, to angelic computation
just twenty throbbings of a fevered heart. Surely, there is not
an insect that we might not couple with an acquaintance. Here,
in this little, trim sobriety, is our quaker friend, Placens; and
here, in this butterfly, tipsy with its first-day's wings, is Polly,
foolish Polly, who cannot consent to see the world, unless she sees
it in her finest clothes. And so, looking at a piece of turf, no
bigger than a lark’s foot-stool, we may people it with friends and
world acquaintance.
Is this solitude : And the blackbird, with his notes of melted
honey, winds and whistles—no. Solitude : The jay, whose voice
is a continual dissent, grates—no. Solitude : And the household
rook swims upward in the air, and with homeward caw, awakens
busy thoughts of life, of the day's cares and the day's necessities.
The earth has no place of solitude. Not a rood of the wilderness
that is not thronged and eloquent with crowds and voices, com-
muning with the spirit of man; endowed by such communion
with a knowledge, whose double fruit is divinest hope and meekest
humility.
So once more to our story: oncemore to consider the doings of
men. They are not to be thought of with less charity for this
gossip in a green lane. Nay, try it, reader, on your own account.
Say that you have a small wrong at your heart ; say, that in
your bosom you nurse a pet injury like a pet snake. Well, bring
it here, away from the brick-and-mortar world ; see the innocent
beauty spread around you ; the sunny heavens Smiling protecting
love upon you ; listen to the harmonies breathing about you ;
and then say, is not this immortal injury of yours a wretched
thing, a moral fungus, of no more account than a mildewed toad-
stool? Of course. You are abashed by omnipotent benevolence
into charity: and you forgive the wrong you have received from
man, in your deep gratitude to God.
Nevertheless, there are natures hardly susceptible of such
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 267
influence. There are folks who would take their smallest wrongs
with them into Paradise. Go where they will, they carry with
them a travelling-case of injuries.
And wrongs, naturally enough, bring us back to Ebenezer
Snipeton. It was his trade to lend money : nevertheless, he was
not a man who suffered business to entirely absorb his pleasure.
Hence, when he discovered that the patriot who, purely for the
sake of his country, was to snatch Liquorish from young St. James,
thought better of the rashness, refusing at the last moment to save
the nation,-he, Ebenezer, treated himself to a costly but delicious
enjoyment. And he—it was thus he pondered—he could afford
it. He was a thrifty, saving man. He dallied not with common
temptations. He wasted no money upon luxurious housekeeping ;
and for his wife, no nun ever spent less with the millimer. He
took care of that. Well, as the homely proverb goes, it is a poor
heart that never rejoices; and therefore Ebenezer Snipeton,
temperate, self-denying in all other expensive enjoyments, was
resolved, for once in his days, to purchase for himself a handsome
piece of revenge. Determined upon a treat, he cared not for its
cost. He would carry Capstick into Parliament, though in a
chariot of solid gold. The young lord had dared to look upon
Clarissa. The creature, a part of himself; whose youth and
beauty, belonging to him, seemed to him a better assurance
against decay and death. He had bought her for his lawful wife,
and Holy Church had written the receipt. Nevertheless, that
Smooth-faced smiling lord—he, too, to whom the good old husband
in the embracing philanthropy of a hundred per cent. had lent
ready gold, to be paid back, post-obit fashion, on a father's coffin-
lid—he, the young, handsome, profligate St. James, with no more
reverence for the sanctity of marriage than has a school-boy for
an Orchard fence, he-it was plain—would carry off that mated
bird | This one thought parched the old man as with a fever:
waking, it consumed him ; and he would start from his sleep, as
though—such was his worded fancy—an adder stirred in his
might-cap. Therefore he would not stint himself in his feast of
vengeance. And therefore the freeholders were bought at their
own price,—and they proved how dearly they valued a vote,
and Capstick, the muffin-maker, conquered the son of a marquis.
People averred that the new member owed his elevation to the
fiercest malice ; but he, misanthrope as he was, had now and
then his holiday notions of humanity, and did not to the full
believe the scandal. No : though he did not confess it to himself,
it was plain that his neighbours—at least the more thoughtful of
them—believed in his powers of statesmanship; it was their
wish, their one hope, that he should represent them; and though
268 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
he himself cared not a straw for the honour, it would have seemed
ungracious to refuse. And so he quitted the Tub, and Bright
Jem went heavily along with him to London. “I shall be quite
the simple Roman in this business,” said Capstick. “I feel myself
very like Cincinnatus taken from turnips.” “Without goin’ to
that Parliament, I only wish you was well among 'em agin,”
interrupted Jem. “And therefore,” continued the senator, “I
shall lodge humbly.” And Capstick kept his word; for he
hired a three-pair floor and an attic in Long Acre ; and having
purchased a framed and glazed copy of Magna Charta to hang
over the chimney-piece, he began very deeply to consider his
manifold duties as Member of Parliament.
With varying feelings St. Giles had watched the progress of
the election. He had—it was his duty—shouted and bellowed for
St. James. Nevertheless, the final prosperity of the muffin-man,
his early benefactor, scarcely displeased him. Again, too, he
thought that, should the young lord refuse to employ him—for he
had still been baulked in his endeavour to see St. James—the new
member for Liquorish would need new attendants to illustrate his
dignity. And Bright Jem had, of course, revealed to Capstick
all the transport's story; for the felon had made a clean breast of
his mystery to Jem, on their way to Kingcup, the schoolmaster.
And so, the election revel over, with a lightened heart St. Giles
set out for London. Should St. James fail him, he was sure of
Capstick.
If human misery demand human sympathy, the condition of
Tom Blast is not to be despised. It is our trust that the reader
followed him when, oppressed by the weight of gold, he tripped
and staggered from the Olive Branch, and gasped and sweated as
he reached the field, wherein he solaced his fatigue with the secret
thought of future fortune bringing future reformation. It was
with this strengthening impulse that he flung the iron box, gold-
crammed, into the middle of a pond. There it lay, like one of
Solomon's brazen kettles in the sea, containing a tremendous genius
—an all-potent magician, when once released to work among men.
And Tom would go to London, and in a few days, when Liquorish
had subsided from its patriotic intoxication to its old sobriety, he
would return with some trusty fellow-labourer in the world's hard
ways, and angle for the box. Unhappy, fated Blast ! He had
flung his gold-fish into Doctor Gilead’s pond. He had enriched
the rector's waters with uncounted guineas. Next, of course, to
“the fishpools in Heshbon,” the Doctor loved that pond, for it
contained carp of astonishing size and intelligence. Often would
the Doctor geek the waters, and whilst feeding their tenants—
tenants-at-will—delight himself with their docility and dimensions.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 269
It was pretty, now to contemplate them in the pond, and now to
fancy them in the dish. The Doctor knew the value, the pleasure
of exercising the imagination ; and thus made his carp equally
ministrant to his immortal and his abdominal powers. Well, the
pond was to be dragged for the election dinner, and the net
becoming entangled with the box—but the Doctor has already
revealed the happy accident. Tom Blast felt himself a blighted
man. It was always his way. Any other thief would have hid-
den the goods in any other pond: but somehow or the other, the
clergy had always been his misfortune. It was no use to struggle
with fate : he was doomed to bad luck. And when, too, he had
made up his mind to such a quiet, comfortable life ; when he had
resolved upon respectability and an honest course; he felt his
heart softened—it was too bad. Nothing was left for him but to
return to the thief's wide home, London. He, poor fellow ! could
have subdued his desires to live even at Liquorish ; for tobacco
and gin were there ; but, he knew it, in such a place he must
starve. With the loss of the box came a quickened recollection
of the loss of Jingo. Where could the child have wandered?
Blast had learned that Tangle had been despoiled of his purse on
the night of the greater robbery. Now, though the paternal heart
was pleased to believe that such theft was the work of the boy,
the father was nevertheless saddened at the child's disobedience.
If it was the boy's duty to rob, it was no less his duty to bring the
stolen goods to his affectionate parent. In prosperity the human
heart is less sensible of slight. Blast, whilst the believed possessor
of countless guineas, scarcely thought of his son; but, stript of
his wealth, his thoughts—it was very natural—did turn to his
truant child and the purse the youngling had stolen.
And now, reader, leave we the borough of Liquorish. Its
street is silent, and save that certain of its dwellers have bought
new Sunday coats and Sunday gowns—save that here and there
in good man's house a new clock, with moralising tick to human
life, gives voice to silent time—save that on certain shelves new
painted crockery illustrates at once the vanity and fragility of
human hopes, no man would dream that a member of parlia-
ment had within a few hours been manufactured in that dull
abiding-place.
And now, reader, with one drop of ink, we are again in London.
Ha! We have descended in St. James's Square. The morning
is very beautiful; and there, at the Marquis's door, Smiling in
the sun, is an old acquaintance, Peter Crossbone, apothecary ;
the learned, disappointed man ; for Crossbone had looked upon
the escape of St. James from Dovesnest as an especial misfortune.
All his professional days he had yearned for what he called
270 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
distinguished practice. We doubt whether he would not have
thought the Tower lions, being crown property, most important
patients. For some time, he had pondered on the policy of
visiting young St. James, the wounded phoenix that had flown
from his hands. His will was good; all he wanted was a decent
excuse for the intrusion; and at length fortune blessed him.
He felt certain of the young lord’s condescending notice, if he, the
village apothecary, could show himself of service to him. The
marquis's father was much persecuted by that luxurious scorpion,
the gout, that epicurean feeder on the best fed. Now Crossbone
had, in his own opinion, a specific cure for the torment; but he
much doubted whether science would be his best recommendation
to the young heir. No : he wanted faith in such an intercessor.
And thus, with his brain in a pitch-black fog, he meditated, and
saw no way. And now is he surrounded by mist, and now is he
in a blaze of light. And what has broken through the gloom,
and dawned a sudden day ? That luminous concentration, that
world of eloquent light—for how it talks —a woman's eye.
Suddenly Crossbone remembered a certain look of Clarissa.
And that look was instantly a light to him that made all clear.
That look showed the jealousy of the husband; the passion of the
wife. Snipeton was a tyrant, and Clarissa a victim. And then
compassion entered the heart of Crossbone, and did a little soften
it. Yes; it would be a humane deed to assist the poor wife, and
at the same time so delicious to delight his lordship. And then
he—Crossbone knew it, he himself was so fit for the gay world.
He was born, he would say, for the stones of London, and there-
fore hated the clay of the country.
Beader, as you turned the present leaf, Crossbone knocked at
the door, and stood with an uneasy Smile upon his face, awaiting
the porter, who, with a fine, critical ear for knocks, knew it could
be nobody, and treated the nobody accordingly; that is, made
the nobody wait. In due season, Crossbone and the porter stood
face to face. “Is Lord St. James within 3’ And Crossbone
tried to look the easy, town man. It would not do. Had he
been a haystack, the porter would as readily have known the
country growth.
“Lordship within 7 ° grunted the porter. “I)on’t know.”
But Mr. Crossbone knew better. It was his boast; he knew
life; and therefore always paved its little shabby passages with
silver : other passages require gold, and only for that reason
are not thought so shabby. True, therefore, to his principles,
Mr. Crossbone sneaked a card and a dollar into the porter's hand.
“Ralph, take this card to his lordship. Good deal bothered,
all of us, just now,” added the porter.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 271
“Good deal,” corroborated Ralph, the son of Gum, and looking
up and down at the apothecary, he went his way. Quick was his
return ; and with respectful voice he begged the gentleman to
follow him.
“We have met before, Mr. Crossbone,” said St. James, and a
shadow crossed his face. “I well remember.”
“No doubt, my lord. It was my happiness to employ my poor
skill in a case of great danger. Need I Say, how much I am
rewarded by your lordship's present health 7 °
“I have been worse beaten since then,” said the young
lord, and he bit his lip. He then with a gay air continued :
“Mr. Snipeton is, I believe, your patient 2 °
“Bless your heart, my lord, that is, I beg your pardon,”—
for Crossbone felt the familiarity of the benison—“Mr. Snipeton
is no man's patient. King Charles of Charing Cross—saving his
majesty's presence—has just as much need of the faculty. When
people, my lord, have no feelings they have little sickness: that's
a discovery I’ve made, my lord, and old Snipeton bears it out.
Now his wife—ha! that 's a flower.”
“Tender and beautiful,” cried St. James, with animation.
“And her health, Mr. Crossbone l’”
“Delicate, my lord; delicate as a bird of paradise. I’ve often
said it, she wasn’t made for this world; it's too coarse and dirty.
However, she’ll not be long out of her proper place. No : she’s
dying fast.”
“Dying !” exclaimed St. James. “Tying ! Impossible ! I)ying
—with what '''' -
“A more common malady than 's thought of, my lord,” answered
Crossbone. He then advanced a step, and projecting the third
finger of the left hand, with knowing look observed—“Ring-
worm, my lord.”
“Ha!” cried St. James, airily. “Bing-worm | Is that indeed
so fatal . .”
“When, my lord, it fixes on the marriage finger of the young
and beautiful wife of an old and ugly miser, it’s mortal, my lord
—mortal, it does so affect, so Ossify the heart. I’ve seen many
cases,” added Crossbone emphatically, resolved to make the most
of certainly a very peculiar practice.
“And there is no remedy ?” asked St. James, as he placed his
palms together and looked keenly in the apothecary’s face.
“Why, I’ve known the worm removed with great success:
that is,” said the apothecary, returning the look, “when the
patient has had every confidence in the practitioner.”
“Mr. Crossbone,” cried St. James, “you are a man of the
World . .”
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272 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
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“My lord,” answered the apothecary, with a thanksgiving bow,
“I am.” -
Now, when a man pays a man this praise, it happens, say six
times out of nine, that the compliment really means this much :
“You are a man of the world; that is, you are a shrewd fellow,
who know all the by-ways and turnings of life: who know that
what is called a wrong, a shabbiness, in the pulpit or in the dining-
room (before company), is nevertheless not a wrong, not a shabbi-
ness when to be undertaken for a man's especial interest. They
are matters to be much abused, until required : to shake the head
and make mouths at, until deemed indispensable to our health to
swallow.” To praise a man for knowing the world, is often to
commend him only for his knowledge of its dirty lanes and crooked
alleys. Any fool knows the broad paths—the squares of life.
And Mr. Crossbone—sagacious person 1—took the lord’s com-
pliment in its intended sense. He already felt that he was about
to be entrusted with a secret, a mission, that might test the lofty
knowledge for which he was extolled. Therefore, to strengthen
his lordship's confidence, the apothecary added, “I am, my lord,
a man of the world. There are two golden rules of life; I have
ever studied them.”
“And these are 2°–asked St. James, drawing him on.
“These are, to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.
Your lordship may command me.”
“Mr. Crossbone”—and St. James, motioning the apothecary to
a chair, seated himself for serious consultation—“Mr. Crossbone,
this Snipeton has deeply injured me.”
“I believe him capable of anything, my lord. Sorry am I to
say it,” said Crossbone, blithely.
“He has wounded the dignity of my family. He has wrested
from us the borough of Liquorish”—Crossbone looked wondrous
disgust at the enormity;-“a borough that has been ours, aye,
since the Conquest.”
“No doubt,” cried Crossbone. “He might as well have stolen
the family plate.”
“Just so. Now, Mr. Crossbone, I do not pretend to be a whit
better than the ordinary run of my fellow-creatures. I must
therefore confess 'twould give me some pleasure to be revenged
of this money-seller.”
“Situated as you are, my lord; wounded as you must be in a
most patriotic part, I do not perceive how your lordship can, as a
nobleman and a gentleman, do less than take revenge. It is a
duty you owe your station—a duty due to society, for whose
better example noblemen were made. Revenge, my lord l’ cried
Crosspope, with a look of devotion.
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ST. GITIES AND ST. JAMES.
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“The sweeter still the better,” said St. James.
“Right, my lord; very right. Revenge is a magnificent
passion, and not to be meddled with in the spirit of a chandler.
No trumpery ha'porths of it, 'twould be unworthy of a
nobleman.”
“Mr. Crossbone, you are a man of great intelligence. A man
who ought not to vegetate in the country with dandelion and
pimpernel. No, sir: you must be fixed in London. A genius
like yours, Mr. Crossbone, is cast away upon bumpkins. We
shall yet see you with a gold cane, in your own carriage,
Mr. Crossbone.”
And with these words, Lord St. James gently pressed the tips
of Crossbone's fingers. The apothecary was wholly subdued by
the condescension of his lordship. He sat in a golden cloud,
Smiling, and looking bashfully grateful. And then his eyes
trembled with emotion, and he felt that he should very much like
to acknowledge upon his knees the honour unworthily conferred
upon him. It would have much comforted him to kneel; never-
theless, with heroic self-denial he kept his seat ; and at length in
a faint voice said—“It isn’t for me, your lordship, to speak of my
poor merits; your lordship knows best. But this I must say,
my lord ; I do think I have looked after the weeds of the world
quite long enough. I own, it is now my ambition to cultivate the
lilies.”
“I understand, Mr. Crossbone ! Well, I don’t know that even
the court may not be open to you.”
The vision was too much for the apothecary. He sighed, as
though suddenly oppressed by a burthen of delight. In fancy,
he already had his fingers on a royal pulse, whose harmonious
throbbings communicating with his own ennobled anatomy,
sweetly troubled his beating heart. However, with the will of a
strong man he put down the emotion, and returned to his lord-
ship's business.
“You spoke of revenge, my lord 7 Upon that wealthy wretch,
Snipeton 7 May I ask what sort of revenge your lordship desires
to take . "
“Faith ! Mr. Crossbone, my revenge is like Shylock's. I’d
take it,” said the young gentleman, with a smile of significant
bitterness—“I’d take it “nearest his heart.’”
“Yes, I understand; perfectly, my lord,” said Crossbone with
new gaiety. “The flesh of his flesh, eh? His wife 2''
“His wife ’’ cried St. James passionately.
“Excellent, my lord Excellent Ha 1 ha ha : " And the
apothecary could not resist the spirit of laughter that tickled
him ; it was so droll to imagine a man—especially an old man—
T
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– «. ---------, - ... *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*
274 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
despoiled of his wife. “She would be sweet revenge,” cried
Crossbone, rubbing his hands with an implied relish.
“And practicable, eh?” cried St. James. Crossbone Smiled
again, and rubbed his hands with renewed pleasure, nodding the
while. “Be has carried her from Dovesnest ; buried her some-
where ; for this much I know—she is not at his house in the
city.”
“I know all, my lord; all. I have received a letter—here it
is,”—and Crossbone gave the missive to St. James: “you see, he
writes me that she is ill—very ill—and as he has great faith in
my knowledge—for there is no man without some good point, let's
hope that—in my knowledge of her constitution, he desires me to
come and see her. I’ve arrived this very morning in London. I
was going direct to him ; but—surely there’s providence in it,
my lord—but something told me to come and see you first.”
“And I am delighted,” said St. James, “that you gave ear to
the good genius. You’ll assist me?”
“My lord,” said Crossbone solemnly, “I have, I hope, a proper
respect for the rights of birth and the institutions of my country.
And I have always, my lord, considered politics as nothing more
than enlarged morals.”
“Thank you for the apothegm,” said the flattering St. James.
“May I use it in parliament when—I get there'
“Oh, my lord ' " simpered Crossbone, and continued. “En-
larged morals. Now, this man Snipeton, in opposing your lordship
for Liquorish, in bringing in a muffin-maker over your noble head
—all the town is ringing with it—has, I conceive, violated whole-
sale morality, and should be punished accordingly. But how
punished You can't touch him through his money. No : 'tis
his coat of mail. He's what I call a golden crocodile, my lord,
with but one tender place—and that's his wife. Then strike
him there, and you punish him for his presumption, and revenge
the disgrace he has put upon your family.” -
“Exactly,” said St. James, a little impatient of the apothecary’
morals. “But, my good sir, do you know where the lady is ?”
“No. But I shall order her wherever may be most convenient.
Would the air of Bath suit you ?” asked the apothecary with a
leer. -
“Excellently—nothing could be better,” said St. James.
“Bath be it, then. And she must go alone ; that is, without
that Mrs. Wilton. I don’t like that woman. There's a cold
watchfulness about her that we can do without, my lord.”
“But how separate them 7” asked St. James.
“Leave that to me. Well handled, nothing cuts like a sharp
lie ; it goes at Once through heartstrings.” St. James passed his
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 27
5
hand across his face : he felt his blood had mounted there. “It
has often separated flesh of flesh and bone of bone, and may easily
part mistress and servant. Talking of servants, have you no
trusty follow to go between us, my lord **
Even as the apothecary spoke Ralph brought in a card; the
card given by St. James to St. Giles. The returned transport
awaited in the hall the command of his patron.
“Nothing could be more fortunate,” cried St. James. “Ralph,
tell the man who brings this, to attend this gentleman and take
his orders. To-morrow I will see him myself.”
“And to-morrow, my lord,” said the apothecary, with new
courage holding forth his hand, “to-morrow you shall hear from
me.”
“To-morrow,” said St. James.
“To-morrow ; heaven be with your lordship; ” and with this
hope, the apothecary departed.
St. James hastily paced the room. The walls were hung with
In LTICOCS.
The young gentleman
hand to his face.
was it a habit 2–still walked with his
CHAPTER XXVII.
WHEN Snipeton turned his horse's head from Dovesnest—for
the which incident we must send back the reader some dozen
chapters—he resolved, as he rode, upon closing his accounts with
the world, that freed from the cares of money, he might cherish
and protect his youthful, blooming partner. Arrived in London,
seated at his books in St. Mary Axe, the resolution was strength-
ened by the contemplation of his balance against men. He had
more than enough, and would enjoy life in good earnest. Why
should he toil like a slave for gold-dust, and never know the
blessings of the boon 7 No: he would close his accounts, and
open wide his heart. And Snipeton was sincere in this his high
resolve. For a whole night, waking and dreaming, he was fixed
in it; and the next morning the uxorious apostate fell back to his
first creed of money-bags. Fortune is a woman, and therefore
where she blindly loves—(and what Bottoms and Calibans she
does embrace and fondle !)—is not to be put aside by slight or
ill-usage. All his life had Fortune doted upon Snipeton, hugging
him the closer as she carried him up—no infant ape more tenderly
clutched in ticklish places, and he should not leave her. And

T 2
276 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES."
to this end did Fortune bribe back her renegade with a lumping
bargain. A young gentleman—a very young gentleman—desired
for so much ready metal, to put his land upon parchment, and
that young gentleman did Fortune take by the hand, and, smiling
ruin, lead him to St. Mary Axe. In few minutes was Snipeton
wooed and won again; for, to say the truth, his weakness was a
mortgage. The written parchment, like charmed characters,
conjured him ; put imagination into that dry husk of a man. He
would look upon the deed as upon a land of promise. He would
see in the Smallest pen-marks giant oaks, with the might of
navies waiting in them ; and from the sheepskin would feel the
nimble air of Arcady. There it lay, a beautiful bit of God's
earth—a sweet morsel of creation—conjured and conveyed into a
few black syllables. -
And so, Snipeton made his peace with his first wife Fortune,
and then bethought him of his second spouse, Clarissa. That he
might duly attend to both, he would remove his second mate
from Dovesnest. There were double reasons for the motion ; for
the haven of wedded bliss was known to the profligate St. James;
who, unmindful of the Sweetest obligation money at large usance .
ought to confer upon the human heart, dared to accost his
creditor's wife. Let Dovesnest henceforth be a place for owls
and foxes, Clarissa should bring happiness within an hour's ride
of St. Mary Axe. The thought was so good, sent such large
content to old Smipeton's heart, that with no delay it was carried
out, and ere she well had time to weep a farewell to her favourite
roses, Mrs. Snipeton left Dovesnest to the spiders.
Was it a wise change, this 7 Had Snipeton healthy eyes; or
did avarice, that jaundice of the soul, so blear his vision, that he
saw not in the thin, discoloured features of the wife of his bosom,
aught to twitch a husband's heart She never complained.
IBesides, once or twice he had questioned her ; and she was not
ill. No, well, quite well; and—this too he had asked—very
happy. Nevertheless, it would the better satisfy him if Crossbono
could see her. Crossbone knew her constitution, and—and so
that meek and knowing man was summoned to London.
In a green, sequestered nook, half-way between Hampstead
and Kilburn, embowered in the middle of a garden, was a small
cottage; so hidden, that oft the traveller passed, unheeding it.
In this cottage was Clarissa. To this retreat would her husband
amble every day from St. Mary Axe, quitting his money temple
for the treasure of his fireside, his pale and placid wife ; and
resolved to think himself blessed at both places.
“Mr. Snipeton is laté to-day,” said Mrs. Wilton, the mother
housekeeper.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 277
“He will come,” replied Clarissa, in the tone of one resigned to
a daily care. “He will come, mother.”
Mrs. Wilton looked with appealing tenderness in her daughter's
face; and in a low, calm voice, controlling her heart as she spoke,
she said—“This must not be : do not repeat that word—not
even when we are alone. Some day it may betray me to your
husband, and then”—
“What then 2° asked Clarissa.
“We should be parted ; for ever—for ever,
and with the thought she burst into tears.
“Not so. Nothing parts us; nothing but the kindliness of
death,” said Clarissa. “And death is kind, at least”—
“At least, my child, the world with you is too young to think
it so.”
“Old, old and faded,” said Clarissa. “The spirit of youth is
departed. I look at all things with dim and weary eyes.”
“And yet, my child, there is a sanctity in suffering, when
strongly, meekly borne. Our duty, though set about by thorns,
may still be made a staff, supporting even while it tortures. Cast
it away, and like the prophet's wand, it changes to a snake. God
and my own heart know, I speak no idle thoughts, I speak a
bitter truth, bitterly acknowledged.”
“And duty shall support me on this weary pilgrimage,” said
Clarissa. Then taking her mother's hand, and feebly smiling, she
added, “Surely, it can be no sin to wish such travel short : Or if
it be, I still must wish—I cannot help it.”
“Time, time, my child, is the sure conciliator. You will live
to wonder at and bless his goodness.”
“You say so—it may be,” said Clarissa, with a lightened look,
“at least, I’ll hope it.” And then both smiled gaily—wanly; for
both felt the deceit they strove to act but could not carry through.
Words, words of comforting, of hope were uttered, but they fell
coldly, hollowly; for the spirit of truth was not in them. They
were things of the tongue, passionless, mechanical ; the voice
without the soul. At this moment, old Dorothy Vale entered
the room ; and she was welcome: even though she announced
the coming of the master of the house.
“Master’s coming up the garden,” said Dorothy, each hand
rubbing an arm crossed before her. “Somebody's with him.”
“A stranger here ! Who can it be 2° cried Clarissa.
“Don’t say he's a stranger; don’t say he isn't ; can only see a
Somebody,” answered Dorothy, in whom no show whatever of
this world of shows could have awakened a momentary curiosity.
Her inheritance, as one of Eve's daughters, was this beautiful
earth, sky-roofed; yet was it no more to her than a huge deal
2
cried the woman,

278 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
box, pierced with air-holes. A place to eat, drink, sleep, and
hang up her bonnet in. -
Another minute, and Snipeton entered the room. The husband
had returned to the haven of his hopes, and was resolved that the
world—then comprised in the single person of Peter Crossbone,
who followed close at the heels of his host—should bear witness
to his exceeding happiness; to the robust delight that, as he
crossed his threshold, instantly possessed him: for with an anxious
look of joy, he strode up to his wife, and suddenly taking her
cheeks between both his hands, pursed out her lips, and then
vigorously kissed them. He was so happy, he could not, would
not feel his wife shrink at his touch—could not, would not see her
white face flush as with sudden resentment, and then subside into
pale endurance. No : the husband was resolved upon displaying
to the world his exceeding happiness, and would not be thwarted
in his show of bliss, by trifles. He merely said, still dallying with
his felicity—“Never mind Crossbone; he’s nobody; a family man
—has been married, and that’s all the same.” Now, Crossbone,
in his wayward heart, felt tempted to dispute such position ; it
was not all the same—to him. Nevertheless, he would not be
captious. It was a poor, an ignorant opinion, and therefore his
host and customer should have the free enjoyment of it.
“Mrs. Snipeton,” said the Apothecary, “though I do not feel
it professional to hope that anybody is well, nevertheless in your
case, I do hope that—well, well, I see; a little pale, but never
fear it—we'll bring the roses out again. In a little while, and
you’ll bloom like a bow-pot.”
“To be sure she will,” said Snipeton. “I thought of buying
her a pretty little horse; just a quiet thing”—
“Nothing could be better—perhaps. As I often say, horse-
flesh is the thing for weak stomachs. I may say as much to you
as a friend, Mr. Snipeton ; folks often go to the doctor's, when
they should go to the stable. Yes, yes—horse exercise and
change of air”—
“We’ll talk of it after dinner,” said Snipeton suddenly wincing;
for his heart could not endure the thought of separation. Busi-
mess and love were delightful when united ; they gave a zest to
each other: but certainly—at least in the case of Snipeton—were
not to be tasted alone. Granted that he sat in a golden shower
in St. Mary Axe ; how should he enjoy the luck falling direct
from heaven upon him, if his wife—that flower of his existence—
was transplanted to a distant soil' Would not certain bees and
butterflies hum and flutter round that human blossom ? Again,
if he himself tended the pretty patient, would not ruin—taking
certain advantage of the master's absence—post itself at his door-
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 279
step 7 Doating husband—devoted man of money ! His heart-
strings tore him one way—his purse-strings another. “We’ll
talk of it after dinner,” he repeated. “And Master Crossbone,
we’ll have a bottle of excellent wine.” In some matters Crossbone
was the most compliant of men ; and wine was one that, offered
cost-free, never found him implacable. And the truth is, Snipeton
knowing this, hoped that the wine might contain arguments
potent over the doctor's opinions. After one bottle, may two, it
was not impossible that Crossbone might reconsider his judgment.
The air of Hampstead might be thought the best of airs for
Clarissa. Wine does wonders'
The dinner was served. Crossbone was eloquent. “After your
labours in town, Mr. Snipeton, you must find it particularly
delightful, particularly so, to come home to Mrs. Snipeton,”—
the husband smiled at his wife—“ and dine off your own greens.
One’s own vegetables is what I consider the purest and highest
enjoyment of the country. Of course, too, you keep pigs 2 °
Snipeton had prepared himself for a compliment on his con-
nubial happiness; and therefore suffered a wrenching of the spirit
when called upon to speak to his cabbages. With a strong will
he waived the tender subject; and merely answered, “We do not
keep pigs.”
“That’s a pity: but all in good time. For it’s hardly possible
to imagine a prettier place for pigs. Nothing like growing one's
own bacon. But then I always like dumb things about me.
And, Mr. Snipeton, after your work in town, you can’t think how
'twould unbend your mind—how you might repose yourself, as I
may say, on a few pigs. It's beautiful to watch 'em day by day;
to see 'em growing and unfolding their fat like lilies; to make
'em your acquaintance as it were, from the time they come into
the world to the time they’re hung up in your kitchen. In this
way you seem to eat 'em a hundred times over. However, pigs
are matters that I must not trust myself to talk about.”
“Why not ?” asked Snipeton, with a porker-like grunt? “Why
not, 7 °
“Dear Mrs. Crossbone ! Well, she was a woman l’’ (It was,
in truth, Crossbone's primest consolation to know that she was a
woman.) “Our taste in everything was just alike. In every-
thing.”
“Pigs included ?” asked Snipeton, with something like a sneer.
But Crossbone was too much stirred by dearest memories to
mark it. He merely answered, “Pigs included.” After a pause.
“However, I must renounce the sweeter pleasures of the country.
Fate calls me to London.”
“It delights me to hear it, Mr. Crossbone; for we shall then
280 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
-
be so near to one another,” cried Snipeton. “Charming news
this, isn’t it, Clary 2” And the old husband chucked his wife's
chin, and would smile in her pale, unsmiling face.
“Well, as an old friend, Mr. Snipeton, I may perhaps make
no difference with you. Otherwise, my practice promises to be
confined to royalty. To royalty, Mr. Snipeton. Yes; I was sure
of it, though I never condescended to name my hopes—but I
knew that I should not be lost all my life among the weeds of the
world. Reputation, Mr. Snipeton, may be buried, like a potato;
but, sir, like a potato’—and Crossbone, tickled by the felicity of
the simile, was rather loud in its utterance—“like a potato, it
will shoot and show itself.”
“And yours has come up, eh? Well, I’m very glad to hear
it,” said Snipeton, honestly, “because you’ll be in London. Your
knowledge of Clarissa's constitution is a great comfort to me.”
“I have studied it, Mr. Snipeton ; studied it as a botanist
would study some strange and beautiful flower. It is a very
peculiar constitution—very peculiar.” The dinner being over,
Clarissa rose.
“You’ll not leave us yet, love 7 ° cried Snipeton, taking his
wife's hand, and trying to look into her eyes that—wayward eyes!
—would not meet the old man's devouring stare.
“Pray excuse me,” said Clarissa, with a politeness keen enough
to cut a husband's heart-strings. “I have some orders—direc-
tions—for Mrs. Wilton. You must excuse me.”
“That’s a treasure, Crossbone !” exclaimed Snipeton with a
laborious burst of affection, as Clarissa left the room. “A
diamond of a woman | A treasure for an emperor l’”
“Don’t-don't"—cried Crossbone, hurriedly emptying his
glass.
“I said a treasure!” repeated the impassioned husband, striking
the table. Crossbone shook his head. “What,” cried Snipeton,
knitting his brow, “you question it Before me—her husband 7”
“Pray understand me, dear sir,” said Crossbone, tranquilly
filling his glass. “Mrs. Smipeton is a treasure. She’d have been
a jewel—a pearl of a woman, sir, in the crown of King Solomon:
and that 's the worst of it.”
“The worst of it !” echoed Snipeton.
“In this world, my good friend, if a man knew what he was
about, he’d set his heart upon nothing.” The apothecary drained
his glass. “Looking, sir, as a moralist and a philosopher, at
what the worth of this world at the best is made of what is it,
but a large soap and water bubble blown by fate It shines a
minute ’’—here the moralist and philosopher raised his wine to
his eye, contemplating its ruby brightness—“ and where is it !”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 281
Saying this, Crossbone swallowed the wine: a fine practical com-
ment on his very fine philosophy. “I ask where is it !”
“Very true,” observed Snipeton, taking truth as coolly as
though used to it. “Very true; nevertheless”—
“Mr. Snipeton, my good friend,” cried Crossbone—his hand
lovingly round the neck of the decanter—“Mr. Snipeton, he is the
wisest man who in this world loves nothing. It's much the safest.
Did you ever hear of the river Styx 7”
“I can’t say,” growled Snipeton. “Is it salt or fresh 7 °
“One dip in it makes a man invulnerable to all things; stones,
arrows, bludgeons, swords, bullets, cannon-balls.”
“'Twould save a good deal in regimentals if the soldiers might
bathe there,” said Snipeton, grinning grimly.
“So much for Styx upon the outward man,” cried Crossbone:
“but I have often thought 'twould be a capital thing, if people
could take it inwardly; if they could drink Styx.”
“Like the Bath waters,” suggested Snipeton.
“Exactly so. A course or two, and the interior of a man would
then be insensible of foolish weakness,” said Crossbone.
“You’d never get the women to drink it,” remarked Snipeton,
very gravely.
“”Twould not be necessary, if man, the nobler animal—for as
Mrs. Snipeton is not here, we can talk like philosophers.”—Snipeton
grunted—“if man, the nobler animal, for we know he is, though
it would not be right perhaps to say as much before the petticoats,
—if man could make his own heart invulnerable, why, as for
woman, she might be as weak and as foolish as she pleased ;
which, you must allow, is granting her much, Mr. Snipeton.”
And here the apothecary would have laughed very jovially, but
his host looked grave, sad.
“It seems, Mr. Crossbone, you are no great friend to the
women,” said Snipeton. “Yet you must allow, we owe them
much.”
“Humph : ” cried Crossbone in a prolonged note. He then
hastily filled his glass: as hastily emptied it.
“You seem to dispute the debt 7” said Snipeton, gallantly
returning to the charge.
“Look here, Mr. Snipeton,” cried Crossbone, with the air of a
man determined for once to clear his heart of something that has
long lain wriggling there—“look here. The great charm of a
bottle of wine after dinner between two friends is this: it enables
them to talk like philosophers; and so that the servants don't
hear, philosophy with a glass of good fruity port—and yours is
capital, one tastes blood and fibre in it ;—philosophy is a very
pleasant sort of thing; but like that china shepherdess on the
282 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
mantel-piece, it is much too fine and delicate for the outside world.
No, no ; it is only to be properly enjoyed in a parlour; snug and
with the door shut.” -
“Very well. Perhaps it is. We were talking of our debts to
woman, Go on,” said Snipeton.
“Our debts to woman. Well, to begin ; in the first place we
call her an angel ; have called her an angel for thousands of
years: and I take it—but mind, I speak as a philosopher—I take
it, that’s a flam that should count as a good set-off on our side.
Or I ask it, are men, the lords of the creation, to go on lying for
nothing 2* It was plain that this wicked unbelief of Crossbone
a little shocked his host, and therefore, as the bottle was nearly
out, the apothecary felt that he must regain some of his ground.
Whereupon he sought to give a jocular guise to his philosophy ;
to make it, for the nonce, assume the comic mask. “Eſa ha
Took here : you must allow that woman ought, as much as in her
lies, to make this world quite a paradise for us, seeing that she
lost us the original garden.” Snipeton just smiled. “Come,
come,” cried the hilarious apothecary, “we talk as philosophers,
and when all's said and done about what we owe to woman, you
must allow that we’ve a swinging balance against her. Yes, yes;
you can’t deny this: there’s that little matter of the apple still
to be settled for.”
“'Tis a debt of long standing,” said Snipeton, with a short laugh.
“And therefore, as you know—nobody better”—urged Cross-
bone—“therefore it bears a heavy interest. So heavy, Mr.
Snipeton—by-the-bye, the bottle’s out—so heavy they can never
pay it. And so we mustn't be hard upon 'em, poor souls—no, we
mustn't be hard upon 'em ; but get what we can in small but
Sweet instalments. I—for all I talk in this philosophic way—ſ
was never hard upon 'em—dear little things—never hard upon
'em in all my life.”
For a few minutes philosophy took breath, whilst wine, the
frequent nutriment of that divine plant, as cultivated by Cross-
bone, was renewed. At length the apothecary observed—“To
serious business, Mr. Snipeton. Having had our little harmless
laugh at the sex, let us speak of one who is its sweetest flower,
and its brightest ornament. Need I name Mrs. Snipeton 7 °
The old man sighed ; moved uneasily in his chair; and then
with an effort began. “Mr. Crossbone, my friend—I cannot tell
you—no words can tell you, how I love that woman.”
“I can imagine the case—very virulent indeed,” said the
apothecary. “Late in life it’s always so. Love with young men,
I mean with very young men, is nothing; a slight fever. Now,
at mature time of life, it’s little short of deadly typhus. Of course,
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 283
I speak of love before marriage; that is, love with all its fears
and anxieties; for wedlock's a good febrifuge.” -
“I have struggled, fought with myself, to think—but you shall
tell me—yes, I will strengthen myself to hear the worst. Now,
man,”—and Snipeton grasped the arms of his chair with an iron
hold, and his breast heaved as he loudly uttered—“now speak it.”
“Look you here, Mr. Snipeton. Do you think me a stock, or a
stone, that I could sit here quietly and comfortably drinking your
wine, if I couldn’t give you hope—a little hope in return ?”
“A little hope l’ groaned the old man.
“A man in my position, Mr. Snipeton—with glorious circum-
stances, as I have observed, opening upon him—cannot be too
cautious. I should be sorry to compromise myself by desiring
you to be too confident. Nevertheless, she is young, Mr. Snipeton;
and the spirit of youth does sometimes puzzle us. In such spirit
then—strong as it is in her—I have the greatest faith.”
“You have * exclaimed Snipeton, starting from his seat and
seizing Crossbone's hand. “Save her and—and you shall be rich ;
that is, you shall be well recompensed—very well. My good
friend, you know not the misery it costs me to seem happy in her
sight. I laugh and jest *—Crossbone looked doubtingly—“to
cheat her of her melancholy; yet”—
“Yet she does not laugh and joke in return ?” observed Cross-
bone. “But she will—no doubt she will.”
“And then, though I know her to be sick and suffering, she
never complains: but still assures me she is well—very well.”
“Dear soul | You ought to be a happy man—you ought, but
you won’t. Can't you see that she won’t confess to sickness
because—kind creature —she can’t think of paining you ! She’d
smile and say ’twas nothing—I know she would, if she were
dying.” -
“For God’s sake, speak not such a word,” cried the old man,
turning pale.
“She must die some day,” said Crossbone. “Though, to be
sure, according to the course of nature, that is, if I save her—of
which, indeed, to tell you truly, I have now no doubt—I will
stake my reputation present and to come upon the matter”—
“You give me life, youth,” exclaimed Snipeton,” with sudden
happiness. º
“But I was about to say that, if saved, the chances are you may
leave her yet young and blooming, behind you.” The old man's
face darkened. It was a bitter thought that. Was there not
some place in the East, where, when a husband died, his wife, even
through the torture of fire, followed him This horrid thought—
how, poor man could he help it ! for reader, how know you what
2.84 ST. GILES AND ST. JANIES.
thought you shall next think —this thought, we say, passed
through Snipeton's brain. But Clarissa was no Hindoo wife.
She might—as the prating doctor said—she might be left, yes, to
smile and be happy, and more, to award happiness to another on
this earth, when her doating, passionately doating husband should
have his limbs composed in the grave. Again ; he might live
these twenty years. And in twenty years that beautiful face
would lose its look of youth—those eyes would burn with sobered
light—that full scarlet lip be shrunk and faded. And then—yes,
then he thought, he could resign her. In twenty years—perhaps
in twenty years. With this cold comfort, he ventured to reply to
the apothecary.
“Never mind my life, that's nothing. All I think of is Clarissa;
and there is yet time—she is safe, you say *"
“It’s very odd, very droll, that just now you should have
named Bath—the Bath waters, you know,” Smirked Crossbone.
“Wherefore odd–how droll ? I do not understand you.” And
yet he had caught the meaning.
“She must go to Bath; she must drink the waters. Nothing's
left but that,” averred the apothecary.
“I tell you, man, for these three months I cannot quit London.
A world of money depends upon my stay.”
“And why should you budge You don’t want your wife, do
you, at St. Mary Axe . She doesn’t keep your books, eh?”
Snipeton frowned, and bit his lip, and made no answer. Then
Crossbone, his dignity strengthened by his host's wine, rose.
“Mr. Snipeton, I have studied this case, studied it, sir, not only
as a doctor, but as a friend. I have now, sir, done my duty; I
leave you as a husband and—I was about to say as a father, but
that would be premature; as a husband and a man to do yours.
All I say is this : if your wife does not immediately remove to
Bath,”—Crossbone paused.
“Well,” snarled Snipeton, defyingly, “and if she does not ?”
“In two months, sir—I give her two months—she’ll go to the
church-yard.”
“And so she may—so she shall,”—exclaimed Snipeton, violently
striking the table—his face blackening with rage, his eyes lurid
with passion. “So she shall. An honest grave and my name
clear—I say, an honest grave, and a fair tombstone, with a fair
reputation for the dead. Anything but that accursed Bath. Why,
sir,”—and Snipeton, dilating with emotion, stalked towards the
apothecary—“what do you think me !”
Now this question, in a somewhat dangerous manner tested
Crossbone's sincerity. In sooth, it is at best a perilous interroga-
tive, trying to the ingenuousness of a friend. Crossbone paused ;
ST. GILES AND ST, JAMES. 285
not that he had not an answer at the very tip of his tongue: an
answer bubbling hot from that well of truth, his heart—and for
that reason, it was not the answer to be rendered. He therefore
looked duly astonished, and only asked—“Mr. Snipeton, what do
you mean **
“I tell you, man, I’d rather see her dead; a fair and homest
corpse, than send her to that pest-place,” cried the husband.
“ Pest-place | Really, Mr. Snipeton this is a little too much
to wipe off the reputation of a city—the reputation of hundreds of
years too—in this manner. Reputation, sir—that is, if it's good
for anything—doesn’t come up like a toadstool; no, sir, the real
thing 's of slow growth, Bath a pest-place : Why, the very
fountain of health.”
“The pool of vice—the very slough of what you call fashion.
And you think I'd send my wife there for health ! And for what
health ? Why, I’ll say she returned with glowing face and spark-
ling eyes. What then 2 I should loathe her.”
“Lord bless me !” exclaimed Crossbone.
“Now, we are happy, very happy ; few wedded couples more
so : very happy”—and Snipeton ground the words beneath all
the teeth he had, and looked furiously content. Crossbone stared
at the writhing image of connubial love.
“You certainly look happy—extraordinarily happy,”—drawled
the apothecary.
“And whilst we live, will keep so. Therefore no Bath insects
—no May-flies, no June-bugs.”
“'Tisn’t the Bath season for 'em,” put in the apothecary.
“They're all in London at this time.”
“ All's one for that. I tell you what—here, Dorothy, another
bottle of wine—I tell you what, Master Crossbone, as you say
we’ll talk the matter over philosophically, I think that's it ; and
therefore, no more words about Bath. Come, come, can there be
a finer air than this 2° cried the husband, rubbing his hands, and
trying to laugh.
“My dear sir, the quality of the air is not the thing—it's the
change that's the medicine. And then there's the waters”—
“We have an excellent spring at Hampstead. Years ago I'm
told the nobility used to come and drink it.”
“Then, sir, the waters hadn’t been analysed. Since then
they’ve been found out : only fit for cattle, sir, and the lower orders.
Never known now to agree with a person of gentility of stomach—
that is, of true delicacy. And for the air, it's very good, certainly,
just for the common purposes of life ; but as I say, it’s not the
quality, it’s the change that’s the thing. There’s cases, sir, in
which I’d send patients, ay, from Montpelier to the neighbourhood
286 ST. GILES ANI) ST. JAMES.
of Fleet-ditch. The fact is, sir, there can’t be at times a better
change than from the best to the worst. The lungs, sir, get tired—
heartily sick of good air if it’s always the same: jùst as the stomach
would get tired of the very best mutton, had it nothing but mutton
every day.”
Snipeton was silent ; pondering a refutation of this false pliilo-
sophy. Still he tugged at his brain for a happy rejoinder. He
felt—he was certain of it—that it would come when the apothe-
cary had gone away, but unhappily he wanted it for present use.
He felt himself like a rich man with all his cash locked up. Now
wit, like money, bears an extra value when rung down imme-
diately it is wanted; men pay severely who require credit. Thus,
though Snipeton knew he had somewhere in that very strong box,
his skull, a whole bank of arguments, yet because he could not at
the moment draw one, Crossbone—the way of the world—believed
there were absolutely no effects. Snipeton, however, got over a
difficulty as thousands before him—and thousands yet unborn will
jump an obstacle ;-he asked his opponent to take another
glass of wine. If Bacchus often lead men into quagmires deep
as his vats, let us yet do him this justice, he sometimes leads
them out. -
“I believe you said something about horse exercise, Cross-
bone Now with a horse—you don’t drink”—a hospitable slander
this on the apothecary—“with a horse there 's change of air at
will, eh?” -
“To be sure there is. And then there’s Highgate and Finchley,
and—well, that might do, perhaps,” said Crossbone,
“And in the evenings”— and Snipeton brightened at the
prospect—“we could ride together.”
“Death, sir, certain death *—and Crossbone gave one of his
happiest shudders. “The night air is poison—absolute poison.
No, the time would be from—let me see—from eleven to three.”
“Impossible ; quite impossible. Can't leave business—certain
ruin,” cried Snipeton. - .
“Certain death, then,” said Crossbone, and he slowly, Solemnly
drained his glass. “Certain death,” he repeated.
“Don’t say that, Crossbone,” cried Snipeton, softened. “Mrs.
Wilton—perhaps she rides, and then *—
“As for Mrs. Wilton, I trust you are under no particular obli-
gation to that person 1’’
“Obligation,” cried Snipeton; as though the thought implied
an insult. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing but for your wife's health. The fact is, Mrs. Wilton
always seems melancholy, heavy ; with something on her mind.
Now, my dear sir, it is a truth in moral philosophy not sufficiently
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 287
well known and attended to, that dumps are catching.” And
Crossbone looked the proud discoverer of the subtlety.
“Indeed—are they Perhaps they may be. Well, there’s
a wench coming up from Kent—somewhere near Dovesnest. I’ve
been coaxed to consent to it. She may make a sort of merrier
companion.” . -
“She may,” said Crossbone ; “but what you want is an honest,
sharp fellow—for honesty without sharpness in this world is like a
sword without edge or point ; very well for show, but of no real
use to the owner.
“Go on,” cried Snipeton, bowing to the apothecary’s apothegm.
“Now, I have the very man who'll suit you. The miracle of
a groom. Honest as a dog, and sharp as a porcupine.”
“ Humph : ” cried Snipeton, marvelling at the human wonder.
“Your servant, Mr. Crossbone”—said Dorothy Vale, opening
the door—“ has called as you desired.”
“Tell him to come in,” cried Crossbone : who then said to
Snipeton—“At least you can see the fellow.” And close upon
these words, St. Giles stood in the room.
CEIAPTER XXVIII.
1T may be remembered that Snipeton and St. Giles had met
before. And certainly St. Giles had not forgotten the event :
his somewhat anxious look declared his recollection of the scene
at Dovesnest, in which he played the part of rogue and vagabond
according to the statute ; but as Snipeton had no corresponding
interest in the circumstance, he had wholly forgotten the person
of the outcast in the candidate for service. But in truth, St. Giles
was not the same man. At Dovesnest he was in rags: fear and
want had sharpened his face, withering, debasing him. And
now, he breathed new courage with every hour's freedom.—
He was comfortably, trimly clad ; and his pocket—too oft the
barometer of the soul—was not quite at zero. . Hence, in few
moments, he looked with placid respect at Snipeton, who stared
all about his face, as a picture-dealer stares at an alleged old
master; with a look that in its cunning, would even seem to
hope a counterfeit. Was St. Giles really the honest fellow that
he appeared; was there in truth the original mark of the original
artist upon him : or was he a fraudful imitation especially made
to gull a trusting gentleman —Was there really no flaw in that
288 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
honest seeming face / And Snipeton as he looked half-wished
that all men—or all servants at least—were fashioned like
earthen vessels; that, properly filliped, they should perforce
reveal a damnifying fracture. Certainly, such sort of human
pottery, expressly made for families, would be an exceeding
comfort to all housekeepers. Snipeton thought this; to his own
disappointment thought it: for there being no such test of moral
soundness, he could only choose the domestic, two-legged vessel
before him by its looks. Alas! why was there no instant means
of trying the music of its ring 7
“That will do ; you can wait,” said Crossbone to St. Giles,
who thereupon left the room.
“And what can you say for this fellow 7 Do you know all
about him—who begot him—where he comes from ?” asked
Snipeton.
Crossbone was a man of quick parts: so quick, that few knew
better than he, the proper time for a complete lie. We say a com-
plete lie ; not a careless, fragmentary flam, with no genius in it ;
but a well-built, architecturallie, buttressed about by circumstance.
Therefore, no sooner was the question put to him than, without let
or hesitation, he poured forth the following narrative. Wonderful
man falsehood flowed from him like a fountain.
“The young man who has just quitted us is of humble but
honest origin. Iſis parents were villagers, and rented a little
garden ground whereon they raised much of their lowly but
healthy ſare. Far, far indeed was the profligacy of London from
that abode of rustic innocence. His playmates—Imean the young
man's—were the lambkins that he watched, for at an early age he
was sent out to tend sheep : his books the flowers at his feet, the
clouds above his head. Not but what he reads remarkably well
for his condition, and writes a good stout, servant’s hand. He was
Seven years old—no, I’m wrong, eight, eight years—when he lost
his father, who, good creature, fell a victim to his humanity. A
sad matter that. He was killed by a windmill.” ©
“I thought you said 'twas his humanity,” observed Snipeton.
“And a windmill,” averred Crossbone. “A neighbour's child
was gathering buttercups and daisies, and had strayed beneath
the mill's revolving sails. The young man's father obeying the
impulse of his benevolent heart, rushed forward to save the little
innocent. His humanity, not measuring distance, carried him too
near the sails; he was struck to the earth with a compound frac-
ture of the skull, and died.”
“This you know 2° muttered Snipeton, looking with a wary
eye.
“’Twas when I was an apprentice. The man being poor, and
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 289
the case desperate, 'twas given up to me to do my best with it. I
learned a great deal from that case, and from that moment felt a
natural interest in the orphan. And he has been worthy of it.
You’d hardly believe the things I could tell you of that young
man. You can’t think how he loves his mother.”
“No great credit in that, eh?” said Snipeton.
“Why, no ; not exactly credit ; but you must own it's graceful
—very graceful. He makes her take nearly all his wages.
Hardly saves enough for shirts and pocket-handkerchiefs. Now,
this strikes me as being very filial, Mr. Snipeton 7 °
“And you think he'd make a good groom, eh?” asked the
cautious husband.
“Bless you ! he knows more about horses than they know
themselves. But all he knows is nothing to his honesty. I’ve
trusted him with untold gold, and he has never laid his finger
upon it.”
“How do you know, if you never counted it?” asked Snipeton.
“That is ”—said Crossbone, a little pulled up—“that is, you
know what I mean. And—the thought’s been working in me,
though I’ve talked of other matters—I do think that a horse with
the quick and frequent change of air a horse can give, may do
everything for Mrs. Snipeton ; for, as I've said before—she 's
young, very young; and youth takes much killing. And there-
fore, you’ll make yourself easy ; come, you’ll promise me that?”
“I will,” said Snipeton, a little softened. “You’ve given me
new heart. Come, another glass.”
“Not another drop. Pen and ink, if you please: I must write
a little prescription for a little nothing for your good lady; not
that she wants medicine,” said Crossbone.
“Then why poison her with it 7” asked Snipeton with some
energy.
“She wouldn't be satisfied without it. Therefore, just a little
coloured negative ; nothing more.” Pen and ink were ordered,
brought ; and Crossbone strove to write as innocently as his art
allowed him. “There must be an apothecary at Hampstead, and
I’ll send the man with it ;” and Crossbone folded the prescription
and rose. y
“And when shall we see you again 7" asked Snipeton.
“Why, in two or three days. But I have done all the good I
can at present. You’ll try the horse 2"—
“I Will.”—
“And the man 2°–
“I’ll think of him.—Tell me, does he know anybody in
Tondon 2 ° -
“Any calf you like, brought to Smithfield, knows more of the
U
290 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
ways—more of the people of town. He’s a regular bit of country
turf. Green and fresh. Else do you think I’d recommend him '''
asked Crossbone very earnestly. -
“I almost think—I mean I’m pretty sure—that is, I will try
him,” said Snipeton.
“Then between ourselves, 1’ve recommended you a treasure.
And—stop ; I was about to go, forgetting the most important
thing. You heard me say that dumps were catching " I hope
you’ve thought of that. Now, that Mrs. Wilton—the house-
keeper—she’d ruin any young woman. Bless you ! She 's
hypochondria in petticoats.”
“Humph : I don’t know ; I prefer a serious woman for her
calling. Perhaps a little over melancholy to be sure, never-
theless *—
“I hate your very grave-looking people. If they really are
what they look, they’re bad ; if they arn’t, they’re worse. And
in a word—I might say more if I chose, but I won't—in a word,
I don’t think that Mrs. Snipeton will ever get any good from
your housekeeper. Good-bye, God bless you ;-the man shall
bring the medicine.” So saying, and looking deepest mystery,
Crossbone departed.
The apothecary had achieved more than he had hoped. It was
very true, thought Snipeton, the woman was cold—melancholy.
Again, she had never looked upon him with pleasant looks. Her
respect seemed wrung from her : it was not free—natural. And
yet her cyc watched his wife with unceasing regard. Every
moment—when least wanted, too—she was hovering near her.
How was it, he had never seen this before ? It was plain the
woman had some false influence ; exercised some power that
estranged his wife from him.
Let us leave Snipeton for a brief time struggling and weltering
in this sea of doubt ; now trying to touch certain ground, and now
carried away again. Let us leave him, and follow the apothecary.
He had had just wine enough ; which circumstance was to him
the most potent reason for having more. He had put up at the
Flask at Hampstead ; and to that hostelry he strode, St. Giles
silently following him.
“My man,” said Crossbone, “who was your father—where
were you born—what have you been doing—and where do you
come from ? An answer if you please to each of these questions.”
St. Giles, plucking up courage, simply replied—“I am his lord-
ship's servant; and have his orders to follow you.”
“There's not the slightest doubt, his lordship's servant, that
you’re a convenient rascal of all work, and quite up to the business
we shall put you to.” Let not the reader imagine that these
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 391
words were uttered by Crossbone : by no means; not a syllable
of them. But the thought—the ethereal essence of words—had
touched the brain of the apothecary, and his whole frame tingled
with the awakened music. He had found a scoundrel, he was
sure of it, and he was happy.
“Very good, my man ; very good: I understand you. As you
say, you are his lordship's servant, and have his lordship's orders
to take my directions. Very well. You will therefore please to
take your father and mother from my hands. Understand, for once
that they were honest, respectable people; and be grateful for
the parents I’ve given you. Your father, good man was killed
by a windmill; and your mother still lives in the country, and
regularly takes three-fourths of your wages. And you are not
to forget that you have a great love for that mother. And now,
take this prescription to the apothecary’s ; tell him to make it up,
and send to Mr. Snipeton's. After which, you’ll come to me at
the Flask. Go.” St. Giles, with perplexed looks, obeyed Cross-
bone, and went upon his errand. “I’ve given the vagabond a
father and mother to be proud of—it’s quite clear, much better
than were really bestowed upon him ; and he hasn't a word of
thanks to say upon the matter. Let a gentleman lie as he will
for the lower orders, they’re seldom grateful. Nevertheless, let
us have the virtue that he wants. Were he a piece of pig-headed
honesty, he wouldn’t suit our work. No : Providence has been
very good in sending us a rascal.” With these mute thoughts,
this final thanksgiving, did Crossbone step onward to the Flask.
He would there further ponder the plan that, throwing Snipe-
ton's young wife into the arms of a young nobleman—(and, in
common justice, so old and vulgar a man had no claim to such
refinement and beauty; she must have been originally intended
for high life, and therefore cruelly misapplied,)—would throw him,
Crossbone, the prime conspirator, into the very highest practice.
He would keep a carriage As he looked at the glorious clouds,
coloured by the setting sun, he felt puzzled whether his coach
panels should be a bright blue, a flame-coloured yellow, or a
rich mulberry. Slill the clouds changed and shifted, and still
with the colour of his carriage at his heart, he looked upon them
as no other than a celestial pattern-book, rolled out to help him
in his choice. The wide west was streaked and barred with gold ;
and staring at it, Crossbone was determined that lace, three-inch
lace, should blaze upon his liveries. And rapt in this sweet dream,
he walked on, his heart throbbing to the rumbling of his coach
wheels. That music was so sweet, so deep, absorbing, that accom-
panying his footsteps, he was within a few paces of the Flask ere
he saw a crowd gathered about the door, and heard the words
U 2
292 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“he’s killed.” His professional zeal was immediately quickened,
and hurrying into the middle of the crowd, he saw the body of
a man, apparently lifeless, carried towards the inn. The people
crowded around, and by their very anxiety impeded the progress
of the bearers towards the door. “Stand aside, folks—stand
aside,” cried Crossbone, “I’m a physician ; that is, a medical
man. Keep his head up, fellow.”
“Get out o' the way,” exclaimed a stranger, “you don’t know
how to carry a fellow-cretur,” and the benevolent new-comer
thrust aside the rustic who was, awkwardly enough, supporting
the shoulders of the wounded man, and with admirable zeal, and
great apparent tenderness, relieved him of the charge. “Poor
soul—poor soul l’’ he cried, much affected, “I do wonder if he’s
a wife and family 7° -
“A bed-room ; immediately—a bed-room,” exclaimed Cross-
bone, and his sudden patient was carried up-stairs, Crossbone
following. As he ascended, a horse bathed in foam, and every
muscle quivering, was led to the door.
“It’s my belief that that Claypole sends out his boy to fly his
kite a purpose to kill people, that he may bury 'em. That’s the
third horse he 's frit this week ; the little warmint | And this
looks like death any how.” Thus delivered himself, a plain-
spoken native of Hampstead.
“You may say death. Cracked like a egg-shell; ” and saying
this, the speaker significantly pointed to his own skull. “The
doctor’s a trying to get blood : it’s my opinion he might as well
try a tomb-stone. Well, this is a world, isn’t it 2 I often thanks
my luck I can't afford a horse: for who's safe a-horseback 7 A
man kisses his wife and his babbies, if he has 'em, when he
mounts his saddle of a mornin’—and his wife gets him lamb and
sparrow-grass, or something nice for Supper, 'xpecting him home.
She listens for his horse's feet, and he’s brought to his door in a
shell.” -
“Well, mate, you do speak a truth ; nobody can deny that,”
said one of the mob ; who, it is probable, scarcely dreamt that the
Sometime moralist and truth were so very rarely on speaking
terms. And this the reader will, doubtless, admit, when we inform
him that the man who so humanely, so affectionately lent his aid
to the thrown horseman, helping to bear him with all tenderness
up stairs, was Mr. Thomas Blast. It was his business, or rather,
as he afterwards revealed, his pleasure to be at Hampstead—his
Solemn pleasure. At this moment, St. Giles on his return from
the apothecary’s, came to the inn-door. Ere he was well aware
of the greeting, his hand was grasped by Blast-“Well, how do
you do?, Who'd have thought to see you here ** Who, in sooth
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 293
but Blast himself—seeing that he had dogged his prey from
St. James's-square 7 “Ha! my good friend,” cried Blast, very
much moved, “you don't know the trouble I’ve had since we met.
IBut you must see it in my looks. Tell me, ain't I twenty years
Older 7 ° f
“I don’t see it,” muttered St. Giles: though, assuredly,
such a sight would have carried its pleasure to the runaway
transport.
“Ha you won’t see it ; that 's so like a friend. But don’t
let us stand in the street; come in and have a pot ; for I’ve
somethin’ to say that 'll set your art a bleeding.” Hoping, pray-
ing, that Crossbone might not observe him—and feeling dwarfed,
powerless, under the will of Blast,--St. Giles turned into a side-
room with his early teacher and destroyer.
“I don’t feel as if I could do anything much in the way of
drink,” said Blast, to the waiter following, “and so, a little brandy-
and-water. Well, you wonder to see me at Hampstead, I dare
say ? You can’t guess what brings me here 7°
“No,” said St. Giles. “How should I?”
“I’m a altered man. I come here all this way for nothin’ else but
to see the sun a settin'. Your health ;” and Blast, as he said, did
nothing in the way of drink : for he gulped his brandy-and-water.
“To see the sun a-setting !” cried St. Giles; we fear, too, a
little incredulously.
“FIa you’re young, and likes to see him a getting up ; it’s
matrul ; but when you’re my time o' life, and have stood the
wear and tear o’ the world as I have, you’ll rather look at the
sun when he sets, then. And, do you know why | You don’t
I’ll tell you. Acause, when he sets, he reminds you of where
you're a going. I never thought I should ha’ been pulled up in
the way I have been. But trouble 's done it. My only comfort's
now to look at the settin' Sun—and he sets nowhere so stylish
here at Hampstead.”
“And so you’ve had trouble 7" said St. Giles, coldly.
“Don’t talk in that chilly way, as if your words was hailstones.
I feel as if I could fall on your neck, and cry like a 'oman. Don’t
freeze me in that manner. I said trouble. LOSs o' property, and
death.”
“Death !” cried St. Giles.
“Little Jingo. That apple o’ both my eyes; that tulup of a
child. Well, he was too clever to live long. I always thought it.
Much too for’ard for his age. He's gone, And now he's gone,
I do feel that I was his father.” St. Giles stifled a rising groan.
“But—it's my only comfort—he's better looked arter now than
with me.” -
294 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“No doubt,” said St. Giles with a quickness that made Blast
stare. “I mean, if he is where you hope he is.”
“I should like to pay him some respect. I don’t want to do
much : but—I know it's a weakness; still a man without a
weakness has no right to live among men; he's too good for this
sinful world. As I was saying, I know it’s a weakness: still, I
should like to wear a little bit o' black—if it was only a rag, so it
was black. You couldn’t lend me nothing, could you ? Only a
coat would be something to begin with.”
St. Giles pleaded in excuse his very limited wardrobe; and Blast
was suddenly satisfied.
“Well, he's gone ; and if I was to go as black as a nigger, he
wouldn’t rest the better for 't. Besides, the settin' Sun tells me
we shan’t be long apart. Nothing like Sunsets to pull a man up ;
and so you’ll know when you’ve had my trouble. Your health
agin.”
“And you have had a loss of property besides 2" asked St.
Giles.
“Look here,” cried Blast, taking off his hat and rumpling up
his hair : “here's a change | Once as black as a crow ; and now
—oh, my dear friend’”—St. Giles shrunk at the appeal as at a
presented pistol—“if you want to put silver on a man's head,
you’ve only to take all the gold out of his pocket. Had a loss
You may say a loss. I tell you what it is : it’s no use for a man
to think of being honest in this world: it isn’t. I’ve tried, and
I give it up.”
“That’s a pity,” said St. Giles: knowing not what to say—
knowing not how to shake off his tormentor. .
“Why, it is ; for a man doesn’t often make his mind up to it.
Well, I’ve had my faults, I know ; who hasn’t Still, I did
think to reform when I got that lump of money; and more, I did
think to make a man of you. I’d chalked out the prettiest, inno-
centest life for both on us. I’ll make a sojer of Jingo, I thought ;
yes, I’ll buy him some colours for the army, and make him a
gen’lman at once. And then I thought we would so enjoy our-
selves | We’d ha’ gone and been one all among the lower orders.
In summer time we’d ha’ played at knock 'em-downs with 'em,
jest to show we was all made o’ the same stuff; and in winter
we wouldn’t ha’ turned up our noses at hot-cockles, or blind-man's
buff, or nothin’ of the sort ; but ha’ been as free and comfortable
with the swinish multitude (for I did begin to think 'em that when
I got the money) as if they’d got gold rings in their noses, and
like the pig-faced lady, eat out of a silver trough. I thought
you’d be a stick to my old age. But what's the use o' thinking
on it ! As my schoolmaster used to say,+* Him as sets his
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 295
heart on the things of this life,'—I’ve forgot the rest ; but it’s
all of a piece.”
“And how did you get this money?” asked St. Giles, with
very well-acted innocence.
“How did I get the money How should I get it ! By the
sweat of my brow.” And so far, the reader who remembers the
labour of Blast in his theft of the gold-box, may acquit him of an
untruth.
“And having got such a heap of gold,” rejoined St. Giles,
“pray tell me—how did you lose it 7”
Now Blast had, and never suspected it, a sense of humour: he
could really enjoy a joke when least palatable to most men;
namely, when made against themselves. Nevertheless, with
people who have only a proper pride of such philosophy, he had
his share of sensitiveness, to be called up at a reasonable crisis.
Hence, when St. Giles pressed him to explain his loss, the jest
became a hurt. Good nature may endure a tickling with a
feather, but resents a scratch from a tenpenny nail. “My dear
young friend,” said Blast, “don’t do that ; pray don't. When
you’re as old as me, and find the world a slippin’ from under you
like a hill o' sand, you’ll not laugh at the losses o' gray hairs,”
and again Blast drew his fingers through his locks meekly,
mournfully. “How did I lose it No.: you warn’t at Liquorish,
you warn’t l No ; you don’t know 7 Well, I hope I’m not
much worse than my neighbours; and I don't like wishing bad
wishes, it is sich old woman’s work; it's only barking the louder
for wanting teeth. But this I will wish : if a clergyman o' the
'Stablished Church is ever to choke himself with a fish-bone, I do
hope that that clergyman doesn’t live far from Lazarus Hall, and
that his name begins with a G. I’m not a spiteful man; and so I
won’t wish anything more plain than that. But it is hard”—and
again Blast, he could not help it, recurred to his loss—“it is hard,
when I’d resolved to live in peace with all the world, to give a
little money to the poor, and—as we all must die—when I did
die, to have sich a clean, respectable moniment put up to me
inside the church, with a naked boy in white stone holding one
hand to his eyes, and the other putting out his link—you've seen
the sort o' thing I dare say —it is hard to be done out of it after
all. It’s enough to make a man, as I say, think o' nothin' but
the setting sun. Howsomever, it serves me right. I ought to
haſ know'd that sich a fine place must haſ belonged to the
clergyman. If I’d hid the box in a ditch, and not in a parson’s
fish-pond, at this blessed moment you and I might ha’ been
happy men ; lords for life ; and called, what I’ve heard, useful
members of society. And now, mate,” asked Blast with sudden
296 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
warmth—“how do you like your place 7 Is it the thing —is it
clover ?”
“What place l’’ asked St. Giles. “I’m in no place, certain,
as yet.”
“There, then, we won’t say nothin’ about it. Only this. When
you’re butler—if I’m spared in this wicked world so long-you
won't refuse an old friend, Jingo's friend, Jingo's mother's friend”
—St. Giles turned sick at his mother's name, so spoken—“ you
won’t refuse him a bottle o’ the best in the pantry You won't,
will you ? Eh 7 °
“No,” stammered St. Giles. “Why should I? Certainly not,
when I’m butler.”
“And till then, old fellow,”—and Blast bent forward in his
chair, and touched St. Giles's knee with his finger—“lend us a
guinea.”
St. Giles recoiled from the request ; the more so, as it was
seconded by contact with the petitioner. He made no answer;
but his face looked blank as blank paper: not a mark was in it
to serve as hieroglyph for a farthing. Blast could read faces
better than books. “You won’t then 7 Not so much as a guinea
to the friend of Jingo's mother ?” St. Giles scowled. “Well, as
it’s like the world, why should I quarrel ? Now jest see the
difference. See the money, I’d ha’ given you, if misfortin’ hadn't
stept in. ‘He’s a fine fellow,' I kept continally saying to myself;
‘I don’t know how it is, I like him, and he shall have half. Not
a mite less than half.’ And now, you won’t lend me—for mind I
don’t ax it as a gift—you won’t lend me a guinea.”
“I can’t,” said St. Giles. “I am poor myself: very poor.”
“Well, as I said afore, we won’t quarrel. And so, you shall
have a guinea of me.” Saying this, Blast with a cautious look
towards the door, drew a long leathern purse from his pocket.
St. Giles suddenly felt as though a party to the robbery that—he
knew it—Blast must somewhere have perpetrated.
“Not a farthing,” said St. Giles, as Blast dipped his finger and
thumb in the purse. “Not a farthing.”
“Don’t say that ; don’t be proud, for you don’t know in this
world what you may want. I dare say the poor cretur up stairs
was proud enough this mornin’; and what is he now 2°
“Not dead l’’ cried St. Giles, “I hope not dead.” •
“Why, hope’s very well; and then it’s so very cheap. But
there 's no doubt he’s gone; and as he’s gone, what, I should
like to know”—and Blast threw the purse airily up and down
—“what was the use of this to him # *
“Good God! You haven’t stole it !” exclaimed St. Giles,
leaping to his feet.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 297
“Hush | * cried Blast, “don’t make sich a noise as that with
a dead body in the house. The worst o' folks treat the dead with
respect. Else people who're never thought of at all when in the
world, wouldn’t be gone into black for when they go out of it.
T’d no thought of the matter, when I run to help the poor
Cretur: but somehow, going up stairs, one of his coat tails did
knock at my knuckles so, that I don’t know how it was, when
I’d laid him comfortable on the bed, and was coming down agin,
I found this sort o' thing in my pocket. Poor fellow ! he’ll never
miss it. Well, you won’t have a guinea, then 7° -
“I’d starve first,” exclaimed St. Giles.
“My good lad, it isn’t for me to try to put myself over your
head, but this I must say ; when you've seen the world as I
have, you’ll know better. You won’t talk of starving in that
manner.”
At this moment, the waiter entered the room.
“How is the poor gentleman up stairs " " asked St. Giles. “Is
there no hope l’”
“Lor bless you, yes! They’ve bled him and made him quite
comfortable. He’s ordered some rump-steaks and Onions, and
says he'll make a night of it.” Thus spoke the waiter.
“Do you hear that ?” asked St. Giles of Blast.
“Sorry to hear it: sorry to think that any man arter sich an
escape, should think o’ nothing better than supper. My man,
what’s to pay ?” St. Giles unbuttoned his pocket. “No ; not
a farden ; tell you, I won’t hear of it. Not a farden: bring the
change out o' that,” and Blast laid down a dollar: and the waiter
departed on his errand,
“I tell you, I don’t want you to treat me; and I won’t have
it,” said St. Giles.
“My good young man, a proper pride's a proper thing; and
I don't like to see nobody without it. But pride atween friends I
hate. So good bye, for the present. I’ll take my change at the
bar.” And Mr. Blast was about to hurry himself from the room,
“Stay,” said St. Giles; “should I wish to see you, where are
you to be found !” , º
“Well, I don’t know,” said Blast. “Sometimes in one place—
sometimes another. But one thing, my dear lad, is quite sure.”
Here Blast put both his hands on St. Giles's shoulders and
looked in his face with smiling malignity—“One thing is quite
sure: if you don’t know how to find me, I shall always know
where to come upon you. Don’t be afeard of that, young man.”
And with this, Blast left the room, while St. Giles sank in his
chair, weary and sick at heart. He was in the villain's power
and seemed to exist only by his sufferance.
298 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEs.
CHAPTER XXIX.
DOES it live in the memory of the reader that Snipeton, only a
chapter since, spoke of a handmaid on her way from Kent to
make acquaintance with his fire-side divinities : That human
flower, with a freshness of soul like the dews of Paradise upon
her is, reader, at this very moment in Fleet Street. Her face is
beaming with happiness—her half-opened mouth is swallowing
wonders—and her eyes twinkle, as though the London pavement
she at length treads upon was really and truly the very best of
gold, and dazzled her with its glorifying brightness. She looks
upon the beauty and wealth about her gaily, innocently, as a little
child would look upon a state coffin ; the velvet is so rich, and
the plates and nails so glittering. She has not the wit to read
the true meaning of the splendour; cannot, for a moment, dream
of what it covers. Indeed, she is so delighted, dazzled by what
she sees, that she scarcely hears the praises of the exceeding
beauty of her features, the wondrous symmetry of her form ;
praises vehemently, industriously uttered by a youthful swain
who walks at her side, glancing at her fairness with the libertine's
felonious look. He eyes her innocence, as any minor thief would
eye a brooch or chain; or, to give the youth his due, he now and
then ventures a bolder stare; for he has the fine intelligence to
know that he may rob that country wench of herself, and no
Bridewell—no Newgate—will punish the larceny. Now, even
the bow of sixpenny riband on her bonnet is protected by a
statute. Besides, Master Ralph Gum knows the privileges of
certain people in a certain condition of life. Young gentlemen
born and bred in London, and serving the nobility, are born and
educated the allowed protectors of rustic girls. The pretty
country things—it was the bigoted belief of the young footman—
might betworn, like bouquets on a birth-day—And the wench at
his side is a nosegay expressly sent by fortune from the country
for his passing felicity and adornment. True it is, that Master
Ralph Gum is scarcely looming out of boyhood; but there is a
sort of genius that soars far beyond the parish register. Ralph's
age is not to be counted by the common counters, years; but by
the rarer marks of precocious intelligence. He is a liveried
prodigy; one of those terribly clever animals that, knowing
everything, too often confound simple people with their fatal
knowledge. Therefore was it specially unfortunate for the damsel

ST. GII,ES AND ST. JAMES. 299
that of all the crowd that streamed through Fleet Street, she
should have asked Ralph Gum to indicate her way to St. Mary
Axe. At the time, she was setting due eastward ; when the
faithless vassal assured her that she was going clean wrong ;
and, as happily he himself had particular business towards her
destination, it would give him a pleasure he could never have
hoped for, to guide her virgin steps to St. Mary Axe. And she—
poor maid —believed and turned her all-unconscious face towards
Temple Bar. The young man, though a little dark, had such
bright black eyes—and such very large, and very white teeth,
and wore so very fine a livery, that it would have been flying in
the face of truth to doubt him. Often at the rustic fire-side had
she listened to the narrated wickedness of London ; again and
again had she pre-armed her soul with sagacious strength to
meet and confound the deception that in so many guises prowled
the city streets, for the robbery and destruction of the Arcadian
stranger. She felt herself invincible until the very moment that
Ralph gave smiling, courteous answer to her ; and then, as at the
look and voice of a charmer, the Amazonian breast-plate (forged
over many teas) she had buckled on, melted like frost-work at
the sun, and left her an unprotected, because believing woman.
“Why, and what’s them 7" cried the girl, suddenly fixed
before St. Dunstan's church. At the moment the sun reached
the meridian, and the two wooden giants, mechanically punctual,
striking their clubs upon the bell, gave warning note of noon.
Those giants have passed away; those two great ligneous heroes
of the good old times have been displaced and banished; and we
have submitted to learn the hour from an ordinary dial. There
was a grim dignity in their bearing—a might in their action—
that enhanced the value of the time they noted: their clubs fell
upon the senses of parishioners and way-farers, with a power and
impressiveness not compassable by a round, pale-faced clock. It
was, we say, to give a worth and solemnity to time, to have time
counted by such grave tellers. If the parishioners of St. Dunstan
and the frequent passengers of Fleet Street have, of late years,
contributed more than their fair quota to the stock of national
wickedness, may not the evil be philosophically traced to the
deposition of their wooden monitors'. This very valuable surmise
of Ours ought to be quoted in parliament—that is, if lawmakers
properly prepared themselves for their solemn tasks, by duly
conning histories like the present—quoted in opposition to the
revolutionary movement of the time. For we have little doubt
that a motion for the return of the number of felonies and
misdemeanours—to say nothing of the social offences that may
be the more grave because not named in the statutes—committed
300 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
in the parish of St. Dunstan's, would show an alarming increase
since the departure of St. Dunstan's wooden genii. A triumphant
argument this—we modestly conceive—for the conservation of
wooden things in high places. “La and what’s them " " again
cried the girl, twelve o’clock being told by the strikers.
“Why, my tulup, them 's a couple of cruel churchwardens
turned into wood hundreds of years ago, for their sins to the
poor. But you are a beauty, that you are l’ added Ralph, with
burning gallantry.
“It can’t be ; and you never mean it,” said the maiden, really
forgetting her own loveliness in her wonder of the giants.
“Turned into wood Unpossible ! Who did it 7”
“Why, Providence,—or, something of the kind, you know,”
replied the audacious footman. “You’ve heard of Whittington,
I should think, my marigold, eh? He made a fortin in the
Indies, where he let out his cat to kill all the vermin in all the
courts—and a nice job I should think puss must have had of it.
Well, them giants was churchwardens in his time: men with
flesh and blood in their hearts, though now they’d bleed nothing
but saw-dust.”
“You don’t say so | Poor souls . And what did they do 1"
asked the innocent damsel.
Mr. Ralph Gum scratched his head for inspiration; and then
made answer: “You see, there was a poor woman—a sailor's
wife—with three twins in her arms. And she went to one
churchwarden, and said as how she was a starving ; and that her
very babbies couldn’t cry for weakness. And he told her to come
to-morrow, for it wasn’t the time to relieve paupers: and then
she went to the other churchwarden, and he sent out word that
she must come again in two days, and not afore.”
“Two days ” cried the maiden. “The cruel creturs didn’t
they know what time was to the starving 2* --
“Why, no ; they didn’t ; and for that reason, both the church-
wardens fell sick, all their limbs every day a turning into wood.
And then they died ; and they was going to bury’em, when next
morning their coffins was found empty; and they was seen where
they now stand. And there was a Act of Parliament made that
their relations shouldn’t touch 'em, but let 'em stand to strike
the clock, as a warning to all wicked churchwardens to know
what hours are to folks with hungry bellies.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the girl, innocent as a bleating
lamb. “And now, young man, you’re sure this is the way to
Mary Axe?”
“Didn't I tell you, my sunflower, I was born there 7 I would
carry your bundle for you, only you see, his lordship, the nobleman
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 30).
I serve, is very particular. Livery's livery ;-he'd discharge any
of us that demeaned himself to carry a bundle. Bless you ; there
are young fellows in our square—only I’m not proud—that
wouldn't speak to you with such a thing as a bundle ; they
wouldn’t, my wild rose. But then, you’re such a beauty 1"
“No ; I am not. I know what I am, young man. I’m not of
the worst, but a good way from the best. Besides, beauty, as
they say, is only skin-deep; is it !” asked the maiden, not
unwilling to dwell upon the theme.
“Well, you’re deep enough for me anyhow,” replied the footboy,
and he fixed his eyes as though he thought them burning-glasses,
on the guileless stranger. “And now, here you are, right afore
Temple Bar.”
“Mercy what a big gate and what's it for, young man 7”
cried the wondering girl.
“Why, I once heard it said in our hall that Temple Bar was
built on purpose to keep the scum of the City from running
over into the West End. Now, this I don’t believe,” averred
Ralph.
“Nor I, neither,” cried the ingenuous wench, “else, doesn’t it
stand to reason they'd keep the gate shut 7”
“My ºpinion is what I once heard, that Temple Bar was really
built at the time of the Great Plague of London, to keep the
disease from the king and queen, the rest of the royal family, with
all the nobility, spirital and temperal.” And Ralph coughed.
“Well, if you don’t talk like a prayer-book | * exclaimed the
maiden, full of admiration.
“I Ought by this time; I was born to it, my dear. Bless your
heart, when I was no higher nor that, I was in our house. I learnt
my letters from the plate ; yes, real gold and silver; none of your
horn-books. And as for pictures, I didn’t go to books for them
neither ; no, I used to study the coach-panels. There wasn’t a
griffin, nor a cockatrice, nor a tiger, nor a viper of any sort upon
town I wasn’t acquainted with. That’s knowing life, I think,
It isn't for me to talk, my bed of violets; but you wouldn’t
think the Latin I know ; and all from coaches.”
“Wonderful But are you sure this is the way to Mary
Axe " " and with the question the maiden crossed the city's
barrier, and with her lettered deceiver trod the Strand.
“If you ask me that again,” answered the slightly-wounded
Ralph, “I don't know that I’ll answer you. Come along. As
the carriage says, “Hora et Semper.’”
“Now, if you go on in that way, I won't believe a word you
say. English for me ; acause then I can give you as good as
you send. No ; wholesome English, or I won’t step another step:”
302 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
and it was plain that the timid rustic felt some slight alarm—was
a little oppressed by the mysterious knowledge of her first London
acquaintance. She thought there was some hocus pocus associated
with Latin: it was to her the natural utterance of a conjuror.
With some emphasis she added, “All I want to know is—how far
is it to Mary Axe 7 °
“Why, my carnation, next to nothing now. Step out ; and
you’ll be there afore you know it. As I say, I only wish I could
carry your bundle—I do, my daisy.” Mr. Gum might have spared
his regrets. Had his gracious majesty pulled up in his carriage,
and offered to be the bearer of that bundle, its owner would have
refused him the enjoyment ; convinced that it was not the king of
England who proposed the courtesy, but the father of all wicked-
ness, disguised as a royal Brunswick, and driving about in a car-
riage of shadows, for the especial purpose of robbing rustic maids.
As we have intimated, the damsel had, in the fastnesses of Kent,
learned prudence against the iniquities of London. And so, be-
lieving that St. Mary Axe was close at hand, she hopefully
jogged on.
“What a many churches ' " she said, looking at St. Clement's.
“Well, the folks in London ought to be good.”
“And so they are, my wallflower,” rejoined the footman.
“The best in the world; take 'em in the lump. And there, you
see, is another church. And besides what we have, we’re a going
to have I don’t know how many hundred more built, that every-
body, as is at all anybody, may have a comfortable pew to his
whole self, and not be mixed up—like people in the gallery of a
playhouse—along of the lower orders. I dare say, now, your
grandmother in the country.”—
“Ain’t got no grandmother,” said the girl.
“Well, it’s all the same : the old women where you come from
—I dare say they talked to you about the wickedness of London,
did’nt they And how all the handsome young men you'd meet
was nothing more than roaring lions, rolling their eyes about, and
licking their mouths, to eat up anybody as come fresh from the
daisies' Didn’t they tell you this, eh, beauty 1" cried Ralph.
“A little on it,” said the girl, now pouting, now giggling.
“And you’ve seen nothing of the sort 7 Upon your word and
honour, now, have you?” and the footman tried to look winningly
in the girl's eyes, and held forth, appealingly, his right hand.
“ Nothing yet ; that is, nothing that I knows on,” was the
guarded answer of the damsel.
“To be sure not. Now my opinion is, there 's more downright
wickedness—more roguery and sin of all sorts in an acre of the
country than in any five mile of London streets; only, we don't
-º-º:
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 303
kick up a noise about our virtue and all that sort of stuff. Whilst
quite to the contrary, the folks in the country do nothing but talk
about their innocence, and all such gammon, eh?”
“I can’t hear innocence called gammon afore me,” said the
girl. “Innocence is innocence, and nothing else ; and them as
would alter it, ought to blush for themselves.”
“To be sure they ought,” answered Gum. “But the truth is,
because lambs don’t run about London streets—and birds don't
hop on the pavement—and hawthorns and honeysuckles don’t
grow in the gutters—London’s a place of wickedness. Now, you
know, my lily of the valley, folks affn’t a bit more like lambs for
living among 'em, are they l’”
“Is this the way to Mary Axe?” asked the girl, with growing
impatience.
“Tell you, tisn't no distance whatever, only first "-and the
deceiver turned with his victim out of the Strand—“first you
must pass Drury-lane playhouse.”
“The playhouse—really the playhouse !” exclaimed the wench,
with an interest in the institution that in these times would have
sufficiently attested her vulgarity. “I should like to see the play-
house.”
“Well then, my double heartsease, here it is,” and Ralph
with his finger pointed to the tremendous temple. With curious,
yet reverential looks, did the girl gaze upon the mysterious fabric.
It was delicious to behold even the outside of that brick and
mortar rareeshow. And staring, the girl's heart was stirred with
the thought of the wonders, the mysteries, acted therein. She
had seen plays. Three times at least she had sat in a wattle-
built fame, and seen the dramatic priesthood in their hours
of Sacrifice. Pleasant, though confused, was her remembrance
of the strange harmonies that filled her heart to overflowing
—that took her away into another world — that brought sweet
tears into her eyes — and made her think (she had never
thought so before) that there was really something besides the
drudgery of work in life ; that men and women were made to have
Some holiday thoughts—thoughts that breathed strange, com-
forting music, even to creatures poor and low as she. Then recol-
lections flowed afresh as she looked upon that mighty London
mystery—that charmed place that in day-dreams she had thought
of-that had revealed its glorious, fantastic wonders in her sleep.
The London playhouse ! She saw it—she could touch its walls.
One great hope of her rustic life was consummated ; and the
greater would be accomplished. Yes: sure as her life, she would
sit aloft in the gallery, would hear the music, and see the London
players' Spangles.
304 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“And this is Drury-lane 7" cried the wench, softened by the
thought—“well ! I never !” -
“You like plays, do you ? So do I. Well, when we know one
another a little better—for I wouldn’t be so bold as to ask it now
—in course not—won't we go together ?” said Ralph ; and the
girl was silent. She did Ilol, illquire about St. Mary Axc; but
trustingly followed her companion, her heart dancing to the
fiddles of Drury-lane; the fiddles that she would hear. “And
this is Bow-street, my jessamy,” said Ralph. -
“What's Bow-street 7” inquired the maiden. How happy in
the ignorance of the question?
“Where they take up the thieves, and examine 'em, afore they
send 'em to Newgate to be hanged.” The wench shivered.
“Never saw nobody hanged, I suppose ? Oh, it’s nothing, after
two or three times. We’ll have a day of it, my sweet marjoram,
some Monday. We’ll go to the Old Bailey in the morning, and
to the play at night: that’s what I call seeing life —eh, you
precious pink 1 But, I say, arn’t you tired ?”
“Well, I just am. Where is Mary Axe l’” And the girl
stared about her.
“Why, if I hav’n’t taken the wrong turning, I’m blest, and
that's lost us half a mile and more. Itell you what we’ll do. This
is a nice comfortable house.” Ralph spoke of the Brown Bear;
at that day, the house of ease to felons, on their transit from the
opposite police office to Newgate. “A quiet, respectable place.
We'll just go in and rest ourselves, and have atween us half-a-pint
of ale.”
“Not a drop ; not for the blessed world,” cried the girl.
“And then, I’ll tell you all about the playhouse and the
players. Bless you ! some of 'em come to our house, when the
servants give a party. And we make 'em sing songs and tell
stories, and when they go away, why, perhaps we put a bottle
of wine in their pockets—for, poor things, they can’t afford
such stuff at home, and then they send us orders, and we go
into the pit for nothing. And so, we'll just sit down and have
half-a-pint of ale, won’t we ?”
Silently the girl suffered herself to be led into the Brown Bear.
The voice of the charmer had entered her heart and melted it.
To hear about plays and players was to hear Sweet music ; to listen
to one who knew—who had spoken to the glorious London actors—
who, perhaps, with his own hand had put wine-bottles in their
pockets—was to gain a stride in the world. The gossip would
not delay her above half-an-hour from St. Mary Axe ; and what
wonders would repay her for the lingering ! Besides, she was
tired—and the young man was very kind—very respectful—
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 305
nothing at all like what she had heard of London young men—
and, after all, what was half-an-hour, Sooner or later
Mr. Ralph Gum intonated his orders like a lord. The ale was
brought, and Ralph drank to the maiden with both eyes and lips.
Liquor made him musical : and with a delicate compliment to Lhe
rustic taste of his fair companion, he warbled of birds and flowers.
One couplet he trolled over again and again. “Like what they
call sentiment, don’t you ?” said Ralph.
“How can I tell ?” answered the girl: “it’s some of your fine
London stuff, I suppose.”
“Not a bit on it ; sentiment 's sentiment all over the world.
T}on’t you know what sentiment is . Well, sentiment's words that's
put together to sound nicely as it were--to make you feel inclined
to clap your hands, you know. And that’s a sentiment that I’ve
been singing”—and he repeated the burden, bawling :
“Oh the cuckoo's a fine bird as ever you did hear,
And he sucks little bird’s eggs, to make his voice clear.’
“There, don’t you see the sentiment now 7" The maiden shook
her head. “Why, sucking the little birds' eggs—that 's the
sentiment. Precious clever birds, them cuckoos, eh? They're
what I call birds of quality. They've no trouble of hatching,
they havn't ; no trouble of going about in the fields, picking up
worms and grubs for their nestlings; they places 'em out to wet-
nurse ; makes other birds bring 'em up ; while they do nothing
themselves but sit in a tree, and cry cuckoo all day long. Now
that’s what I call being a bird of quality. How should you like
to be a cuckoo, my buttercup 7 °
“There, now, I don’t want to hear your nonsense. What 's a
cuckoo to do with a Christian 7 °—asked the damsel.
“Nothing, my passion-flower—to be sure not ; just wait a
minute,” said Ralph—“I only want to speak to my aunt that lives
a little way off; and I’ll be back with you in a minute. I’ve
got a message for the old woman ; and she's such a dear cretur
—so fond of me. And atween ourselves, whenever she should be
made a angel of and when a angel's wanted, I hope she'll not
be forgotten—shan’t I have a lot of money ! Not that I care for
money; no, give me the girl of my heart, and all the gold in the
world, as I once heard a parson say, is nothing but yellow dirt.
And now I won’t be a minute, my precious periwinkle.”
And with this Mr. Ralph Gum quitted the room, leaving the
fair stranger, as he thought, in profoundest admiration of the
disinterestedness of footmen.
306 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE country girl, alone in the Brown Bear, had some slight
twitchings of remorse. She felt it ; she had very much slandered
London and the Londoners. She had been taught—she had
heard the story in fields and at fire-sides, seated in the shade of
haystacks, and in winter chimney-corners—that Tondon was a
fiery furnace; that all its inhabitants, especially the males, were
the pet pupils of the Evil One, and did his work with wonderful
docility. And now, how much ignorance had departed from her
In an hour or two, how large her stock of experience She was
alone—alone in a London tavern ; and yet she felt as comfortable,
as secure of herself as though perched upon a Kent haycock. She
had seen thousands of people; she had walked among a swarm of
men and women, and nobody had even so much as attempted to
pick her pocket ; nobody had even snatched a kiss from her.
With the generosity of a kind nature, she felt doubly trustful that
she had unjustly doubted. She was in a London hotel (poor haw–
thorn innocence () and felt not a bit afraid ; on the contrary, she
rather liked it. She looked about the room ; carefully, up and
down its walls. No ; there was not an inch of looking-glass to be
seen. Otherwise she thought she might have liked to take a peep
at herself; for she knew she must be a fright ; and the young
man would be back soon ; and though she cared not a pin about
him—how could she 7—still, still she should have liked one look.
“What, my little girl, all alone 7 ° asked a new-comer—as the
young woman thought, a very rude, and ugly, and somewhat
old man. “Got nobody with yoa, eh? Where 's your parents?”
“I’m not alone, and that 's enough,” said the girl, and she
fervently clutched her little bundle.
“Very well, my dear ; wouldn’t offend you, my lass;
wouldn’t "-
“I’m not your dear; and I don’t want at all to be talked to
by you.” Saying this, the girl continued to grasp her property,
and looked with very determined eyes in the harsh, ugly face of
the old intruder. The fact is, the girl felt that the time was
come to test her energy and caution. She had too soon thought
too well of the doings of London. The place swarmed with wicked
people, there was no doubt of it ; and the man before her was one
of them. He looked particularly like a thief as he looked at her
bundle.
“That’s right: quite right, my little wench. This is a place
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 307
in which you can’t be too particlar,” and saying this, Bright Jem
—for it was the uncomely honesty of that good fellow's face that
had alarmed the spinster—Bright Jem, with his mild, benevolent
look, nodded, and passing to the further end of the room, seated
himself in one of the boxes. And the girl felt more assured of
bis wickedness; and anxiously wished the return of that very nice
young footman—that honest, sweet-spoken young man—so long
engaged in converse with his aunt. Would he never come back
ſt was odd, but every moment of his absence endowed him, in the
girl's mind, with a new charm. Bright Jem was all unconsciously
despoiled of every good quality, that his graceless relative, Ralph
Gum, might be invested with a foreign excellence.
Hark! a ſootstep. No ; it is not the footman: he still tarries
with his aunt. It is Jerry Whistle, the Bow-street officer, with
his daily flower between his lips; his happy face streaked like an
apple ; and his cold, keen, twinkling eye that seemed continually
employed as a search-warrant, looking clean through the bosoms
of all men. He paused before the girl, taking an inventory of her
qualities. And she, to repel the boldness of the fellow, tried to
arm herself with one of those thunderbolt looks that woman in her
dignity will sometimes cast about her, striking giants off their legs
and laying them in the dust for ever. Poor thing ! it was indig-
nation all in vain. She might as well have frowned at Newgate
stones, expecting to see them tumble, as think to move one nerve
of Jerry Whistle. Medusa, staring at that officer, would have had
the worst of it, and bashfully, hopelessly let drop her eyelids,
And so it was with the country maiden. Jerry still stared :
leaving the girl nothing to do but to wonder at his impudence.
At length, however, Mr. Gum enters the room ; and Jerry,
glancing at him, and, as the girl thought, very much awed by his
presence, instantly moves away.
“Well, I'm so glad you ’re come !” cried the girl, and her
eyes sparkled, not unnoticed by the footman.
“Sorry, my daffydil, to keep you waiting; but aunt is such a
'oman for tongue. A good Cretur though ; what I call a reg’lar
custard of a 'oman ; made o’ nothing but milk and spice and
sugar.”
“What and no eggs | Pretty custards they’d be,” cried the
girl, with a smile of pity for the detected ignorance.
“That’s like you women,” said Mr. Gum, playfully twitching
the girl's bonnet-string ; “you can’t allow for a bit of fancy :
always taking a man up, and tying him to particlars. Well,
you are a rose-bud, though " *
“Never mind: I know that : let us go to Mary Axe,” and the
girl vigorously retied her bonnet-strings, and stood bolt up.
| ??

X 2
308 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“In a minute. Just half-a-mouthful of brandy and water
atween us ; just no more than would fill the eye of a little needle.
You can’t think what a lot of morals my aunt always talks; and
you can’t think how dry they always make me. Now, don’t
shake your dear little head as if it was of no use to you : I tell
you, we must have a little drop, and here it is.” (And Mr. Gum
spoke the truth.) “I ordered it as I came in.”
“Not a blessed drop—I won’t, that I won’t, as I’m a sinner.”
cried the girl with feminine emphasis.
“A sinner . There never was a cherub on a tombstone like
you. T should like to hear anybody call you a sinner—'twould
be a bad day's work for 'em, I can tell you. Now, just a drop.
Well, if you won't drink, put your lips to the edge of the glass,
just to sugar it.”
“Well, what a cretur you are ” said the girl; and with cheeks
a little flushed, she took a bird's one sip of the liquor.
“Ha! now it’s worth drinking,” cried Ralph ; and he backed
his opinion by taking a long draught. “And now,” said he,
staring full in the girl’s face, and taking her hand, “and now,
as a particlar favour, I want you to tell me one thing. Just
One private question I have to put. Look in my eyes, and tell
me what you think of love.”
“Go along with your rubbish ” exclaimed the girl; at once
cutting the difficulty of a definition. Love Rubbish She
knew it not ; but the wench spoke with the tongue of old philo-
sophy. She gave a homely expression to the thoughts of sages,
anchorites, and nuns. The shirt of hair; the iron girdle ; the
flagellating thong, all declare the worthlessness of love. “Love is
rubbish” chants the shaven monk : and the like treason breathes
the white-lipped sister, and sometimes thinks it truth. The words
are writ on monastery, convent walls, though dull and dim-eyed
folks without do not believe them ; and—perverse is man —
turn from the silver music of the syllables for jangling marriage-
bells.
“Ain’t you afeard the roof will tumble on you ! Love rubbish
Why, it 's what I call the gold band about natur's hat,”—for
liquor made the footman metaphorical. “Love, my slip of lavender,
love is ”
“I don’t want to know nothing about it, and I wont stay a
minute longer from Mary Axe.” And again the girl stood up,
and began to push her way from the box, Mr. Ralph Gum refusing
to give place, at the same time lifting the teaspoon from the
glass, and vainly menacing her with it in the very prettiest
Iſlanller”. *.
“Well, my peppermint, you shall go ; to be sure you shall.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 309
There now * And with determined swallow, Mr. Gum
emptied the glass to prove his devotedness to her will. “We’ll
pay at the bar, my poppy. Don't forget your bundle. Got your
best things in it, eh? Don’t forget it, then.”
A smile, with something of contempt in it, played about the
maiden's lip. Forget it !—as if any woman ever forgot a bundle,
the more especially when it contained any of those vestments
that, looked upon with thoughtful, melancholy eyes, are only
flowing, shining proofs of a fallen state, though the perverse
ingenuity of the sex contrives to give a prettiness to the livery of
sin, to the badges of our lapsed condition. When we remember
that both sorts of millinery, male and female, are the consequences
of original wickedness, ought not the manly heart to shrink, and
feel a frog-like coldness at an embroidered waistcoat . Ought not
woman, smitten with the recollection of the treason of her great
mother, to scream even at the rustling of a pompadour, as at the
moving scales of a gliding snake " She ought ; but we fear she
seldom does. Nay, sometimes she actually loves—determinedly
loves—fine clothes, as though she had first waked in Paradise, like
a queen from a siesta, in velvet and brocade, with jewels in her
hair, and court-plaster stars upon her cheek. With heart-breaking
perverseness, she refuses to admit the naked truth to her soul, that
the milliner came into the world with death. Otherwise, could
philosophy with its diamond point engrave this truth upon the
crystal heart of woman, it would very much serve to lessen pin-
money. We have heard it said—of course we immediately wrapt
our countenance in our cloak, and ran from the slanderer—that
woman fell for no other purpose than to wear fine clothes. In the
prescience which she shared with man she saw the looms of the
future world at work, and lost herself for a shot sarsnet. It is
just as possible, too, that some of her daughters may have tripped
at the window of a mercer.
We cannot at this moment put our finger upon the passage,
but surely it is somewhere written in the Talmud, that Eve on
leaving Eden already took with her a choice and very various
wardrobe. We have entirely forgotten the name of the writer
who gives a very precise account of the moving. Nevertheless,
many of the details are engraved—as with pen of iron upon rock
—on our heart. First came a score of elephants; they, marching
with slow pace, carried our first mother's gowns bestowed in
wicker-work. To a hundred and fifty camels were consigned the
caps and 'kerchiefs. And our author, we remember, compassion-
ately dwells upon a poor dromedary, one of two hundred—that,
overladen with bonnet-boxes, refused to get upon his legs until the
load was lightened by half, and another hunchbacked beast
310 ST. GILES AND ST". JAMES.
appointed to share the burden. Whole droves of ponies that have
since made their way to Wales and Shetland, carried shoes and
silk stockings, (with the zodiac gold-worked for clocks,) and ruffs
and wimples, and farthingales and hoods, and all the various
artillery that down to our day, from masked batteries aim at the
heart of heedless, unsuspecting, ingenuous man,—weapons that,
all unseen, do sometimes overthrow him And in this way,
according to the Talmudist, did Eve move her wardrobe into the
plain country; and in so very short a time—so active is woman,
with her heart like a silkworm, working for fine clothes—did our
first mother get about her, what she, with natural meekness called,
only a few things; but which Adam—and at only the nine
thousandth package, with an impatient sulkiness that we fear has
descended to some of his sons—denominated a pack of trumpery.
If women, then, are sensitive in the matter of bundles, they inherit
the tenderness from their first rosy mother. And our country
wench, though we think she had never read the Talmud, had an
instinctive love for the fine clothes she carried with her.—An
instinct given her by the same beneficent law that teaches parrots
and cockatoos to preen their radiant feathers.
Whilst, with profane fingers—like an allowed shopman—we
have twiddled with the legendary silks and muslins, and other
webs the property of Eve : whilst we have counted the robe-laden
elephants, and felt our heart melt a little at the crying, eloquent
pathos of the bonnet-crushed dromedary, Mr. Ralph Gum has
paid for his liquor, and, his heart generous with alcohol, has stept
into Bow-street. Glowing with brandy and benevolence, he heroi-
cally observed—“Never mind the bundle. I don't care if any of
our folks do see me. So, my heart’s honeysuckle, take my arm.”
And, with little hesitation—for now they could not be very far
from St. Mary Axe—the girl linked herself to that meek footman.
“Don’t know what place this is, of course ? Covent-garden
market, my bluebell. This is where we give ten guineas a pint
for green peas, and ”
“Don’t they choke you ?” cried the wench, astounded at what
she thought a sinfulness of stomach.
“Go down all the sweeter,” answered the epicurean vassal.
“When they get to ten shillings a peck, they’re out of our square
altogether; only fit for pigs. Noble place, isn’t it? Will you
have a nosegay ? Not but what you’re all a nosegay yourself;
nevertheless, you shall have something to sweeten you ; for that
Mary Axe—well, I wouldn’t set you against it—but for you to
live there ; you, a sweet little cretur that smells of nothing but
cow’s breath and new-mown hay ;-why, it’s just murder in a
slow manner. So do have a nosegay ; ” and Mr. Gum insisted
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. º 311
upon disbursing threepence for a bunch of wallflowers, which—
against his wish and intention—she herself placed in her bosom
Then he said: “I do pity you, going to Mary Axe.”
“But I’m not a going to stay there,” said the girl: “no–
I’m only going to see master, and he 's to take me into the
country, to live with sich a sweet young lady.”
“Well, there’ll be a couple of you,” said Ralph, “I’m blessed
if there won’t. And whereabouts ‘l’”
“That’s telling,” replied the girl; as though she stored up a
profound secret in her heart, that it would take at least five
minutes for Ralph's picklock tongue to come at. This Ralph
felt, so said no more about it.
“And here, in this place, we make our Members for West-
minster—things for Parliament, you know.”
“How droll What should they bring 'em like turnips to
market for ?” inquired the wench, wondering.
“Don’t you know Because they may be all the nearer the
bad 'tatoes and the cabbage stumps. That’s what our porter tells
me is one of the rights of the constitution; to pelt everybody as puts
himself up to go into Parliament. Well, I’ve been done out of
a nice chance, I have,” said the footman with sudden melancholy.
“What do you mean 7 Not lost anything 2" and the girl
looked sweetly anxious.
“Ain’t I, though 7 You see, his lordship, my young master,
went and stood in the country; and I couldn’t go down with him.
Now, if he’d only put up for Westminster, I’d just have come
here in plain clothes, and dressing myself as if I was a blackguard,
shouldn’t he have known what bad 'tatoes was 1” -
“Why, you wicked cretur ! you wouldn’t have thrown 'em at
him 7”
“Oh, wouldn’t I though 1” cried Mr. Gum, and he passed his
tongue round his lips, enjoyingly.
“What for 2 Is he sich a wicked master—sich a very bad
man 7" inquired the girl.
“Don’t know that he is. Only you can’t think what a pleasure
it is to get the upper hand of high folks for a little while ; and
'tatoes and cabbage stumps do it. It’s a satisfaction, that’s all,”
said the footman.
“I won't walk with you—not another step,” and the wench
angrily withdrew her arm.
“There you go, now ; there you go. Just like all you women;
if a man makes a harmless joke, and that 's all I meant—you
scream as if it was a flash of lightning. Bless you ! I’d go to the
world's end for my master, even if I never was to see him again.
That I would, my sprig of parsley.”
312 ST. GILES AND ST, JAMES.
“Is this the way to Mary Axe? If I’m not there directly, I'll
ask somebody else.”
“Just round this turning, and it 's no way at all.” And
Mr. Gum went through the market, and through street after
street, and threaded two or three courts, the girl looking now
impatient, now distrustful. At length Ralph paused. “My dear,
if I havn't left something at my aunt's In that house, there;
just step in a minute, while I call for it.”
“No, I sha’n’t,” answered the wench, with a determination that
somewhat startled Mr. Gum. “I sha’n’t go into any house at all,
afore I come to Mary Axe. And if you don’t show me the way
directly, I’ll scream.”
“Why, what a little sweet-briar you are Don't I tell you, my
aunt lives there 7 A nice, good old soul, as would be glad to see
you—glad to see anybody I brought to her. I tell you what, now,
if I must say the truth, I told her what a nice girl you was ; and
how you was waiting for me ; and the good old 'oman began to
scold me ; and asked me why I didn’t bring you here. I sha’n’t
stop a minute—not a minute.”
The girl looked up in Ralph's face; looked up so trustingly, and
again so innocently placed her arm in his, that that great-hearted
footman must have felt subdued and honoured by the confidence
of his companion. And so he was about to hand her across his
aunt's threshold—he was about to bring her face to face with that
venerable, experienced, yet most mild woman,—when, Suddenly,
he felt his right ear seized as by a pair of iron pincers, and the
next moment he felt himself spinning round and round ; and the
very next moment he lay tumbled in a heap upon the pavement.
His heart bursting with indignation, he looked up, and—somehow,
again he felt another tumble, for he saw in his assailant Bright
Jem, his mother's brother-in-law ; the meddlesome, low fellow,
that had always taken it upon himself to talk to him. A few paces
distant, too, was Mr. Whistle, Bow-street officer, serenely turning
his flower between his lips, and with both his hands in his pockets,
looking down upon the footman as though he was of no more
account than a toadstool. Of course, the girl Screamed as the
assault was committed; of course, for a few moments her rage
against the ruffian,—the ugly man who had, and so like his impu-
dence, spoken to her at the Brown Bear, was deep and womanly.
But suddenly the face of Mr. Gum grew even a little darker;
and the wench, though no scholar, read treason in every black
line. Hence, with growing calmness, she beheld Mr. Gum elabo.
rately rub himself, as he slowly rose from the pavement.
“Who spoke to you? What did you do that for 7° Such was
the poor platitude that the smitten footman uttered: for guilt was
ST. GII,ES AND ST. JAMES. 313
at his heart; detection weighed upon him, and he could not
CI’OW.
“Doesn’t his aunt live here 7° cried the girl. “He said it was
his aunt that wanted to see me !”
“The only aunt he ever had,” said Bright Jem, “is in heaven ;
and—I know it—she’s a blushing for him this very minute. I
say, Whistle, couldn’t we help him to a little Bridewell for all
this 2 °
Mr. Whistle, shifting his flower to the corner of his mouth, was
about to say something; but it was clear that Mr. Gum had not
at the moment either taste or leisure to attend to legal opinions.
He therefore took to his heels; and he never ran so fast, because,
perhaps, he never felt so little as he ran.
“Now wasn’t I right, Whistle 7 And didn’t I say that there
was mischief in him 7 And wasn’t it lucky we followed him from
the Bear ! Well, he has a nice crop of early wickedness, hasn’t
he?” Thus spoke Bright Jem, with a face of wonder. Mr. Whistle,
however, was in no way disconcerted or astonished. He was one
of those unfortunate people—-though he himself considered his
happy superiority to arise from the circumstance—who had seen
so much wickedness, that any amount or eccentricity of evil failed
to surprise him. He therefore twirled the flower in his mouth,
and remarked a little plaintively—“Why was you so quick If
you’d only had patience, we might have sent him to Bridewell ;
and now, you’ve spoilt it all—spoilt it all.” With these words,
and a brief shadow of disappointment on his brow, the officer
departed.
“Poor little soul!” cried Jem, taking the girl's hand, and
looking paternally in her face—“ where did you come from—and
where are you going to ? Come, you’ll answer me, now, won’t
you ?” -
“I come from Kent, and I’m going to Mary Axe. That young
man, I thought, was taking me the way”—
“Poor little lamb You wouldn’t think he was old enough for
so big a villain ; but somehow, he's been reared in a hot-bed, and
has spindled up 'stonishingly. He's my wife's sister's child, and
I will say this for his father ; he was as good and as honest a
nigger as ever a Christian white man stole to turn a penny with.
But we can’t send goodness down from father to son ; it can't be
willed away, like the family spoons. ‘Virtue,” as Mr. Capstick
says, “like vice, doesn’t always descend in a right line; but often
goes in a zigzag.’”
The girl was an attentive listener; but we fear did not very
perfectly understand the uttered philosophy. She, however, felt
that she had been snatched from peril by the interference of the
314 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
odd and ugly-looking man before her, and gratitude and confidence
stirred in her woman's heart. “Bless you, sir; I was very
uncivil, but I thought—that is—I’m in such a tremble—can you
take me to Mary Axe 7 I’m going to a place. Perhaps you
know the gentleman—Mr. Snipeton I mean Mrs. Snipeton, his
beautiful young wife'."
Jem stared, and marvelled at the strangeness of the accident.
Eſe, however, owned to no acquaintance with the fortunate owner
of the lady. “Take my arm,” he said, “ and I’ll leave you at
the very door.” With this Jem proceeded onward, and at length
turned into Long Acre. Passing the door of Capstick—for we
believe we have already informed the reader that the member for
Liquorish had taken humble lodgings in that district—the door
opened, and the senator himself, with no less a person than
Mr. Tangle, attorney-at-law, advanced to the threshold.
“Eh, Jem What's this? A thing from the buttercups ?
Where did you pick it up?” cried Capstick. Now the wench was
no grammarian, yet she seemed to have a born knowledge that
“ it” applied to one of the female gender was alike a violation of
grammar and good-breeding. Therefore she echoed “it’ between
her teeth, with of course a significant tossing of the head.
Jem observed the working of the feminine mind, and imme-
diately whispered to the girl—“He’s my master and a member
of Parliament ; but the best cretur in the world.” Jem then in a
bold voice informed the Senator that “the young 'oman was come
up from the country to go to service at Mr. Snipeton’s.”
“Bless me ! what a very strange accident Come to Mr.
Snipeton's, eh? How very odd : * cried Tangle, feeling that he
ought to speak.
In the meantime Bright Jem, with commendable brevity, whis-
pered to Capstick the history of his meeting with the gentle way-
farer. “Well, and she looks an innocent thing,” said Capstick,
his face scarlet with indignation at Jem's story. “She looks
innocent ; but after all she’s a woman, Jem ; and women can
look whatever they like. They’ve a wonderful way of passing
pocket-pieces for virgin gold. I don't believe any of 'em ; never-
theless, Jem, run for a coach ; and as Mr. Tangle and myself are
going to Snipeton's, we can all go together. I dare say, young
woman, you’re tired of walking ' You look so; if, as I say, looks
are anything. Jem, run for the coach. Come up stairs.” And
with this invitation, Capstick gently clasped the arm of the maiden
—a little awe-struck that she felt the pressure of that mysterious,
solemn creature, a live member of parliament—and led her,
ascending, to his room. Mr. Tangle followed, much scandalised
at the familiarity of the legislator; and fortifying himself with
º
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 315
the determination, not, without a vehement remonstrance, to ride
in the same hackney-coach with a maid-of-all-work.
Mr. Capstick had, he was accustomed to declare, furnished his
room with a vigilant eye to his duties as a member of parliament.
Over his mantel-piece was Magna Charta, framed and glazed. “A
fine historic fiction,” he would say; “a beautiful legend; a nice
sing-song to send men to sleep, like the true and tragical history
of Cock Robin chaunted to children.” He was wont to chuckle
mightily at the passage—a fine stretch of fancy he would call it—
about “selling or deferring justice,” and vow it ought to be written
in blood-red letters in the Court of Chancery. “There is fine,
grave comedy, in this sheet, sir; an irony that strengthens the
nerves like a steel draught. They ought to hang it up on board
the Tower Tender; 'twould make pretty reading for the free-born
Englishman, kidnapped from wife and children to fight, and, by
the grace of the cat, to be cut into a hero to vomit songs about.”
And in this irreverent, rebellious fashion would the member for
Liquorish talk of Magna Charta. He called it a great national
romance ; and never failed to allude to it as evidence of the
value of fine fiction upon a people. “Because it ought to be
true,” he would say, “they think it is.”
And the misanthrope member had odd nicknack toys; and all,
as he said, to continually remind him of his duties as a senator
and a citizen. He had a model of George the Third's new drop
in mahogany. “One of the institutions of my country,” he would
say, “improved under the reign of my gracious sovereign. Some
folks hang up the royal portrait. Now I prefer the works of a
man to his looks. Every ordinary morning I bow once to that
engine as a type of the wisdom and philanthropy of a Christian
land; once on common occasions, and three times on hanging-
days.” Besides this, he had a toy pillory; with a dead mouse
fixed, and twirling in it. “And when I want an unbending of
the immortal mind within me—by the way,” Capstick once said
to Tangle, “what a bow we do sometimes make of the immortal
mind, the better to shoot at One another with—when I want to
unbend a little, I place the pillory before me, and pelt the mouse
with cherry-stones and crumbs. And you wouldn't believe it, but
it does me quite as much good—quite as much—as if the dead
mouse was a living man, and the stones and crumbs were mud
and eggs.”
There were other fantastic movables which, for the present,
we must pass. Mr. Capstick, to the astonishment of Tangle,
approached a corner cupboard, taking therefrom a decanter of
wine and a glass. “You are tired, young woman ; and sometimes
a little of this—just a little—is medicine to the weary.” He
316 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
then poured out the wine; which the wench obediently swallowed.
Bad it been the most nauseous drug, there was such a mixture of
kindness and authority in the manner of the member of parlia-
ment, the physic must have gone down.
“Mr. Capstick, one word,” said Tangle, and he drew the
senator to a corner of the room. “ Doubtless, I made a mistake.
But you know we have important business to transact: and no,
you never intend to go to Mr. Snipeton's in the same coach with
that gentleman's maid-of-all-work '''
“She won’t bite, will she l’” asked Capstick.
“Bite l’” echoed Tangle.
“Coach is at the door, sir,” said Bright Jem, entering the
I'OOIll.,
“Go you first,” said Capstick to Tangle, in a tone not to be
mistaken ; “I’ll bring the young woman.” And if Tangle had
been really a four-footed dog, he would, as he went down stairs,
have felt a great depression of the caudal member, whilst the
senatorial muffin-maker tript after him with the ignominious
maid-of-all-work.
CEIAPTER XXXI.
For some days Snipeton had half resolved to surprise his wife
with a present ; a dear and touching gift, the miniature of her
father. Again and again he had determined upon the graceful
act ; and as often put the expensive thought aside—trod the weak-
ness down as an extravagant folly. And then it would occur to
his benevolence, that he might make a bargain with himself, and
at the same time impart a pleasure to his spouse. The miniature
was enriched with diamonds; first-water gems, he knew, for he
had lent gold upon them ; though his wife—at the time of the
loan she was yet unmanacled—was unconscious of the ready
money kindness. Her father had withered, died, in the clutch of
the usurer ; who still cherished the portrait of the dead man—it
was so very dear to him, The picture had been a bridal present
to Clarissa's mother; it had lain warm in her wedded bosom ;
though Snipeton, when he grasped the precious security, knew
nothing of its history. Well, he would certainly delight Clarissa
with this sweet remembrance of her father. She knew not of its
existence, and would bless and love her husband for his sudden
goodness. He would give the wife the miniature; it was settled:
he would do it. “What with the diamonds !” cried Snipeton's
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 317
careful genius, twitching his heartstrings, to pull him up in his
headlong course. “With the diamonds, Ebenezer Snipeton 7
Are you grown lunatic—doting 7 Diamonds, eternal diamonds,
—diamonds everlasting as the Sun—the spiritualised essence of
Gain—diamonds for one flickering look; for One sick smile from
withering lips ? Have you forgotten the worth of wealth Lost
man are you suddenly dead to arithmetic ; Give diamonds to
your wife " Pooh pooh As women love anything that glitters
—and as moreover they love Jack-o'-lanthorns just as well as
heaven's own stars—don't throw away the real treasure ; but
mock it ; sham it; pass off a jeweller's lie, and let the picture
blaze with the best and brightest paste. He’s a fool who throws
pearls to pigs, and thinks the pork will eat the richer for the
treasure. He's no less a fool who showers diamonds upon his
wife when, knowing no better, paste will make her just as
grateful.” And Snipeton gave all his ears to this scoundrel
genius, that lived in his heart like a maggot in a nut, consuming
and rotting it. There were times, though, when the genius slept ;
and then Snipeton—ignorant, unadvised man—was determined to
be honest, generous. He would not countenance the fraud of
false setting. No ; his bird of Paradise; his lamb ; his darling
Clarissa ; the queen flower in his life's garden—for she was this
and all of these—should have the diamonds. Besides, if given to
her, they were still his own ; for according to the sweet rights of
a husband, property so bestowed—with no parchment to bind it—
might at any time be reclaimed by the lawful lord. After all, it
was but lending his wife the diamonds; though—gentle simpleton
—she might still be tickled with the thought that they were wholly
hers.
It was the morning after the visit of Crossbone; and
Snipeton seated betimes at his cottage window — his eye first
wandering among some flowers—his wife's only children as he once
bitterly called them—and at length fixed upon the labours of a
bee that toiled among the blossoms, taking sweet per-centage for
its honey bank: it was at such a time that Snipeton again pondered
on the diamonds. Again he revolved the special pleading of his
thrifty genius: again attended to the counter-reasoning of his
affections; allowing that he had them, and again allowing that
affections do reason. He watched the bee—conscientious porter |
—load itself to its utmost strength, and then buzz heavily through
the casement. The insect had taken all it could carry. Wise,
frugal, man-teaching insect. No : Snipeton would not give the
diamonds. He would keep all he could : in his own grasp. All.
And the determination, like a cordial, mightily comforted him.
At this moment Clarissa entered the room from her chamber.
318 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
-**
Snipeton suddenly rose as to an angelic visitor. His wife looked
so beautiful—so very beautiful. With such new sweetness in her
face; such beaming mildness in her eyes; there was such grace
in her motion, that love and vanity swelled in the old man's heart ;
and his hand strangely trembled as it greeted her. His prudential
genius was on the sudden paralysed and dumb. Clarissa looked
at her husband, as he thought, never before so lovingly—and for
the moment, the miser glowed with the prodigal.
“Why, you are better, love ; much better. Even Crossbone's
talk has revived you. Ha and we’ll have this horse, and
straightway: and—and the rose of my life will bloom again.
Look here, my love.” It was done : even at the last, one spasm
of the heart it cost, but it was over. The miniature—that
diamond-circled piece of ivory and paint—was in Clarissa's hand.
Astonished, happy, she said no word, but kissed the sudden gift ;
again and again kissed it, and her tears flowed. “I have often
thought—indeed, have long determined to give it you,” cried
Snipeton.
“Thank—thank you, dear sir. Indeed, you have made me
very happy,” answered his wife.
|His wife I Did she answer like his wife Was it the voice of
his twin soul—did the flesh of his flesh move with her lips ? Was
it his other incorporate self that spoke Did he listen to the
echoes of his own heart ; or to the voice of an alien 7 When the
devil jealousy begins to question, how rapid his interrogations !
“I tell you,” said Snipeton, “I repeat—I have all along deter-
mined that you should have it ; in good season, have it. Your
father's picture, who with so great a right to it ! He told me
'twas once your mother's. She wore it, till her death. Poor
thing ! He must have loved her very dearly. When he spoke
of her, and never willingly, he would tremble as with the ague.”
Clarissa bowed her head ; was silent ; and again kissed the
picture. “This fondness—these tears, Clarissa, must—if spirits
know such matters—be precious to your father, now once more
joined with your mother in heaven. Why, what's the matter 7
So pale—so lily white ; what is it, love 7"
“Nothing, sir; nothing but the surprise—the joy at this gift,”
faintly answered Clarissa.
“Well, I see it has delighted you. I hoped so. Much
delighted you : very much. You have kissed the picture fifty
times, Clarissa. Is it not fifty—or have I falsely counted 7 Tell
me. Fifty—is it not ?”
“I cannot tell, sir,” replied the wife, timidly. “Can they—
ought, they to be counted . "
“Why—but then, I am a cold arithmetician—I can count
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. - 319
them ; at least, all that fall to my lips. Can you not tell the
number vouchsafed to the gift Strange | I can count, ay,
every one, bestowed upon the giver.” Mournfully, and with some
bitterness did Snipeton speak. His wife, with a slight tremor—
suppressed by strong, sudden will—approached him. Pale, shud-
dering victim with mixed emotions fighting in her face, she
bowed her head, and placing her cold arms about the old man's
neck, she closed her eyes, and kissed his lips.
“Indeed, sir, I thank you. Pardon me; indeed I thank you
for this and all your goodness.” She felt relieved ; she had paid
the demanded debt.
And Snipeton—poor old man l—was he made happy by that
caress 7 How much real love was in it ! How much truth
How much hypocrisy % Or at the best, enforced obedience " It
came not from the heart : no ; it wanted blood and soul. It was
not the fiery eloquence of love, telling a life's devotion with a
touch. It was not that sweet communing of common thoughts,
and common affections; that deep, that earnest, and yet placid
interchange of wedded soul with soul. In his heart, as in a
crucible, the old man sought to test that kiss. Was it truth, or
falsehood'. And as he pondered—how mysteriously are we
fashioned —a thing of forty years ago rose freshly to his mind.
What brought it there 1–yet, there it was. The figure, the face of
one who with proved perjury at his lips kissed the book, swearing
the oath was true.
Clarissa saw her husband suddenly dashed with gloomy thoughts.
They reproached her ; and, instinctively, she returned to the old
man's side, and laying her hand upon his brow—had the hand
been a sunbeam, it had not lighted the face more suddenly, brightly
—she spoke to him very tenderly : “Are you not well, sir?”
“Quite well; always well, Clarissa, with you at my side—with
you as even now.” And she looked so cheerful, yes, so affection-
ate, he had wronged her. He was a fool—an exacting fool—with
no allowance for the natural reserve, the unconquerable timidity,
of so gentle a creature. “And, as 1 was saying, you are better;
much better; and we’ll have this horse ; and but, Clary,
love, we have forgotten breakfast.” Resolved upon a full meal,
Snipeton moved to the table ; and whilst he strove to eat, he
talked quite carelessly, and, by the way, of a matter that a little
disturbed him. “And how do you find Mrs. Wilton, eh,
dearest 7”
Clarissa, with troubled looks, answered—“Find her, sir? Is
she not all we could wish ' "
“Oh, honest, quiet, and an excellent housekeeper, no doubt.
Do you know her story !”
32) - ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“Story, sir!” and Clarissa trembled as she spoke. “What
story !”
“Her story ! Has she not one Everybody, it's my opinion,
has ; but here's the rub: everybody won't tell it, can't tell it,
mustn't tell it. Is it not so 7 °
“It is never my thought, sir; my wish to question your expe-
rience. You know the world, you say. For my part, I never
wish to know it. My hope is, to die in my ignorance.”
“True ; you are right ; I would have it so. For it is a know-
ledge that—but no matter. My learning shall serve for both.
Well, she never told you her story !” With this, Snipeton looked
piercingly at his wife, who at first answered not. At length she
asked, “Do you know it, sir?”
“No : but it is plain she has a story. I am firm in the faith.”
“Some grief—some sacred sorrow, perhaps,” said Clarissa.
“We should respect it: should we not ?”
“Why, grief and sorrow are convenient words, and often do
duty for sin and shame,” cried Snipeton.
“Sin and shame are grief and sorrow, or should be so,” replied
Clarissa, mournfully.
“Humph : Well, perhaps they are. However, Mrs. Wilton's
story is no affair of ours,” said Snipeton.
“Assuredly not,” cried Clarissa, quickly.
“But her melancholy is. 'Tis catching; and infects you. Her
bad spirits, her gloom, seem to touch all about her with mildew.
A bad conscience—or a great grief—'tis no matter which, throws
a black shadow about it ; and to come at Once to my meaning,
Clarissa, I think Mrs. Wilton had better quit.”
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Clarissa. “’Twould break her heart—it
would indeed, sir.”
“It’s wonderful how long people live, ay, and enjoy themselves,
too, with broken hearts, Clarissa. I’ve often thought broken
hearts were like broken china : to be put nicely together again,
and—but for the look of the thing—to be quite as useful for all
house-work as before. Now Mrs. Wilton’s heart "-
“Do not speak of it. If–if you have any love for me, sir”—
cried Clarissa.
“If I have love Well, what think you º Have I not—even
a few minutes since—given good proof " " It was somewhat
distasteful to the old man, that after the gift of such diamonds, his
love could be doubted. He had better have listened to his good,
his wise, his profitable genius, and presented paste. How many
wives—however badly used and industriously neglected—would
still bestow their love | Now he, even with diamonds, could not
buy it. For his wife to doubt his love, was to refuse her own.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 32}
This his philosophy made certain. And this after the dia-
monds !
“Nay, I am sure of your love, sir; certain ; most confident,”
said Clarissa, very calm in such assurance. “And therefore know
you will refuse me nothing. Eh, dear sir?”
Again Snipeton's heartstrings relaxed ; again, listening to the
music of the enchantress, his darker thoughts began to pass away,
and his soul enjoyed new sunlight. “Nothing—nothing,” he said,
“ that is healthful.”
“Then promise me that Mrs. Wilton shall remain. Indeed,
you know not how much I have learned of her; how much she
loves me ; how much she respects you.”
“Respect is a cold virtue, I know, Clarissa ; very cold. Now,
with her ’tis freezing. I sometimes think she looks at me, as
though—but I’ll say no more. She blights your spirits; darkens
your thoughts with her sorrow or her sin, or whatever it may be ;
and, in a word, she shall stay no longer. I am resolved.”
“Blights me ! Darkens my thoughts Oh, sir, I would you
heard her talk. I would you knew the pains she takes to make
me happy; to make me cheerful ; to place all things in the
happiest light, shedding, as she does, the beauty of her spirit
Over all. Doubtless, she has suffered, but 22
“But—but she goes. I am resolved, Clarissa; she goes.
Resolved, I say.”
And Ebenezer Snipeton struck the table with his fist ; and
threw himself back in his chair, as he believed, a statue of
humanity, hardened by resolution into flint. And very proud he
felt of the petrifaction. Nor lightnings, nor thunderbolts should
melt or move him.
Clarissa—her suit was for a mother—rose from her chair, and
stood beside her husband. She threw her arms about his neck.
Flint as he was he felt they were not so lumpish, clay-like as
when last they lay there. “Dear sir, you’ll not refuse me this
You’ll not refuse me !” And Clarissa for once looked full in the
eyes of her husband.
“Resolved,” said Snipeton thickly; and something rose in his
throat. “Resolved.”
“No ; no. You must promise me—you shall not leave me
without,” and the arms pressed closer; and the flint they
embraced became soft as any whetstone. “You will not deprive
me of her solicitude—her affection ?” Snipeton answered not ;
when Clarissa—in such a cause what cared she for the sacrifice #
—stooping, kissed her husband with a deep and fervent affection
for her mother. And the statue was suddenly turned to thrilling
flesh : had the old man's heart been stuck with thorns, his wife's
Y
322 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES
lips would have drawn them all away, and made it beat with
burning blood. The man was kissed for an old woman ; but he
set the rapture to his own account, and was directly rich with
imaginary wealth. Need we say the man consented ? What
ofherwise could strong resolution do?
A new man, with a newer, brighter world beauing about him,
Snipeton that day departed from his rustic home to St. Mary Axe.
His wife seemed to travel with him, he was so haunted by her
looks of new-born love. And now he hummed some ancient,
thoughtless song; and now he smacked his lips, as with freshened
recollection of the touch that had enriched them. The mist and
cloud of doubt that had hung about his life had passed away, and
he saw peacefulness and beauty clearly to the end. And these
thoughts went with him to his dark and dismal city nook, and
imparted deeper pleasures even to the bliss of money-making.
This once, at least, St. Giles was in luck. A few minutes only
after Snipeton's arrival, with his new happiness fresh upon him,
the young man presented himself with a letter from Crossbone.
“He looks an honest fellow ; a very honest fellow,” thought
Snipeton, eyeing him. “’Tis a bad world ; a wicked world;
yet, when all's said, there are some honest people ; yes, there
must be some.” And this charitable thought enhanced for the
nonce St. Giles. He could not have come in happier season.
“Humph 1 and you have known Mr. Crossbone some time ! To
be sure, he told me, from a child. And your father was killed,
trying to do good That's hard ; plaguy hard; for people ar’n’t
often killed in that humour. And you've been kind—very kind
to your mother ? Well, that’s something; I think I may trust
you. Yes: you may consider yourself engaged. When can you
come 2"
“Directly, sir,” said St. Giles; who had been duly impressed
by Crossbone with the necessity of obtaining Snipeton's patron-
age; it was so very essential to the happiness of his lordship.
“Be vigilant, be careful,” thus had run the apothecary’s counsel,
“ and his lordship will make a man of you !” What a golden
prospect for one who, with the hopes and worthy desires of a man,
knew himself to be a social wolf in the human fold; a thing to be
destroyed, hung up ; a wholesome example to runaway vagabonds.
To be made a man of, what a load must he lay down | What a
joy, a blessing, to stand erect in the world—and be allowed to
meet the eyes of men with confiding looks Now, he crept and
crawled; and felt that his soul went upon all-fours. Now, he at
times shrunk from a sudden gaze, as from a drawn knife. And
his lordship would make a man of him Glorious labour, this;
divine handiwork And there is plenty of such labour, too, in
ST. GILFS AND ST. JAMES. 323
this broad world, if we had but the earnest-hearted workers to
grapple with it. How many thousand thousands of human
animals; creatures of outward humanity ; beings on two legs, are
yet to be made men of ! Again, what is a man' You, reader,
may possibly have a pretty correct notion of what he is, or ought
to be : now, Mr. Crossbone's ideal of a perfect man was but of a
perfect rascal. He would make a man as he would have made a
gin, a trap ; the more perfect the snare, the nobler the humanity.
And in this sense was St. Giles to be elevated into a man, for the
direct advantage of the young lord, and the supplementary benefit
of the apothecary. And St. Giles himself—it must not be for-
gotten—had some misgivings of the model-excellence after which
he was to be fashioned. It just passed through his brain that
the man he was to be made, might be a man, if not nearer to the
gallows than himself, at least a man more deserving (if any
deserved it) the elevation. There seemed to him new peril to be
made a man of. Yet, what could he do | Nothing. He must
wait ; watch ; and take the chances as they fell.
Snipeton read the letter. Nothing could have fallen out so
luckily. A friend of Crossbone's—a man of honour though he
dealt in horseflesh—had a beautiful thing to sell; a thing of lamb-
like gentleness and beauty. The very thing for Mrs. Snipeton.
A mare that might be reined with a thread of silk. Moreover,
Mr. Snipeton might have the beast at his own price; and that, of
course, would be next to no price at all.
“Do you understand horses, my man "" asked Snipeton, as he
finished the letter.
“Why, yes, sir,” answered St. Giles; and he must have
answered yes, had the question been of unicorns.
“Well, then’’—but at this moment, Snipeton's man brought
in the names of Capstick and Tangle. To the great relief of
St. Giles, he was ordered into an adjoining room, there to wait.
He withdrew as the new visitors entered.
“Mr. Snipeton, this—this”—why did Capstick pause ?—“this
gentleman is Mr. Tangle, attorney”—
“Solicitor,” was Mr. Tangle's meek correction. “It’s of no
consequence, but—solicitor.”
“Pooh, pooh It isn't my way, sir. I always say “attorney,’
and then we know the worst,” said Capstick.
“I have heard of Mr. Tangle. We never met before—but his
reputation has reached me,” sneered Snipeton. -
“Reputation, sir,” observed Capstick, “is sometimes like a
polecat ; dead or alive, its odour will spread.”
“Very true; it is ; it has,” was the corroboration of Snipeton ;
and Tangle, though he tried to smile, fidgetted uneasily.
Y 2
324 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“You are, perhaps, not aware, Mr. Snipeton, that a petition is
to be presented to the House of Commons—my House—for the
purpose of turning out its present patriotic member for Liquorish?”
said Capstick.
“Indeed . Upon what ground 7" inquired Snipeton.
“Bribery. Would you imagine It'ſ Could you link it !
Charge me with bribery !” said the member.
“Pardon me. Not you ; oh, by no means ! We never do that.
We're not so ill-bred. No, sir, the crime—that is, the statutable
crime—for morals and statutes, sir, are sometimes very different
things—the crime of bribery is laid at the door of Mr. Capstick's
agents. His ag;nts, sir,” said Tangle.
“I had none": none whatever. It is my pride—if, indeed, a
man should be proud of anything in this dirty, iniquitous world—
a world of flip-flaps and Sumersets—my pride, that I was returned
purely upon my own merits; if, indeed, I have merits; a matter
I am sometimes inclined to doubt, when I wake up from my first
sleep. I go into Parliament upon bribery ! I should think myself
one big blotch—a human boil. No; I can lay my hand upon my
breast—just where I carry my pocket-book—and answer it, before
the world,—except the price of the hackney coach that carried
me to the House, my seat didn't cost me sixpence.”
“Ha, Mr. Capstick 1" cried Tangle, half closing his eyes;
“you don't know what friends you had.”
“Yes, sir, I do ; for I’ve been intimate with them all my life.
Integrity, honour, out-speaking”— Capstick paused ; and the
next moment blushed, as though detected in some gross fault.
The truth is, he was ashamed of himself for the vain-boasting.
Integrity and honour ! Supposing that he had them—what then
Was it a matter to make a noise about 7 Capstick blushed ; then
hurriedly said—“I beg your pardon. Go on with the bribery.”
“And so they want to turn you out, eh?” cried Snipeton.
“The house of St. James can’t swallow the muffin-maker. Ha!
haſ I can only wish you had been a chimney-sweeper. 'Twould
have been a sweeter triumph.”
“I am quite contented, Mr. Snipeton,” said Capstick, majes-
tically, “as it is. Not that, as one of the social arts, I despise
chimney-sweeping. By no means. For there may be cases in
which it would not be such dirty work to clean folk's chimneys,
as to sweep their pockets.”
“True; very true,” said Snipeton, who never selfishly took a
sarcasm to himself, when, as he thought, so many of his fellow-
creatures equally well deserved it. “And so to the bribery. We
must meet this petition.”
“I thought so ; and therefore waited upon Mr. Capstick to
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 325
offer my professional services. You see, sir, I have peculiar
advantages—very peculiar. For although, by that unfortunate
and most mysterious robbery of the gold, the bribery—on the
part of his lordship—was limited, rather limited; nevertheless, I
have here, sir, here”—and Tangle tapped at his breast—“such
facts, that ”—
“I see,” said Snipeton; “and you’ll turn yourself inside out
to oblige us?”
“I am a free agent; quite free. Being no longer his lordship's
legal adviser—you wouldn’t think that that paltry box of gold
could have parted us: but so it is—there is no gratitude in the
great ; – being, as I say, free, sir; and in the possession of
secrets”—
“If you want a cheap pennyworth of dirt you can buy it—you
can buy it,” said Capstick.
“Mr. Capstick | * exclaimed Tangle with a darkly solemn face,
“Mr. Capstick"—but the attorney thought it not profitable to
be indignant ; therefore he suffered a smile to overflow his cheek,
as he continued—“Mr. Capstick, you’re a wag.” But Tangle had
in this a secret consolation : for in his legal opinion he had as good
as called the muffin-maker “thief and housebreaker.” Tangle
then proceeded. “What I shall do, I shall do for justice. And
public justice, with her scales”—
“Bless my soul I’d quite forgot the girl. Mr. Snipeton, your
maid-of-all-work from Kent is below. A droll business. Quite an
escape, poor thing ! But she'll tell your wife all about it,” said
Capstick.
“Your pardon. Just one minute ; ” whereupon Snipeton
repaired to St. Giles. “You know my house Mind, I don’t
want all the world to know it. Well, make the best of your way
there, and—stop. Come down stairs.” And Snipeton left the room,
St. Giles following him. St. Giles—so Snipeton determined—
should at once escort the wench to Hampstead. Another minute,
and to the joy and ill-concealed astonishment of the pair, the girl
saw in St. Giles the wanderer and vagrant to whom she had given
the shelter of a barn—and he beheld in his new fellow-servant,
Becky, the soft-hearted maiden of the Lamb and Star.
3.
326 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
UHAPTER, XXXII.
“WHAT is it you look at so earnestly 7° asked Mrs. Wilton:
and Clarissa, with a flushed cheek, placed the miniature in
her bosom. Snipeton had just quitted the house—for we must
take back the reader to that point of time—and Clarissa sat, with
her heart in her eyes, gazing at the youthful features of her
father. As she looked, with fond curiosity comparing those
features, in their early bloom and strength, tempered with gentle
frankness; as she gazed upon their manly, loving openness, and,
with her memory, evoked that melancholy, care-worn face, that,
smiling on nought beside, would always smile on her, she felt—
she shuddered—but still she felt anger, bitterness towards her
mother. Her eye, reading that face, could see where pain had
given a sharper edge to time: could see where, in the living face,
care had doubled the work of years. Surely, she thought, so fair
a morning promised a fairer night. That glad and happy day
should have closed with a golden sunset, touching with solemn
happiness all it shone upon, as slowly from the earth it passed in
glory. These were the daughter's thoughts as she heard her
mother's voice. A momentary resentment glowed in her cheek—
darkened her eyes.
“Clarissa, ”
“It is nothing—a-a present from Mr. Snipeton—from my hus-
band,” said Clarissa coldly. Her mother took her daughter's hand
between her own. Affectionately pressing it, and with all a
mother's tenderness beaming in her face—the only look hypocrisy
could never yet assume—she said, “It is well, Clarissa—very well.
It makes me happy, deeply happy, to hear you. I think it is the
first time you have said “husband.’”
“Is it so I cannot tell. The word escaped me. Yet I—must
learn to speak it.”
“Oh, yes, Clarissa. Make it the music of your life . Think
it a charm that, when pronounced, makes all earth's evils less—
doubling its blessings. A word that brings with it a sense of joy;
a strength ; a faith in human existence. A word that may clothe
beggary itself with content, and make a hut a temple. You may
still pronounce it. Oh, never, never may you know what agony
it is, to forego that word. The living makes it a blessing; and
the dead sanctifies and hallows it.”
Clarissa felt conscience-smitten, stung with remorse. All heed-
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 327
lessly, cruelly, she had arraigned her mother ; thoughtless of the
daily misery that wore her : regardless of the penitence that
corroded and consumed her. “Forgive me,” she said: “forgive
me, mother. I will lay this lesson to my heart. I will learn
to speak the word. You shall still teach me its sustaining
sweetness.”
“A most unfit teacher; most unfit,” said the mother, with an
appealing look of anguish. “Your own heart will best instruct
you.” And then, with resolute calmness, she asked : “What is
this present 7 °
“You shall not know to-day; by-and-by, mother. And I have
a present, too, for you,” said Clarissa ; and she looked so light, so
happy, that her mother for the first time dared to hope. Did the
young victim feel at length the wife 7 Would that seeming life-
long sorrow pass away, and the sunshine of the heart break in
that clouded face :
“I will be patient, child; nay, I will promise what you will, I
feel so grateful that I see you thus cheerful—happy. Shall I not
say, happy, Clarissa '''
“Oh yes; very happy,” answered the wife ; and a sudden
pang of heart punished the treason of the lips. “But I must not
be idle to-day, I have so much to do.” And Clarissa seated her-
self at her work; and the mother silently occupied herself. And
so, hour after hour passed, and scarce a word was spoken. At
length Dorothy Vale, with noiseless step and folded arms, stood in
the room.
“They be come,” said Dorothy, with unmoved face, rubbing
her arms.
“Who are come 1” asked Clarissa.
“Why, Becky be come, and a man with her,” answered
Dorothy; and—it was strange—but her voice seemed to creak
with suppressed anger.
“I am glad of that,” said Clarissa; “tell the girl to come to me
—directly, Dorothy.”
Dorothy stood, rubbing her withered arms with renewed
purpose. Her brow wrinkled, and her grey, cold eyes gleamed,
like sharp points, in her head ; then she laughed. “She was
brought up in the workhouse: and to be put over my head! Well,
it’s a world ! The workhouse ; and put over my head l’” Thus
muttering, she left the room. In a moment, Becky—possessed
with delight, swimming in a sea of happiness—was curtseying
before her new mistress. Now, were we not assured, past all
error, that it was the same country wench that half laughed at,
halſ listened to, the flatteries of the deceitful Gum, we should deny
her identity with that radiant piece of flesh and blood, that, glowing

328 ST. GIF, ES AND ST. JAMES.
with felicity, bobbed and continually bobbed before Mrs. Snipeton.
Certainly, there is a subtle power of refinement in happiness: a
something elevating, purifying, in that expansion of the heart.
Sudden bliss invests with sudden grace; and gives to homeliness
itself a look of gwootness. The son!, for a brief time, flashes forth
with brighter light; asserting itself—as human pride is sometimes
apt to think—in the vulgarest, oddest sort of people. And so it
was with Becky. To be sure, all the way from St. Mary Axe—
hanging, and sometimes at puddles and crossings, with all her
weight on the arm of St. Giles, she had felt the refining process
hinted at above. St. Giles had talked on what he thought
indifferent matters; but the weather, the shops, the passers-by-
whatever his silver tongue dwelt upon—became objects of the
dearest interest to the hungry listener; who now laughed, she
knew not why, from her over-brimming heart; and now had much
ado to check her tears, that—she knew it—had risen to her eyes,
and threatened to flow. She walked in a region of dreams; and
intoxicating music broke at every footstep. Could it be true—
could it be real—that that wayfaring, wretched man; that unhappy
creature, with all the world hooting at him, chasing him to destruc-
tion, like a rabid cur, that vagabond, to a suspicious world, dyed
in murderous blood, was the trim, handsome—to her, how beau-
tiful —young fellow walking at her side; and now and then
smiling so kindly upon her that her heart seemed to grow too big
with the blessing 7 And oh-extravagant excess of happiness —
he was to be her fellow-servant ' He would dwell under the
same roof with her | Now she was steeped in bliss: and now,
a shadow fell upon her. Yes: it could not be. The happiness
was too full ; all too complete to endure.
And yet the bliss continued—nay, increased. Mrs. Snipeton,
that creature of goodness; that angel of Becky's morning dreams
—gave smiling welcome to her new handmaid; greeted her with
kindest words; and, more than all, looked cordially on St. Giles,
who could not remain outside, but sidled into the room to pay his
duty to his handsome mistress. The sweetness with which she
spoke to both seemed to the heart of Becky to unite both. The
girl's affection for St. Giles—until that moment unknown to her in
its strength—appeared sanctioned by the equal smiles of her lady.
At this juncture, a new visitor—with a confidence which he was
wont to wear, as though it mightily became him—entered the
room, passing before the slow domestic, leisurely bent upon herald-
ing his coming. Mr. Crossbone was again in presence of his
patient ; again had his finger on her pulse ; again looked with
professional anxiety in Mrs. Snipeton's face; as though his only
thought, his only mission in this world was to continually act the
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 329
part of her healing angel. “Better, much better, my dear Mrs.
Snipeton. Yes; we shall be all right, now : very soon all right.
And I have brought you the best medicine in the world. Bless
me !”—and Crossbone stared at Becky—“the little wench from
the Dog and Moon.”
“Lamb and Star, sir,” said Becky. “Wonder you've forgot
the house, sir; wonder you’ve forgot Mrs. Blick and all the
babies.”
“I think it was the Lamb and Star,” said Crossbone ; but
when we consider that the apothecary had already promised him-
self a carriage in London, can we wonder that he should have
forgotten the precise sigh; that he should have forgotten the poor
children (weeds that they were) who owed to him an introduction
into this over-peopled world? “You are a fortunate young woman,
that you have been promoted from such a place to your present
service. One always has one’s doubts of the lower orders; never-
theless, I hope you’ll be grateful.” And the apothecary looked
the patron.
“I hope she ool,” said Dorothy, with a sneer; and as she turned
from the room, she went muttering along—“She was born in the
workhouse, and to be put over my head!”
“I have great faith in Becky; she’ll be a good, a prudent girl;
I am sure of it. You may go now, child, to Dorothy. Bear with
her temper a little, and soon she’ll be your friend.” And with
this encouragement, Becky left her mistress, seeking the kitchen,
hopeful and happy, as pilgrims seek a shrine. In a moment she
had resolved with herself to be a wonder of fidelity and patience.
And then for Dorothy, though the girl could not promise herself
to love her very much, nevertheless, she determined to be to her
a pattern of obedience. “She may walk over me if she likes, and
I won't say nothing,” was Becky's resolution; should Dorothy,
from the capriciousness of ill-temper, resolve upon such enjoy-
ment ; walking over people, giving at times, it must be owned, a
strange satisfaction to the tyranny of the human heart. Now
Becky, though she had at least nine thousand out of the nine
thousand and three good qualities that, according to the calcula-
tion of an anonymous philosopher, fall, a natural dower, to the lot
of woman, was not ordinarily so much distinguished by meekness
as by any other of the nameless crowd of good gifts. Ordinarily,
any attempt “to walk over her,” would have been a matter of
extreme difficulty to the stoutest pedestrian ; but Becky was mol-
lified, subdued. Her heart was newly opened, and gushed with
tenderness. She felt herself soothed to any powers of endurance.
The house was made such a happy, serious place to her by the
presence of St. Giles. He would live there ; he would be her
330 ST. GILES AND ST". JAMES.
daily sight ; her daily music ; and with that thought, all the
world might walk over her, and she would not complain the
value of a single word. She was astonished at her own determined
meekness; she could never have believed it.
“And Mr. Snipefon—excellent man —has hired you !” And
Crossbone looked up and down at St. Giles. “I trust, young
man, you'll do no discredit to my good word. It’s a risk, a great
risk, at any time to answer for folks of your condition; but I
have ventured for the sake of of your poor father.” St. Giles
winced. “I hope you’ll show yourself worthy of that honest
man. Though he was one of the weeds of the world, neverthe-
less, F don’t know how it was, but I’d have trusted him with
untold gold. So, you'll be sober and attentive in this house;
study the interests of your master, the wishes of your excellent
mistress who stands before you ; and, yes, you’ll also continue to
be kind to your mother. And now, you’d better go and look
to the horse that I’ve left at the garden gate.” St. Giles, glad
of the dismissal, hurried from the room. He had coloured and
looked confused, and shifted so uneasily where he stood, that he
feared his mistress might note his awkwardness; and thus suspect
him for the lies of the apothecary—for whom St. Giles, in the
liberality of his shamefacedness, blushed exceedingly. Great,
however, was the serenity of Crossbone on all such occasions.
Indeed, he took the same pleasure in falsehood that an epicure
receives from a well-seasoned dish. He looked upon lies as the
pepper, the spices of daily life; they gave a relish to what would
otherwise beflat and insipid. Hence, he would now and then smack
his lips at a bouncing flam, as though throughout his whole moral
and physical anatomy, he hugely enjoyed it : flourished, and grew
fat upon it.
“And now, my dear Mrs. Snipeton—Mrs. Wilton, with your
leave, I'll talk a little with my patient;” and Crossbone, with an
imperious smile, waved his hand towards the door. Mrs. Wilton
stirred not from her sewing; said not a word; but looked full in
the face of her daughter.
“Oh no ; certainly not,” said Clarissa ; “Mrs. Wilton has had
too much trouble with her invalid, to refuse to listen to any
further complaints; though, indeed, sir,” said Clarissa signifi-
cantly, “I fear ’tis your anxiety alone that makes them so very—
very dangerous.”
“Ha! my dear madam. You are not aware of it—patients
arn’t aware of it—perhaps it is wisely ordered so—but the eye of
the true doctor can see, madam—can see.”
“Pray go on, sir,” said Clarissa; and Crossbone, a little puzzled,
needed such encouragement.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 331
And with erudite discourse did Crossbone strive to entertain
his patient ; who endured, with fullest female resignation, the
learning of the doctor.
St. Giles, leaving the house, hurried through the garden to take
charge of the horse. Arrived at the gate, he saw the animal led
by a man down the road, at a greater distance from the house
than was necessary for mere exercise. Immediately he ran off,
calling to the fellow who led the animal ; but the man, although
he slackened his pace, never turned his head or answered a
syllable. “Hallo, my man 1" cried St. Giles, “where are you
leading that ?”—and then he paused ; for Tom Blast slowly
turned himself about, and letting the bridle fall in his arms,
stared at the speaker. *
“Why, what’s the matter, mate 7 I’m only taking care o'
the gentleman's horse; jest walking him that he mayn't catch
cold. You don't think I’d steal him, do you ?” asked Blast,
winking.
“What—what brings you here again, Blast 7” stammered
St. Giles, scarce knowing what he said.
“What brings me here 7 Why, bread brings me here, Bread
o’ any sort, or any colour; dry bread at the best ; for I can't get
it buttered like some folks. Well, it’s like the world. No
respect for old age, when it walks arm in arm with want ; no
honour or nothin' o' that sort paid to grey hairs, when there's
no silver in the pocket. Well, I must say it—I can’t help it,
tho' it goes to my art to say it—but the sooner I’m out o' this
world the better, for I’m sick of men. Men They're wipers
with legs,” and the inimitable hypocrite spoke with so much
passion, so much seeming sincerity, that St. Giles was for a
moment confounded by a vague sense of ingratitude ; for a
moment he ceased to remember that the old crime-grained man
before him had been the huckster of his innocence, his liberty,
—had made him the banned creature that he was, breathing a
life of doubt and terror.
“What do you want What will satisfy you?” asked St.
Giles, despairingly.
“Ha! now you talk with some comfort in your woice. What
will satisfy me? There is some sense in that. Now you remind
me of a little boy that was the apples of my eyes, and would have
been the very likes o' you, but—well, I won't talk of that, for it
always makes my throat burn, and makes the world spin round
me like a top. I don’t want much. No ; I’ve outlived all the
rubbish and gingerbread of life, and care for nothing but the
simple solids. It’s a wonder, young man, what time does with
us. How, as I may say, it puts spectacles to our eyes, and makes
332 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
us look into mill-stones. What will satisfy me? Well, I do
think I could go to the grave decent on a guinea a week.”
“Very likely; I should think so,” said St. Giles.
“A guinea a-week, paid reglar on Saturdays. For regularity
donbles the sum. I might ha’ saved as much for my old age,
for the money that's been through my hands in my time. Only
the drawback upon thieving is this, there's nothing certain
in it. No man, let him be as steady as old times, no man as is
a thief”—
“Hush | Somebody may hear you,” cried St. Giles, looking
terrified about him.
“I’m speakin' of a man's misfortun, not his fault,” cried the
immovable Blast ; “no 'man as is a thief can lay up for a decent
old age. Have what luck we will, that's where the honest fellars
get the better on us. And so you see, instead o' having nothin’ to
do but smoke my pipe and go to the public-house, I’m obligated
in my old age to crawl about and hold horses, and do anything;
and anything is always the worst paid work a man can take
money for. Now, with a guinea, a week, would’nt I be a happy,
quiet, nice, old gen’leman Don't you think it's in me, eh, young
man 7 ° *
“I wish you had it,” said St. Giles. “I wish so with all my
heart. But give me the bridle.”
“By no means,” said Blast. “How do I know you was sent for
the horse How do I know you mightn't want to steal it !”
“Steal it !” cried St. Giles, and the thought of the past made
him quiver with indignation.
“Why, horses are stole,” observed Mr. Blast, with the serenity
of a philosophical demonstrator. “Look here, now : if I was to
give up this horse, what hinders you—I don’t say you would do
it—but what hinders you from taking a quiet gallop to Smith-
field, and when you got there, selling him to some old gentleman,
and ”—
“Silence Devil! beast !” exclaimed St. Giles, raising his fist
at the tormentor.
“No, no ; you don’t mean it,”—said Blast—“you wouldn’t hit
a old man like me, I know you wouldn’t. 'Cause if you was only to
knock me down, I know I should call out, I couldn’t help myself.
And then, somebody might come up ; p’raps a constable ; and
then—oh I’m as close as a cockle with a secret, I am, when I’m
not put upon, but when my blood's up, -bless your soul, I know
my weakness, I’d hang my own brother. I should be very sorry,
in course, arterwards; but he’d swing—as I’m a living sinner,
he'd swing,” and Blast, as he stared at St. Giles, gently smacked
his lips, and gently rubbed his palms together.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. - 333
“I ask your pardon; I didn't know what I said. Here’s a
shilling; now give me the bridle,” said St. Giles.
“I spose it’s all right,” said Blast, rendering up his charge,
and significantly eyeing the coin. “I spose it’s all right; but
only to think of this world ! Only to think that you should give
me a shilling for holding a horse ! Well, if a man could only
know it, wouldn’t it break his heart outright to look at the bits
o' boys that, afore he died, would be put clean over his head Î
It’s a good shillin', isn't it?”
“To be sure it is ; and an honest one, too,” said St. Giles.
“Glad to hear that ; tho’ I don’t know it will go a penny the
further. I wish the colour had been yellow, eh?”
“I wish so, too, for your sake. Good day,” and St. Giles sought
to shake his evil genius off.
“I’m in no hurry. Time's no good to me: you may have the
pick of any of the four-and-twenty hours at your own price,” said
Blast, following close at his side. “And so, they’ve turned you
over from St. James's-square to the old money-grubber 7 Well,
he's very rich ; though I don’t think the sops in the pan will be
as many as you'd been greased with at his lordship's. For all
that, he's very rich ; and you wouldn’t think what a lot of plate
the old man’s got.”
“How do you know that ?” asked St. Giles.
“I dream’d it only last night. I had a wision, and I thought
that the mother of little Jingo”—
“Don’t talk of it, man—don’t talk of it,” exclaimed St. Giles,
“I won’t hear it.”
“I must talk on it,” said Blast, sidling the closer, and striding
as St. Giles strode. “I must talk on it. It comforts me. I
dreamed that the poor soul come to me, and told me to follow her,
and took me into old Snipeton's cottage there, and showed me the
silver tankards, and silver dishes, and even counted up the silver
tea-spoons, that there was no end of ; and then, when she’d put
all the plate afore me, she vanished off, and I was left alone with
it. In course you know what followed.”
“I can guess,” groaned St. Giles.
“How rich I was while I was snoring, last night; and when I
woke I was as poor as goodness. But somehow, my dream's fell
true—I can't help thinking it--since I’ve ſell in with you.”
“How so, man What have I to do with Mr. Snipeton's plate,
but to see nobody steals it !” said St. Giles, firmly.
“To be sure; and yet when there's so much silver about, and
a guinea a week—well, I’ll say a pound, then—a pound a week
would make a fellow-cretur happy, and silent for life—I said,
silent for life "—
334 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
St. Giles suddenly paused, and turned full upon Blast. “Go
your ways, man—go your ways. Silent or not silent, you
do not frighten me. What I may do for you, I’ll do of my
own free will, and with my own money, such as it is. And,
after all, I think 't will serve you better to hold your tongue,
than *—
“I wouldn't kill the goose for all the eggs at once,” said Blast,
grinning at the figure.
St. Giles felt deadly sick. He had thought to brave—defy the
ruffian ; but the power of the villain, the fate that with a word
he could call down upon his victim, unnerved him. St. Giles, with
entreating looks, motioned him away; and Blast, leering at him,
and then tossing up the shilling with his finger and thumb, passed
on, leaving St. Giles at the garden-gate, where stood Clarissa,
brought there by the earnest entreaties of Crossbone, to view the
horse—the wondrous steed that was to endow its mistress with
new health and beauty.
“You may see at a glance, madam, there’s Arab blood in the
thing ; and yet as gentle as a rabbit. Young man, just put her
through her paces. Bless you ! she'd trot over eggs, and never
crack 'em. A lovely mare l’’ cried Crossbone, “all her brothers
and sisters, I’m assured of it, in the royal stables.”
“I’m afraid, too beautiful—much too spirited for me, sir,” said
Clarissa, as St. Giles ambled the creature to and fro. Ere, how-
ever, Crossbone could make reply—assuring the lady, as he pro-
posed to do, that she would sit the animal as securely and withal
as gracefully as she would sit a throne,—Mr. Snipeton, full of the
dust and cobwebs of St. Mary Axe, trotted to the gate. His first
feeling was displeasure, when he saw his wife exposed beneath the
open sky to the bold looks of any probable passenger; and then
she turned such a kind and cordial face upon him, that, for the
happy moment, he could have wished all the dwellers of the earth
spectators of her beauty, beaming as it did upon her glorified
husband. It was plain: love so long dormant, timid within her
bosom, now flew boldly to her eyes, and curved her lips, with
fondest looks and sweetest smiles for her wedded lord. We have
before declared that Snipeton had an intimate acquaintance with
his own ugliness: unlike so many who carry the disadvantage
with them through life, yet are never brought to a personal
knowledge of it, Snipeton knew his plainness: it was not in the
power of mirrors to surprise and annoy him. And yet, in his
old age, he would feel as though his ugliness was, by some magic,
lessened, nay, refined into comeliness, when his wife smiled upon
him. His face, for the time, seemed to wear her light. And
thus did this new belief in her affection give the old man a certain
*=== . . . *****-msm-------.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 335
faith in his amended plainness; as though beauty beautified what
it loved.
“There, Mr. Snipeton—there's a treasure. A lovely thing,
eh ” cried the triumphant Crossbone.
“Very handsome, very; but is she well broken—is she quite
safe 7” said Snipeton, looking tenderly at his wife.
“A baby might rein her. No more tricks than a judge; no
more vice than a lady of quality.”
“Humph 1 ° said Snipeton, dismounting, and giving his horse
to St. Giles. “My dear, you will catch cold.” And then the
ancient gentleman placed his arm around his wife's waist, and led
her from the gate; Crossbone following, and staring at the endear-
ment with most credulous looks. It was so strange, so odd ; it
seemed as if Snipeton had taken a most unwarrantable liberty with
the lady of the house. And them the apothecary comforted him-
self with the belief that Mrs. Snipeton only suffered the tenderness
for the sake of appearances: no ; it was some satisfaction to know
she could not love the man. “And your new maid is come. She
seems simple and honest,” said Snipeton.
“Oh, yes: a plain, good-tempered soul, that will exactly serve
us,” answered Clarissa.
“Very good—very good.” And Snipeton turned into the house.
He had thought again to urge his dislike of Mrs. Wilton ; to
suggest her dismissal; but he would take another opportunity—
for go she should : he was determined, but would await his time.
As these thoughts busied him, Mrs. Wilton entered the room,
followed by Crossbone. Somewhat sullenly, Snipeton gazed at
the housekeeper : and then his eyes became fiery, and pointing
to the riband that Clarissa had hung about her mother's neck—
the riband bearing the miniature, yet unseen by the wearer, he
passionately asked—“Where got you that ? Woman Thief!
Where stole you that ?”
“Stole !” exclaimed Mrs. Wilton, and she turned deathly pale;
and on the instant tore the riband from her neck ; and then, for
the first time, saw the miniature. For a moment, her face was
livid with agony, that secncd to tongue-tie her, and then she
shrieked—“Oh, God 1 and is it he l’”
“Detected detected 1 ° cried Snipeton—“a detected thief.”
“No, sir; no,” exclaimed Clarissa, embracing her parent.
“You shall now know all. She is ”—
Clarissa was about to acknowledge her mother, when the
wretched woman clasped her daughter's head to her bosom,
stifling the words. “No thief, sir,” she said, “but no longer
your servant.” And then, kissing Clarissa, and murmuring—
“not a word—not one word,” the mother hurried from the room.
336 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
CEIAPTER XXXIII.
SNIPETON liked to be duped. He hugged himself in the know-
ledge of his weakness, mightily enjoying it. And so, he suffered
his wife to nestle close to his chair—to place her hand upon his
shoulder—to look with earnest, pleading eyes upon him—to talk
such fluent sweetness, melting his heart And whilst Clarissa
assured him that, in a playful moment, she had placed the
miniature about the housekeeper's neck, that it was a wickedness,
a calumny, to think otherwise,_that, in very truth, it would
cause her—his wife, the wife he so professed to love—such pain
and remorse to think suspiciously of Mrs. Wilton, Snipeton,
that learned man as he deemed himself in the worst learning of
the world—that sage, who picked his way through the earth as
though its fairest places were all the closelier set with gins and
snares,--he would not see the sweet deceit in his wife's face; he
would not hear the charitable falsehood flowing from her lips:
no, he would be filled with belief. He would commit a violence
upon his prudence and blindfold her. She might rebel and
struggle somewhat : nevertheless, she should wear the bandage.
This wise determination still grew in his heart; in truth, the
soil was favourable to the deceit ; and therefore, next morning,
enjoying the amenities of breakfast, Mr. Smipeton assured his
wife that—whatever his thoughts had been—he now felt the
deepest, sweetest confidence in Mrs. Wilton. She had shown
herself a most considerate gentlewoman, and he should ever
respect her for it. “Poor thing ! I never knew anything of her
private history—for private histories, my dear”—this tenderness
had become almost familiar to the husband—“private histories
are very often like private wasps' nests; things of danger, with
no profit in 'em: nevertheless, she always appeared to me too good
—yes, too good for her situation. That's always a pity,” and
Snipeton continued to breakfast very heartily.
“True, husband, true,” said Clarissa; “such inequalities of
fortune are very sad.”
“Very inconvenient,” cried Snipeton ; “for you see, my dear,
people who are too good for their employment, are generally too
bad for their employers. There is no such lumber in the world as
broken-down gentility. Always out of place—never fit for any-
thing. A decayed gentleman, as he's called, is a nuisance ; that is,
I mean, to a man of the world—to a man of business. For you
see, there's always impertinence in him. He always seems to be
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 337
thinking of what he has been—you can’t get him to think of what
he is. He becomes your clerk, we’ll say. Well, you tell him to
call a hackney-coach, and he sets about it in a manner that
impudently says to you—‘ Once I kept my own carriage ' ' You
order him to copy a letter or what not; and he draws down the
corners of his mouth to let you know that—‘ Once in his day, he
used to write cheques ' ' Now this is unpleasant. In the first
place one doesn’t like any insolence from anybody; and in the next,
if one happens to be in a melancholy, thinking mood, one doesn't
like to be reminded by the bit of decay about one, what, for all
one knows—for it's a strange world—one may drop down to one's
self. A decayed gentleman to a rich man is—well—he's like a
dead thief on a gibbet to the live highwayman. Ha! haſ What's
the matter 7 °—asked the mirthful man, for he saw Clarissa
shudder at the illustration, though so very truthful and excellent
to the maker. “To be sure, I’d forgot; you’ve a tender heart—
I love you all the better for it—and don't like to hear about such
matters. And then again I’d forgot—to be sure, what a fool I
am | *—And then Mr. Snipeton remembered that, in his virtuous
denunciation of bankrupt Plutus, he had forgotten—led away by
the dazzling light of simile—the condition of Clarissa's father:
had, in the heat of speech, failed to remember that he had bought
the bridal victim of the necessities of her parent. But, Mr.
Snipeton, as he thought, made immediate amends. For taking
his wife's hand, he pressed it very tenderly; kissed her, and then
repeated—“What a fool I am I.’”
(Now this confession—a confession that the very wisest of us
might, without any hesitation make to himself three times a day;
and we much question whether the discipline so exercised would
not carry with it more profitable castigation than aught laid on
with knotted rope—this confession was not to be expected of so
sage and close a man as Ebenezer Snipeton. Some sudden
satisfaction must have betrayed him into the avowal : some
unexpected pleasure, tripping up habitual gravity, and showing
its unthought-of weakness. Much, indeed, did the wife of his
bosom, as he would call her—and why not for do not rocks bear
flowers ?—much did she marvel at the humility of her husband
that, even for a moment, placed him on the flat level with other
men. But great happiness, like great Sorrow, will sometimes
knock the stilts from under us; admirable stilts, upon which so
many of us walk abroad, aye, and at home too : though the
world, provoking in its blindness, will often not perceive how very
tall we are.)
“But the truth is, dear Clarissa’— continued Snipeton—“I
had a sort of respect for Mrs. Wilton, and though I often spoke
Z
338 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
of it, I really had not the heart to turn her from the house. I
often threatened it : but it's a comfort to know it—I couldn't
have done it. Now she's gone, I feel it.”
“Gone !” exclaimed Clarissa.
“T)ischarged herself, my dear,” said Snipeton, as upon his
defence. “I found this upon the breakfast table.” Hereupon,
Snipeton, unfolding a note, placed it in his wife's hand. Silently,
with trickling tears, she gazed upon the paper. “I shall have
no objection to give her a character; none at all: for I feel very
easy about the plate. I’ve no doubt, though I’ve made no inquiry
as yet, that all's safe to a salt-spoon. Not that she tells us where
she's gone ; nevertheless, I feel my heart at ease about the pro-
perty. Come, come, now—don't be weak—don’t be silly. You
should not attach yourself in this way to a servant. It’s weakness
—worse than weakness.” Thus spoke Snipeton to his wife, who
had sunk back in her chair, and covering her face with her hands,
was sobbing piteously.
At this moment Dorothy Vale moved into the room. “Will
mistress ride to-day, the man wants to know?”
“Yes, she will. Yes, my dear, you will”—repeated Snipeton,
moving to Clarissa, and very tenderly placing his arms around her;
and shuddering, she endured him. “You hear; let the horses be
ready in half-an-hour. Go.” And Dorothy went; but not a thought
the faster for the thundering monosyllable discharged at her.
“You’ll see me on my way to town 7 Some way; not far ; no,
a mile or so. 'Tis such a morning; there’s so much heaven come
down upon the earth. Such weather You’ll take health with
every breath. Eh, Clarissa 7 ° And again the old man threatened
an embrace, when the victim rose.
“Be it as you will, sir,”—said Clarissa—“in half-an-hour I
shall be ready.” And she left the room.
Now was Snipeton delighted with her obedience ; and now, he
paused in his triumphant strides about the room, to listen. Had
she really gone to her chamber 7 Ashamed of the doubt, he
walked the faster—walked and whistled. And then he was so
happy, the room was too small for his felicity: he would forth,
and expand himself in the garden. He so loved a garden; and
then he could walk amid the shrubs and flowers, with his eye upon
the window that enshrined the saint, his soulso reverently bowed
to. How frankly she yielded to his wish Every day—he was
quite sure of it—he was becoming a happier and happier husband.
He looked forward to years and years of growing joy. To be
sure, he was growing old: but still looking onward, the nearer the
grave, the less we see of it. -
“If you please, sir,”—said St. Giles to his new master, as
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 339
he entered the garden,_* do you put up both the horses in the
city ?”
“No : your mistress will come back,” said Snipeton.
“Alone, sir?” asked St. Giles; and the husband, as though the
words had stung him, started.
“Alone Why, no ; dolt. Alone l’” There was something
hideous in the question: something that called up a throng of
terrors. Clarissa alone, with the world's wicked eyes staring,
Smiling, winking at her
“Humph I had forgotten. As yet, we have but two horses.
Fool that I am I ?” A second confession, and yet early day ! And
Snipeton, musing, walked up and down the path ; and plucking a
flower, rolled it betwixt his finger and thumb to assist his medi-
tation. She had consented—so kindly, blithely consented to his
wish, that it would be cruel to her—cruel to himself—to dis-
appoint her. “Now, my man, be quick. Run to the Flask, and
in my name, get a horse for yourself. In a day or two, we must
See and mount you—must see and light upon a decent penn'orth.
Quick. We musn't keep your mistress waiting. And harkye
take my last orders now. When you return, you will ride close—
very close to your lady: so close that you may grasp the bridle :
the horse may be skittish : and we cannot be too cautious. Obey
me; and you know not how you may serve yourself. Go.” St.
Giles ran upon his errand, and Snipeton, after a turn or two,
after another look at the chamber-window where, it so strangely
comforted him, to see, through the curtain, his wife pass and
repass—walked towards the stable. He began to hum a tune.
Suddenly he stopped. He had never thought of it before; but—it
was a whim, a foolish whim, he knew that—nevertheless he now
remembered that his wife never sang. Not a single note. Perhaps
she could not sing. Pshaw There was an idleness of the heart
that always sang—somehow. And thus, for a minute, Snipeton
pondered, and then laughed—a little hollowly, but still he laughed
—at the childishness of his folly.
Mr. Snipeton was by no means a proud man. He was not one
of those incarnate contradictions that, in the way of business,
would wipe the shoes of a customer in the counting-house, yet ring
up the servant to poke the fire at home. No: he was not proud.
He refused not to put his hands to his own snuffers if the candle,
or his own convenience, needed them. And so, entering the
stable, and seeing the mare yet unsaddled, he thought he would
make her ready. And then he patted and caressed the beast as
the thing that was to bear the treasure of his life: even already
he felt a sort of regard for the creature. He was about to saddle
the animal, when he heard, as he thought, his wife in the garden.
Z 2
340 * ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
Pſe hurried out, and found Clarissa, already habited, awaiting
him. And still his heart grew bigger with new pride, when he
saw his wife; she looked so newly beautiful. What wondrous
excellence she had Under every new aspect, she showed another
loveliness | If he could only be sure that so sweet—so gracious a
creature loved him—him—so old and—and—so uncomely a man!
And then she wanly smiled; and he felt sure of her heart : yes,
it was beating with, a part and parcel of, his own—pulse with
pulse—throb for throb—their blood commingled—and their spirits,
like flame meeting flame—were one !
“Why, Clarissa, love, you never looked so beautiful—never
—indeed, never,” said Snipeton, and the old man felt sick with
happiness.
“Beautiful, master, isn’t missus 7" said Becky, and with her
opened hands, she smoothed down the folds of the riding-dress, as
though it was some living thing she loved ; and then she gazed at
the beauty of her mistress, believing it would be wrong to think
her quite an angel, and just as wrong not to think her very near
Olle.
“Your horse is not yet saddled, love,” said Snipeton, taking his
wife's hand, “not yet, dearest.”
“Bless you, master, now missus is drest, I’ll saddle her,” cried
Becky, and she ran to the stable. Most adroit of handmaids !
Equal to tie a bobbin, as to buckle a girth ! And ere St. Giles
arrived from the Flask with his borrowed steed—it had a sorry,
packhorse look, but as the landlord assured the borrower, was
“quite good enough for him ; who was he 7”—the mare was ready.
“Well, 'twill serve for to-day, but next time we must do
better than that,” said Snipeton, glancing at St. Giles's horse;
and then he turned to lift his wife into the saddle. Untouched by
his hand, she was in a moment in her seat ; another moment,
may, longer, Snipeton paused to look at her ; he had never before
seen her on horseback. At length the riders went their way,
Becky, hanging over the gate, now looking at her mistress—and
now, with red, red face and sparkling eyes, bobbing her head, and
showing her teeth to St. Giles, doing his first service as groom to
Snipeton—and doing it with a sad, uneasy heart: for he felt that
he was the intended tool for some mischief—the bondslave to
Some wrong. And with this thought in his brain, he looked dull
and moody, and answered the eloquent farewells of Becky, with a
brief, heavy nod.
“Well, I’m sure l’” said Becky, as she thought, to her own
Snubbed soul.
“What's the matter?” asked Dorothy Vale, who stoodrubbing
her arms, a pace or two behind her.
|
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 341
“Nothin’. What should be I never lets anything be the
matter. Only when people look good-by's, people might answer.”
“Ha! child,” replied Mrs. Vale, with an extraordinary gush of
eloquence,—“men upon foot is one thing—men upon horseback is
another.” How it was that Mrs. Vale condescended to the utter-
ance of this wisdom, we cannot safely say ; for no thrifty house-
wife ever kept her tea and sugar under closer lock than did she
the truths, unquestionably within her. Perhaps she thought it
would twit the new maid—the interloper—brought to be put over
her head. And perhaps she meant it as a kindly warning : for
certainly, Dorothy felt herself charitably disposed. Mrs. Wilton
had left the cottage ; and of course that girl—that chit—could
never be made housekeeper. However, leaving the matron and
the maid, let us follow the riders.
Great was the delight of Snipeton, as he ambled on, his wife at
his side; her long curls dancing in the air; the nimble blood in
her face ; and, as he thought, deeper, keener affection sparkling
in her eyes. Never before had he taken such delight in horse-
manship : never had felt the quick pulsation—the new power, as
though the horse communicated its strength to the rider—the
buoyancy, the youthfulness of that time. And still he rode ; and
still, at his side, his wife smiled, and glowed with fresher beauty,
and her ringlets—as they were blown now about her cheeks, and
now upon her lips, how he envied them —still danced and flut-
tered, and when suddenly—as at some blithe word dropt from
him—she laughed with such a honied chuckle, she seemed to him
an incarnate spell, at whose every motion, look, and sound, an
atmosphere of love and pleasure broke on all around her. Poor
old man At that delicious moment, every wrinkle had vanished
from his brow and heart. He felt as though he had caught time
by the beard, and had made him render back every spoil of youth.
His brain Sang with happiness; and his blood burned like lava.
And so rode they on ; and Snipeton little heeded—he was so
young, so newly-made—the steed that, with asthmatic roar, toiled
heavily behind. They crossed the heath, turned into Highgate,
and with more careful pace descended the hill. Every minute
Snipeton felt more precious, it was so close to the last, when he
must leave, for some long hours, his life of life —
(Now, is it not sad—we especially put the question to the Eve
whose eyes may chance to rest upon these ink-stained thoughts—
is it not a matter, tears being upon hand, to weep over, to think
of love in love's paralysis, or dotage 1 Love, with cherub face and
pale gold locks, may chase his butterflies—may, monkey as he is,
climb the Hesperian timber, pluck the fruit: he is in the gay
audacity of youth, and the tender years of the offender sink
342 ST. GILES AND ST. J.A.M.E.S.
felonies to petty larcenies. But love—elderly love—to go limping
after painted fancies—to try to reach the golden apples with a
crutch stick,--why, set the offender in the pillory, and shower
upon him laughter.)
We have written this paragraph whilst, Mr. Snipeton—in the
king's highway, and, moreover, upon horseback—kissed his young
wife, Clarissa. Although the man kissed the woman through a
wedding-ring—a lawful circle, and not a Pyramus and Thisbe
chink—we have no excuse for him, Save this, it had been dragged
from him. She-potent highwaywoman—had made him surrender
his lips by the force of death-dealing weapons. He was about to
separate from her. He took her by the hand—grasped it—she
looked in his eyes, and—we say it—the old husband kissed his
young wife
“Caw—caw—caw l’” At that very moment—yea, timing the
very smack—a carrion crow, flapped its vans above the heads or
man and wife, and hovering, thrice cried “caw—caw—caw,”—
and then flew to the northward, it might be to tell to gossip crows
of human infirmity; it might be, like coward scandal, to feed
upon the dead. However, the married pair separated. He would
return early—very early that day—to dinner. And she would
gently amble homeward ; and—as she knew she was the treasure
of his soul—she would be very careful not to take cold. She
would promise him—aye, that she would,
“Remember—close—very close,” said Snipeton, in a low voice
to St. Giles; and then again and again he kissed his hands to
his wife's back. “She might look once behind,” thought Snipeton,
gravely; and then he smiled and played with his whip. It was
not impossible—nay, it was very likely—she was in tears ; and
would not show the sweet, delicious weakness to the servant.
And still Snipeton paused and watched. How beautifully she
rode I Strait as a pillar ! And how the feather in her hat sank
and rose and fluttered, and how his heart obeyed the motion, as
though the plume were waved by some enchantress.
He wished he had taken her with him to St. Mary Axe.
What Ride with her through the city ? And then he recoiled
from the very thought of the thousand eyes opened and staring
at her—as though by very looking they could steal the bloom
they gazed at-recoiled as from so many daggers. Still he
watched her. Something made him, on the sudden, unquiet.
And then, as if at that moment it had only struck upon his ear,
he heard the clanging cry of the crow. Another moment, and
he loudly laughed. Was it anything strange, he asked himself,
that crows should caw And then again he looked gloomier
than before.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. . 343
He would go home, he thought. For once he would make
holiday, doing double work on the morrow. Yes; he would
not toil in the gold-mine to-day. And now she had turned the
lane. It was too late. Besides, business was ever jealous—
revengeful. Love her as you would for years, the beldame
brooked no after neglect. She would have her dues—or her
revenge. And with this thought, Snipeton stuck his spurs to
his horse, and rode as though he was riding to Paradise or a
hundred per cent.
“I ask your pardon, ma'am,” said St. Giles to Clarissa, about
to put her horse to its speed, “but master told me to follow close,
and—indeed I ask your pardon—but 'tisn't possible, mounted as I
am. I’ve had a hard bout to keep up, as 'tis. No offence, ma'am,”
said St. Giles, very humbly.
“Oh, no ; we shall soon be at home—'tis not so far,” answered
Clarissa ; and her altered look, her mournful voice surprised him.
It was plain her cheerfulness had been assumed ; for on the
sudden, she looked wearied, sick at heart. Poor gentlewoman
perhaps it was parting with her husband. No : that generous
thought was banished, soon as it rose. Already St. Giles had
more than a servant's love for his young mistress; she spoke so
sweetly, gently, to all about her. And then—though he had
passed but one evening with his fellow-servant, Becky—he had
learned from her so much goodness of the lady of the house.
Again and again he looked at her ; it was plain, she had over-
tasked her spirits; she looked so faint—so pale.
“Dear lady—beg your pardon—but you’re not well,” cried
St. Giles. “Shall I try and gallop after master ?”
“No—no ; it is nothing. A little fatigued—no more. I am
unused to so much exercise—and—nothing more. Tet us hasten
home,”—and controlling herself, she put her horse to an amble,
St. Giles whipping and spurring hard his wretched beast, to
follow, that, nevertheless, lagged many yards behind. A horse-
man overtook him.
“My good man,” said the stranger, “can you tell me the way
to Hampstead church 7 °
“I don’t know—I’m in a hurry,” and in vain St. Giles whipped
and spurred.
“ Humph ! Your beast is not of your mind, any how.
'Twould be hard work to steal a horse, like that, wouldn’t it 7”
asked the man. -
“Steal it !” and St. Giles looked full in the speaker's face,
and saw it one indignant Smile. Surely, he had met that man
before.
“Come, fellow, you know me !” said the stranger. “Once would

344 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
have done me a good turn. I see—now you recollect me. Yes;
we are old acquaintance, are we not ?”
“No, sir; I know nothing,” said St. Giles, but he shook with
the lie he uttered. Too well he knew the man who, with looks of
triumphant vengeance, scowled and smiled upon him. It was
Robert Willis; the murderer loosed from his bonds by the magic
tongue of Mr. Montecute Crawley. “I beg, sir, you’ll not stop
me. For the love of goodness, don’t, sir,”—and St. Giles trembled,
as though palsied.
“For the love of goodness Ha! ha For the fear of the
gallows, you mean. Now, listen to me; felon—returned trans-
port. That lady must not go back to her home. Nay—’tis all
settled. She goes not back to old Snipeton—the old blood-sucker :
—that 's flat.”
“What do you mean?” cried St. Giles, stunned, bewildered.
“My meaning’s plain—plain as a halter. When we last met,
you’d have put the rope around my neck. Raise one cry—stir a
foot faster than 'tis my will, and—and as sure as green leaves
hang from the boughs above you—so surely—but I see you under-
stand—yes, you are no fool, Master St. Giles, though Hog-lane
was your birth-place and school, and Mister Thomas Blast—you
see I know your history—your only teacher.”
“Do what you will ! Hang, gibbet me !—you shan’t lay finger
on that blessed lady l’” And St. Giles, throwing himself from his
useless horse, ran, like a deer, after his mistress, Willis, with
threats and curses, following. St. Giles, finding his pursuer gain
upon him, suddenly stopped, and, as Willis came up, leapt at him,
with the purpose of dragging him from the saddle, and mounting
his horse. In a moment, Willis, beneath his assailant, was rolling
in the dust ; but as St. Giles was about to leap upon the horse,
he was levelled to the earth by a blow from Tom Blast, who—he
was a wonderful man for his age —sprang with the agility of
youth, from a hedge.
“What " " cried his early teacher to the prostrate St. Giles,
“you’d do it agin, would you ? Well, there never was sich a
fellow for stealing horse-flesh . You was born with it, I spose,”
—said the ruffian, with affected commiseration, balancing the
cudgel that had struck down the vanquished—“you was born
with it, and—poor fellar—it's no use a blaming you.”
In a moment, Willis had remounted his horse, and shaking his
clenched fist over St. Giles, galloped off.
“How now !” gasped St. Giles, his sense returning, “how
now,” he cried, opening his eyes, and staring stupidly in the face
of Blast, “what’s the matter | What's all this 2°
“Why, the matter is jest this,” said Blast. “Your missus is
ST. GILES AND . ST. JAMES. 345
t
-
much too good for your master. That's the 'pinion of somebody
as shall be nameless. And so you may go home, and tell 'em not
to wait dinner for her. It’s wickedness to spile meat.”
“Tell me—where is she l—where have they carried her ?—tell
me, or—” and St. Giles, seizing Blast, was speechless with
passion.
“I 'll jest tell you this much. Your lady's in very good
company. And I’ll tell you this, partic’larly for yourself:
if you go on tearing my Sunday coat in that manner, I know
where the constable lives, and won’t I call him " " With this
dignified rebuke Mr. Blast released himself from the hands of
his captor, who—with a look of stupid misery—suffered him to
walk away.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
AND now is Snipeton widowed. Yes: with a living wife, damned
to worst widowhood. It would have worn and tortured the
spirit within him sometimes to wander from the desk to the
churchyard, and there look down upon Clarissa's grave. To have
read, and read with dreamy, vacant eyes, the few tombstone
syllables that sum up—solemnly brief—the hopes, and fears, and
Wrongs, and wretchedness; the pleasant thoughts and aching
weariness that breath begins and ends. “Clarissa, wife of
Ebenezer Snipeton, died.”— Words to dim a husband's eyes;
to carry heaviness to the heart ; to numb the soul ; and for a time
to make the lone man, with his foot at the treasure-holding grave,
feel the whole world drifted from him, and he left landed on the
little spot he looks on. And then breaks small, mournful music
from those words: pleasant, hopeful sounds, that will mingle
her name with his ; that will make him own the dear, the still
incorporate dead. The flesh of his flesh, the bone of his bone, is
lapsed into the disgrace of death : it is becoming the nourishment
of grass; and still his heart yearns to the changing form ; still it
is a part of him ; and his tender thoughts may, with the coffined
dead, love to renew the bridal vow the dead absolves him of And
Snipeton, his wife in her winding-sheet, might so have solemnised
a second wedlock. For surely there are such nuptials. Yes;
Second marriages of the grave between the quick and the dead,
with God and his angels the sole witnesses.
And Snipeton was denied such consolation. His widowhood
permitted no such second troth. Living to the world, his wife was
346 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
dead to him ; yet, though dead, not severed.—There was the
horror: there, the foul condition of disgraced wedlock : the flesh
was still of his flesh, cancerous, ulcerous; with a life in it to
torture him. By day, that flesh of his flesh would wear him ; by
night, with time and darkness lying like a weight upon him, would
be to him as a fiend that would cling to him ; that would touch
his lips; that would murmur in his ear. And let him writhe, and
struggle, and, with a strong man's strong will, determine to put
away that close tormentor, it would not be. The flesh was still
of his flesh, alike incorporate in guilt and truth.
But Snipeton is still a happy man. As yet he knows not of his
misery; dreams not of the desolation that, in an hour or so, shall
blast him at his threshold. He is still at his desk ; happy in his
day-dream; his imagination running over, as in wayward moments
of half-thrift, half-idleness, it was wont to do, upon the paper on
his desk before him.—Imagination, complete and circling; and
making that dim sanctuary of dirty Plutus a glistening palace
The pen—the ragged stump, that in his hand had worked as
surely as Italian steel, striking through a heart or so, but drawing
no blood—the pen, as it had been plucked from the winged heel
of the thief's god, Mercury, worked strange sorcery; crept and
scratched about the paper, conjuring glories there, that made the
old man sternly smile ; even as an enchanter Smiles at the instant
handiwork of all-obedient fiends. Reader, look upon the magic
that, cunningly exercised by the Snipetons of the world, fills it
with beauty; behold the jottings of the black art that, simple as
they look, hold, like the knotted ropes of Lapland witches, a
power invincible. Here they are ; faithfully copied from that
piece of paper—the tablet of old Snipeton's dearest thoughts,
divinest aspirations:—
“470,000”—“f 85,700"—" 490,000”—“f 100,000”—
“4,150,000 °–“f 1,000,000 !”
In this way did Snipeton—in pleasant, thrifty idleness—pour out
his heart ; dallying with hope, and giving to the unuttered wish
a certain sum in black and white ; running up the figures as a
rapturous singer climbs the gamut, touching the highest heaven
of * to his own delight, and the wonder of the applauding
WOICICl. *
In this manner would Snipeton take pastime with his spirit.
In this manner was the paper on his desk writ and over-writ with
promised sums that, it was his hope, his day-dream, would surely
some day bless him. And the numerals ever rose with his spirits.
When very dumpish—with the world going all wrong with him—
he would write himself down a pauper; in bitterness of heart
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 347
loving to enlarge upon his beggary, as thus : 000,000,000,000.
But to-day, he had ridden with Clarissa; she had looked so lovely
and so loving; he was so re-assured of her affection; could promise
to himself such honied days and mights that, dreaming over this;
smiling at her flushed face; and with half-closed eyes, and curving
mouth, gazing in fancy at her dancing plume, he somehow took
the pen between his fingers, and made himself a paradise out of
arithmetic.—Thus he laid out his garden of Eden, circling it with
rivers of running gold ! How the paradise smiled upon paper
How the trees, clustered with ruddy bearing, rose up ; how
odorous the flowers—and what a breath of immortality came
fluttering to his cheek Snipeton had written—
“21,000,000; ”
and then he sank gently back in his chair, and softly drew his
breath as he looked upon what should be his, foreshadowed by
his hopes.
Now, at the very moment—yes, by Satan's best chronometer—
at the very moment, Clarissa was lifted from her horse, placed in
a carriage, and whirled away from home and husband, And he
saw not her face of terror—heard not her shriek for help. How
could he Good man was he not in Paradise 2 Let us not
break in upon him. No ; for a while, blind and innocent, we will
leave him there.
The reader may remember that Mr. Capstick was threatened
with an ignominious dismissal from the British senate, as having,
it was alleged, bought an honour that, like chastity, is too pre-
cious to be sold. The misanthropic member for Liquorish, in his
deep contempt of all human dealings, took little heed of the peti-
tion against him ; whilst Tangle called it an ugly business, as
though in truth he secretly rejoiced in such uncomeliness.
Snipeton, too, looked grave; and then, as taking heart from the
depth of his pocket, said he would “fight the young profligate to
his last guinea ; ” (and when the weapons are gold, how bloody
oft the battle !) Whereupon Capstick relented a little in his
Savage thoughts; believing that pure patriotism did exist in
human nature, and had one dwelling-place at least in the heart of
Mr. Snipeton.
“Turn you out of Parliament, sir; they might chuck you out
o' the window, sir, for what he'd care, if it warn’t for his spite.
I’ve told you that all along, and you won’t see it,” said Bright .
Jem.
“I am sorry, Jem, that in your declining years—for there's no
disguising it, James—you're getting old and earthy—cracking
like dry clay, Jem,” said Capstick,
348 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“I don’t want to hide the cracks,” interrupted Jem : “why
should I? No: I’m not afraid to look Time in the face, and teli
him to do his worst. He never could spile much, that's one
comfort.”
“I am sorry, nevertheless, that you have not a little charity.
If I don’t think well of anybody myself, that’s no reason you
shouldn’t ; on the contrary, it is slightly an impertinence in you
to interfere with what I’ve been used to consider my own privi-
lege.” Thus, with dignity, spoke Capstick.
“All I know is this—and I’m sure of it—if Mrs. Snipeton had
as big a wart upon her nose as her husband, you’d never have
been Member for Liquorish,” said Jem, with new emphasis.
“Really, Mr. Aniseed”—for Capstick became very lofty
indeed—“I cannot perceive how Mrs. Snipeton's wart—that is,
if she'd had one—could in any way interfere with my seat in
Parliament.”
“In this manner,” said Jem ; laying one hand flat upon the
other. “In this manner. If she’d had a wart upon her nose,
young St. James, when he went to borrow money of her husband,
would have behaved himself like a honest young gentleman ;
wouldn't have written letters, and tried to send presents, and so
forth, till old Snipeton—poor old fellow ! for though he was a fool
to marry such a young beauty, there’s no knowing how any on us
may be tempted *—
“You and I are safe, I think, James " " said Capstick, with a
smile. -
“I think so; but don't let 's be presumptious. However,
that 's no reason we shouldn’t pity the unfortinate,” said Jem.
“Well, old Snipeton wouldn’t have been forced to send his young
wife into the country, where his young lordship went after her—
I’ve heard all about it. And then Snipeton wouldn’t ha’ been
jealous of the young gentleman, and then you’d have been at the
Tub, happy with the pigs and the geese, as if they was your own
flesh and blood; and you’d still ha’ been an independent country
gentleman, walking about in your own garden, and talking, as
you used to do, to your own trees and flowers, that minded you—
I’m bound for it—more than anybody in the house o' Parliament
will do.”
“Don’t you be too sure of that, Mr. Aniseed. When the Minister
hears my speech”—
“Well, I only hope my dream of last night won't come true.
I dreamt you'd made your speech, and as soon as you 'd made it,
I thought you was changed into a garden roller, and the Minister,
as you call him, did nothing but turn you round and round.
Howsomever, that’s nothing to do with what I was saying, -
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 349
saving your presence, I don't like you to be made a tool
on.”
“A tool, Mr. Aniseed . A tool—define, if you please, for this
is serious. What tool '!” and Capstick frowned.
“Well, I don't know what sort of tool they send to Parliament ;
but, if you’ll be so good, just feel here.” Saying this, Jem took
off his hat, and turning himself, presented the back part of his
head to the touch of Capstick.
“Bless my heart | Dear me—a very dreadful wound ! My
poor fellow—good Jem *—and Capstick put his arm upon Jem's
neck, and with a troubled look, cried—“Who was the atrocious
miscreant —eh !—the scoundrel !”
“Oh no ; he didn't mean nothing. You see, it was last night,
while I was waiting for you till the House was up. Taking a
quiet pint and a pipe among the other servants, some on 'em
begun to talk about bribery and corruption: and didn’t they sit
there and pull their masters to pieces; I should think a little
more than they pulled one another to bits inside. Well, your
name come up, and all about the petition; and somebody said
you'd be turned out; condemned like a stale Salmon at Billings-
gate. I didn’t say nothing to this: till Ralph Gum—the saucy
varmint, though he's my own flesh and blood; that is, as far as
marriage can make it”—
“Marriage can do a good deal that way,” said Capstick, smiling
pensively.
“Till Ralph Gum—he was waiting for the Marquis—cried out,
‘What Capstick, the muffin-maker l'”
“I do not forget the muffins,” said Capstick, meekly. “On the
contrary ; in Parliament I shall be proud to stand upon them.”
“But he said more than that : “Why, he's a thing we’ll turn
out neck and heels; he's only a tool ‘’’
“Oh, a tool l’ cried Capstick, “I am a tool, am I ? Very
well; a tool | What said you to this?”
“Nothing—only this. He was sitting next to me, and I said,
—‘You saucy monkey, hold your tongue, or learn better manners,'
—and with this, in the softest way in the world, I broke my pipe
over his head: whereupon, the Marquis's coachman and footmen
all swore you was a tool, and nothing but a tool—and they
wouldn't see their livery insulted, and—I forget how it ended,
but there was a changing of pewter-pots, and somehow or other
this *-and Jem passed his hand over his bruised head—“this is
one on ‘em.”
For a few minutes Capstick remained silent. At length he
said, determinedly—“Jem, I feel that it would be some satisfaction
to me to see this Mrs. Snipeton.”
350 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“What for 1" asked Jem, in his simplicity. -
“Why—well—I don’t know ; but if she is really what people
say, there can be no harm in looking on a beautiful woman.”
“Well, I don’t know—but for certain, they’d never do no harm,
if they never was looked upon,” said Tem.
“Jem, you ought to know me by this time; ought to know
that since Mrs. Capstick died I look upon beauty as no more than
a painted picture.”
“Well, that’s all right enough, so long as we don’t ask the
picturs to walk out o' their frames,” answered Jem. “But, sir,
in this Parliament matter—and I’d sooner die than tell a lie to
you, in the same way as I think it my bound duty to tell
you all the truth, though you do sometimes call me James and
Mr. Aniseed, instead of Jem, for doing it—in this Parliament
matter, master,”—and Jem paused, and looked mournfully at
Capstick.
“Out with it,” said the Member for Liquorish. “After the
hustings, surely I can bear anything. Speak.”
“Well, then, and you’ll not be offended ? But if ever there
was a tool in Parliament, master—now, don’t be hurt—you are a
tool, and nothing better than a tool. There ! When they were
flinging pewter pots about last night, I didn’t choose to own as
much ; now, when we’re together, I must say it. Member for
Liquorish La, bless you ! as I said afore, you're Member for
Spite and Revenge, and all sorts of wickedness.”
“I certainly will see Mrs. Snipeton,” said Capstick, “and to-
morrow, Jem ; yes, to-morrow.”
In pursuit of this determination, Mr. Capstick—with no fore-
warning of his intended visit to the master of the house—opened
the garden gate, and proceeded up the path to the cottage, fol-
lowed by Bright Jem ; who in his heart was hugely pleased at
the unceremonious manner in which his master stalked, like a
sheriff's officer, into the sanctuary of wedded love, or what is
more, of wedded jealousy : calm, authoritative, self-contained, as
though he came to take possession of the dove-cote. Even Dorothy
Vale was startled by the abrupt intrusion ; and looking from the
door, and rubbing her arms with quickened energy, begged to
know “what they wanted there 7° Ere, however, Capstick could
descend to make due answer, Becky ran from the door, with
many a voluble “dear heart 1 ° and “who’d ha’ thought it !” and
“is your honor well ?”
“Very well, my maid; very well,” said Capstick. “I should
like to see Mrs. Snipeton.”
“La now, what ill luck,” cried Becky, “she's gone out a
horseback with master; but she won’t be long, if you’ll only be
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 351
so good as to walk in, and wait a little while; she's such a sweet
lady, she'll be glad to see you.”
Dorothy said nothing ; but hugging and rubbing her arms,
looked sidelong at the new maid; looked at her, as one, whose
glib tongue had in one minute talked away her place; for
assuredly did Dorothy, even in her dim vision, see Becky with her
bundle trundled from the house, as soon as Mr. Snipeton should
learn the treason of his handmaid.
“I’ll walk about the garden till they comeback,” said Capstick;
“I’m fond of flowers; very fond.”
“They won’t come back together; for Master 's gone to
Lunnun; but the young man, the new servant”
“Ha ! the young man that took you from St. Mary-Axe.” said
Jem ; and Becky nodded and coloured.
“Both of you new together, it seems,” observed Capstick, mean-
ing nothing; though Becky, colouring still deeper, thought she
saw a world of significance in the careless words of the Member
of Parliament. But then it was a Member of Parliament who
spoke ; and there must be something in every syllable he uttered.
That he should couple herself and St. Giles was very odd; quite
a proof that he knew more than most people.
Capstick had lounged up the garden, Dorothy marvelling at
his ease; whilst Jem held short discourse with Becky. “And
he's a good honest young man, eh? Well, he looks like it,”
said Jem. .
“I never goes by looks, I don’t,” said Becky. “Talking about
looks, how is that dark young man you knocked in the gutter
Your nevey, sir, isn’t he How is he l’”
“Why, I may say, my dear, he 's in the gutter still, and there
let him be. But as for your fellow-servant, I think”—said Jem
—“I think he’s an honest young fellow.”
“I should break my heart, do you know—I mean—I should be
so sorry—in course I should—if he wasn’t. He’s so good-tem-
pered; so quiet-spoken ; so willing to give a helping-hand to
anybody. And yet ſor all this ; somehow or t'other, he doesn’t
seem himself. One minute he'll be merry as a mountebank; and
afore you can speak, his face will go all into a shadow. Can’t be
happy, I think?”
“Perhaps not,” said Jem ; “I wasn’t myself when I was about
his time of life. Perhaps, Becky, perhaps he's in love.”
“Don’t know, I’m sure; how should I?” said Becky, turning
short upon her heel; whilst Jem followed his master, at length
resolved to narrate to him the history of St. Giles. Again and
again Jem had attempted it ; and then stopt, huddling up the
story as best he could. For the new dignity of Capstick had
352 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
made him—as Jem Sometimes thought—cold and cautious ; and
after all, it might not be proper to bring together a returned
transport and a Member of Parliament. The garden was winding
and large ; but Jem could not well miss his master, inasmuch as
the orator was heard very loudly declaiming; and Jem, following
the sound, speedily came up with Capstick, who, with his hat
upon the ground, his right arm outstretched, and his left tucked
under his left coat-tail, was vehemently calling upon “the attention
and the common-sense, if he was not too bold in asking such a
favour,” of a triple row of tall hollyhocks, representing for the
time the Members of the House of Commons, and unconsciously
playing their parts with great fidelity, by nodding—nodding at
every sentence that fell from the honourable orator. “There is
nothing like exercising the lungs in the pure air,” said Capstick,
slightly confused; and picking up his hat, and falling into his
usual manner.
“I think I should know what it was,” said Jem, “calling
coaches in a November fog; just like hallooing through wet
blankets.”
“Demosthenes—you never heard of him—but that's no matter:
“Demosthenes,” said Capstick, “used to speak to the Sea.”
“Well; he’d the best on it in one way,” said Jem ; “the
fishes couldn’t contradict him. But Surely, now—upon your
word, sir—you don’t really mean to make a speech in Parliament?”
Capstick's eye glistened.—“You do? Lord help you ! when,
sir, when 7°
“Why, Jem, I can’t answer for myself. Perhaps, to-night—
perhaps, to-morrow. If I’m provoked, Jem.”
“Provoked, sir! Who’s to provoke you, if you’re determined
to sit with your mouth shut 4° said Jem.
“The truth is, Jem, I had resolved to sit a whole session, and
not say a syllable. But I shall be aggravated to speak, I know
I shall. The fact is, I did think I should be abashed—knocked
clean down—by the tremendous wisdom before, behind me, on
all sides of me. Now—it isn’t so, Jem,” and Capstick looked
big. “I did think my great difficulty would be to speak ;
whereas, hearing what I do hear, the difficulty for me is to hold
my tongue. In this way—I feel it—I shall be made an orator
of against my will. By the way, Jem, talking of oratory, just
sit down in that arbour, and fancy yourself the House of
Commons.”
“Couldn’t do it, sir.” Capstick imperatively waved his arm.
“Well, then-there, sir,” said Jem ; and he seated himself
bolt upright in a honeysuckle bower, and took off his hat, and
smoothed down his few speckled hairs; and put on a face of gravity.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 353
---
“That won't do at all,” cried Capstick. “I just want to try
a little speech, and that's not a bit like the House of Commons.
No ; roll yourself about ; and now whistle a little bit; and now
put on your hat : and now throw your legs upon the seat; and,
above all, seem to be doing anything but listening to me. If you
seem to attend to what I say, you'll put me out at once. Not at
all parliamentary, Jem.”
“Shall I shuffle my legs, and drum my fingers upon the table
Will that do | * cried Jem.
“Pretty well: that will be something,” answered Capstick.
“Or I tell you what, sir;-if, while you was making your
oration, I was to play upon this jew's-harp”—and Jem produced
that harmonious iron from his waistcoat pocket—“would that be
parliamentary and noisy enough ' "
“We’ll try the jew's-harp,” replied Capstick, “for I have
heard much worse noises since I sat for Liquorish. Wait a
minute ’’—for Jem essayed to preludise—“ and let me explain.
The motion I am going to make, Jem, is to shorten the time in
the pillory.” Jem shook his head hopelessly. “According to
the law, as at present operating, the time of the pillory is one
hour. Now, I don’t want to be called a revolutionist, Jem ; I
don’t want to array all the respectability and all the property of
the land against me 22 •.
“Don’t, sir, don’t ; if you love your precious peace of mind,
don’t think of it,” cried Jem.
“Therefore, I do not at present intend to move the total
abolition of the pillory,” said Capstick.
“You’d be stoned in the streets, if you did. People will bear
a good deal, sir; but they won’t have their rights interfered with
in that manner. Do take care of yourself, pray do. I shouldn’t
like to see you in the Tower,” said Jem, with genuine tenderness.
“Let the pillory alone, sir; touch that, and folks will swear
you’re going to lay your hands upon the golden crown next ; for
it’s wonderful what they do mix up with the crown sometimes,
to be sure.” -
“Fear not, Jem. I shall respect the wholesome prejudices of
my countrymen ; and therefore shall only move that the time in
the pillory be henceforth reduced from an hour to half an hour.
That's gentle, I think 7 ° -
Jem stroked his chin—shook his head. “I know what they’ll
call it, sir; interfering with the liberty of the subject. No,
they’ll say—our forefathers, and their fathers afore 'em, all stood
an hour, and why shouldn't we ?”
“I am prepared for a little opposition, Jem ; but, just fancy
yourself the House, while I speak my speech. Make as much
A. A.
354 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
noise, and be as inattentive as possible, and then I shall get on.”
Jem obediently buzzed—buzzed with the jew's-harp, shambled
with his feet, rocked himself backwards and forwards; and, to
the extent of his genius, endeavoured to multiply himself into a
very full House. -
Capstick took off his hat—held forth his right arm as before,
with the supplementary addition of a piece of paper in his hand,
and again with his other arm supported his left coat-tail. “Sir”
—said Capstick, looking as full as he could at Jem, who rocked
and shifted every minute —“Sir, it was an observation of a
Roman emperor
“Which one 7 ° asked Jem.
“That's immaterial,” answered Capstick. “A question that
will certainly not be asked in debate. I take a Roman emperor
as something strong to begin with — of a Roman emperor that
Quifacit per alium ”
“Hallo 1 ° cried Jem, holding the jew's-harp wide away from
his mouth ; “what's that—Latin * *
“Latin,” answered Capstick.
“Well—my stars | *—said Jem—“I never knowed that you
knowed Latin.”
“Nor did I, Jem,” replied Capstick smilingly. “But I don’t
know how it is ; when a man once gets into Parliament, Latin
seems to come upon him as a matter of course. Now go on with
your jew's-harp, and make as much noise as you like, but don’t
speak to me. 'T isn’t parliamentary. Now them,” and Capstick
resumed the senator—“‘it was an observation of a Roman
emperor 35
“If you please, sir, I’ve laid some bread and cheese and ale in
the parlour,” said Becky, breaking in upon the debate. “It’s a
hot day, sir, and I thought you might be tired.”
“Well,—I don’t know. What, Jem,” asked Capstick, Smacking
his lips, “what do you propose ""
“Why,” answered Jem rising, “I propose that the House do
now adjourn.”
Capstick returned the paper to his pocket, and taking up his
hat, said—“I second the motion.” After a very short pause, he
added—“And it is adjourned accordingly.” Whereupon he and Jem
turned to follow Becky, who had run on before them, down another
path. In less than a minute a shriek rang through the garden.
“Why, that's the girl she's hurt, surely,” cried Jem.
“Pooh, nonsense,” said Capstick, quickening his pace, “it’s
nothing ; taken a frog for a crocodile—or something of the sort.
Women love to squall; it shows their weakness. It can’t be
anything—”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 355
22
“Oh, sir—sir—sir—” cried Becky, flying up the garden, and
rushing to Capstick,-‘they’ve stole her—carried her off—my
dear, dear missus !”
“Carried off Mrs. Snipeton—the lady”—exclaimed Capstick.
“Stole her away by force—Oh, my poor master—oh, my dear
missus—the young man will tell you all—master's heart will
break—my sweet lady l’” And Becky with flowing tears, wrung
her hands.
“Why? Eh—what is all this 7 ° said Capstick to St. Giles,
who looked pale and stupified. “Fellow, what's this 7"
“I’ll tell you all about it, sir,”—said St. Giles. “The lady's
horse was swifter than mine—I could no how keep up with
her. And when we turned out of Highgate we’—here St. Giles
turned deathly pale, and his feet sliding from under him, he fell
to the earth.
“He is dead—he's dead,” cried Becky, falling upon her knees
at his side, and lifting up his head, when her hands were instantly
covered with blood, drawn by the cudgel of Blast. On this she
renewed her screams; renewed her exclamations of despair.
“He was dead—murdered l’”
At this moment Old Snipeton ran, reeling up the path. Dorothy
Vale, more by her chalk-like face, than by her tongue, had
revealed the mischief to her master. “Missus was gone—carried
off—the man was up the garden.” His life—nothing but his life
—should satisfy the cheated husband. Snipeton rushed to the
group ; and when he saw St. Giles prostrate, insensible ; the old
man, grinding his teeth, howled his curses; and in very impotence,
worked his hands like a demon balked of his revenge.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WE will not linger with Snipeton. For why cast away sympathy
—that essence of our moral being—upon an old, money-loving
man, gulled of his youthful wife Wherefore pity him, made,
by the lucky boldness of hired knavery—retained and paid by
scoundrel cowardice—the living joke of the best society, shaking
its sides at the best of clubs Had the miserable man been left
upon the road, with out-turned pockets, and a medicable bruise
or gash or two, why there would have been no jest whatever
in the dull mishap; the robbery and the wound might have
passed among the serious things that lengthen even careless
faces. But how different the casualty A man—an old man—
and the quintessence of the drollery lay in his wrinkles—had

A A 2
356 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
been robbed of his other self; had had his very being rent in
twain, and to think of his loss was rarest comedy—to picture him
writhing in the agony of that forced separation was to crow
with laughter. Such was the compassion bestowed by men
upon the old money-merchant, as rumour, like a wild-goose,
cackled as she flew. Therefore, for a time, we will leave Snipeton
at his solitary hearth. No ; not solitary. For now the figure,
the features of his wife—the run-away; yes, there was the
horror; there the burning truth that poisoned the wound—were
multiplied about him. It would have been some relief to the
tortured—a passing breath cooling the damned—to think that
beautiful mischief the victim of violence : but no ; she had
clubbed her share of cunning; she had played a free part in the
wickedness; she had fled from him ; and he could hear her
laughter at the trick. And then those very numerals—things
that in pleasant idleness of heart he had jotted down, as fancied
guards and retinue of wealth, to glorify and do homage to that
idol of his home—they rose in his brain like sparks of fire, and
he howled and whined like idiotcy. And at the same time, as
we have said, there was great laughter—very great enjoyment
at the clubs.
The scene is shifted—night has passed away. For a time poor
Snipeton sat with his eyes upon the hand of the clock as though
he watched a dagger aimed to strike him. And the hand moved
from hour to hour ; and then, in deep night, as one on whom
despair had fastened, not to be loosed but at the grave, he sat in
silent, sullen misery.
The scene is shifted. We are miles away in pleasant Surrey.
In an old house—old as the gnarled elms and Oaks that majes–
tically stand, the sylvan guards, around it—is Snipeton's stolen
wife. That house is the abiding-place of the luckless horseman
thrown from his steed at Hampstead, and duly tended by Cross-
bone, and duly robbed by Blast. Accident and sickness save a
world of ceremony, and the patient and the surgeon were in
briefest season, fast friends. You may grow a friendship quick
as a salad, that like the salad, shall serve the required purpose ;
and so it was with the intimacy sprung up 'twixt Shoveller and
Crossbone. Shoveller was pleased to call himself—a man of the
world. We say pleased ; for he proclaimed his title, as though
it was one of honour to be mightily proud of. He would say,
“I am a man of the world;” indicating that he was wholly and
entirely of the world : that he dealt with facts; hard facts;
hard and real as the world he felt with his soles; and quite a
different matter from the misty, cloudy world, that swam above
his head.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 357
And Crossbone was also a man of the world. Hence, he felt
himself drawn towards Shoveller, even as two dead logs in a pond
are attracted together. In the very dawn and roseate blush
of their friendship, Mr. Shoveller had informed Crossbone that he
was the owner of a snug, retired nook, buried away amid trees in
a wild patch of country; a solitary house, without, as he observed,
the curse of neighbours. He had seen so much of town-life in his
days—at times, too, mixed so very actively amongst the company
of London—that now and then, he felt it absolutely necessary to
the preservation of his health, nay, even of his life—to be turned
out to a bit of grass. And as Mr. Shoveller spoke, the face of
Crossbone was lighted from an inner light; for his fancy glowed
with a pleasant picture—that of Mrs. Snipeton spirited from her
chastised lord, justly punished for the offence of marriage—and
dwelling, like a wood-dove, for a timely season at least, in that
pleasant hermitage.
Briefly, Mr. Shoveller offered his house and household devils—
for his lares had cloven feet and barbed tails—to the service or
Mr. Crossbone ; who, without offence to the spirit of hospitality,
in the prettiest manner hinted at hard payment at an early day.
Whereupon, Mr. Shoveller professed his readiness to engage a
dear and valued friend or two (he had a large bosom for friends,
that man ; and could, upon occasion, have lodged all Newgate)
to form an escort for the lady, from the perils of the journey.
And Mr. Shoveller kept his word; it was his pride to do so; and
the greater the mischief to be done, the more binding did he ever
hold the engagement.
It was the morning after the service accomplished by Mr.
Shoveller, and he and Crossbone walked in the little orchard :
walked as friends should walk, newly knit together by rascal
wrong; they both took such pains to be at ease. “A sweet place,
here: a very sweet place,” said Crossbone.
“Why, yes; the grass is as green here as anywhere ; the birds
sing as well, and the flowers are as fresh ; but what of that ?”
answered the philosophic Shoveller, “T never care to brag.”
“No man of the world does,” said Crossbone. “Bless me !
what a crop of apples you’ll have ’’
“And pears, and plums, and cherries,” said Shoveller, slowly ;
and then he added, “Mrs. Snipeton has a devilish pretty mouth.
And to think her lips should keep so red; when, I doubt not,
winter has touched them so often. Ha ha Poor little kitten:
how she pouted Well, if I love to see anything, it is now and
then to look upon a pretty woman in a tearing rage.”
We know not what recollection darkened Crossbone's mind—he
had known the sorrows of widowhood, and perhaps felt them anew
358 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
—but he gazed with mixed sadness and surprise at Mr. Shoveller.
“Taste is everything ; it’s the salt of life ; without it we should
be as like one another as snails; and for what I know, have just
as much enjoyment. Nevertheless there is a taste that grows
into a disease ; and, pardon me, my dear friend, if I think a taste
for a lady in a rage, is a taste of that very sort. Now cannibalism
is only a taste, nothing more. Nevertheless, though—as men of
the world—we may flay one another, we respect the decencies of
life, and stop there.” Thus spoke Crossbone.
“It is such a pretty sight"—said Shoveller, returning to the
picture—“to see what they would do, with what they only do.
When I lifted her from her horse, her little white hand grasped
me, as it would tear me to bits. “Don’t madam,” said I; ‘I’m
ticklish, and shall laugh :’ and when I put her into the carriage,
and placed myself beside her, she looked at me, as though she
thought her eyes burning-glasses that must make tinder of me ;
and worked her precious lips, as though they were crossbows
shooting twenty deaths at me. And then—but I asked her pardon
like agentleman—and then Ilaughed—I couldn’t helpit. Oh, I do
love a woman in a rage; it gives the pretty thing such animation;
turns so much that seems china-work into real flesh and blood.”
“And nails,” Crossbone was about to say: but with an after-
thought he waived the subject as painful, and observed—“You
don’t think it possible Mrs. Snipeton can see me here Because,
my dear friend, I must not be known in this business; that is,
unless professionally.”
“Do you see that hand 7" said Shoveller, exhibiting his right
palm close under Crossbone's eye.
“Perfectly well; I once studied chiromancy—that is, as a boy
—and I can see that your hand was made 23
“For roasted chestnuts.”
Crossbone stared.
“Nay, nay, you are, you know it, a man of the world. The
chestnut is in the house there ; and this is the hand—the paw of
poor puss—that you, knowing pug that you are—that you have
used to 52
“Now, my dear friend,” exclaimed Crossbone, apprehending
the intended application, “if I thought you thought so, I assure
you it would make me very unhappy. Very unhappy, indeed.
You see, mine is a very difficult, a very delicate part. For to-
morrow, I must see Mr. Snipeton.”
“And, perhaps,” said Shoveller with his best gravity, “perhaps
prescribe for him.”
“Should his condition require it *—assented Crossbone—“pre-
scribe for him.”

ST. GILES AND ST. J AMIES. 359
“Well, as you know the seat of his complaint,”—and Shoveller
jerked his head towards the house—“no one better—you’ll have
but little trouble with him. Poor old man Don’t bleed him
much, Ha 1 ha. ”
“Don’t sport with surgery. It has been my weakness—1
may say, very unprofitable weakness—to have too much respect
for my profession. I love it so dearly, I can’t suffer a joke
upon it. Hark!” cried Crossbone, and he turned towards the
road and listened—“hark | Confess me a wizard, now. That's
a horse.”
“Well, in the worst of times, you couldn’t have been burned
for that prophecy,” said Shoveller.
“Yes; but a horse that carries a lover. There’s a beating
heart at full gallop and—did I not say so?” and Crossbone reced-
ing behind a shrub pointed to young St. James as he slackened
his pace at the house. “Now, my dear friend, I must leave you ;
I must wait upon his lordship. You know your promise—I mean
—our bargain } The house 35
“Is his lordship's,” cried Shoveller; and that man of the
world looked very wise. “The house, and all that 's in it. I know
true hospitality; especially, when paid for. I have the honour,
T}octor Crossbone 23
“Not yet ; no diploma just yet,” said Crossbone, meekly; and
with a faint smile.
“Oh, it’s coming fast, now. When rascality—not, my dear.
friend, that I mean rascality—I would speak as a man of the
world—when rascality succeeds, dignity as a matter of course
must follow. Therefore, again Doctor Crossbone, I have the
honour to wish you a good morning ; and more, the unbounded
gratitude of your excellent and noble employer.” With this
wish, gravely delivered, and a dignified movement of the hat,
Mr. Shoveller resigned his place of host to the apothecary, and
struck down the garden, away into the fields; perhaps to medi-
tate on life, and all its doings.
|Ere the reader could learn this much, Crossbone was at the
side of his lordship, who, dismounting, resigned his horse to Ralph
Gum ; and that very intelligent youth looked at Crossbone, and
then looked at the house, as though his moral sense took a good,
hearty sniff at some mysterious mischief, and enjoyed it hugely.
“Your lordship,” said Crossbone, “shall not the horses be put
up ! There's stabling—”
“No : at least, not for the present. He has his orders,”
said St. James, who was then bowed into the house, and Gum,
buried in thought, walked the horses down the road. It was
very certain that his lordship was committed to some piece of
360 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
pleasant knavery ; and the young man felt flattered that, ever
so humbly, he had been permitted to mix in it. Wages must be
raised.
Crossbone led St. James into a large low room, plainly, but
solidly appointed. The oaken furniture was black and shining
will age aud huswiſery; and a few pictures on the walls
—portraits of long-since forgotten churchyard earth—looked
coldly, gloomily, on the intruders. The young lord seemed
ill at ease ; like one who had given up his conscience to the
keeping of another, yet feared to call him to account for
the trust. Now he glanced moodily at Crossbone, and now
with his whip, beat at his boot. But Crossbone—happy in
his triumph —marked it not. He had succeeded in so great
an attempt ; he had such a radiant captive to adorn his victory,
that he marked not the ingratitude of the man so undeservedly
made happy. Crossbone expanded himself, body and soul, that
he might receive all the blessings to be poured down upon him.
And at length his lordship, looking full at his benefactor, observed,
“Well, sir?”
Crossbone winced a little ; only for a moment. And then
vigorously smiling, and bowing, and throwing apart his arms, as
if with the action he would open his very heart, said, “My lord
—my dear lord—if, on this happy occasion, you will allow me to
call you so—I congratulate you. At length, you are in the very
house 3?
“And whose house may it be?” questioned St. James, glancing
to and fro.
“Oh, for that matter, my lord, your lordship's own ; that I have
settled—your own, so long as you shall deign to use it. You are
master”—and Crossbone laughed like a tickled demon—“master
of the house, and all the house contains.”
“And that, Mr. Crossbone, doesn’t seem to promise much,”
said the ungrateful nobleman.
Crossbone smiled, as conscious knowledge may be allowed to
smile, and with his left-hand fingers coaxed his chin. He then
mincingly approached St. James, and like One about to speak a
spell ineffable, said “Mrs. Snipeton”—ard then the apothecary
paused, and stared. As well he might : for that very ardent
young nobleman, the Lord St. James, did not spring to his feet,
re-echoing the silver name. No : his lordship—gravely as he
would have sat in Parliament, had not the democratic misan-
thropic muffin-maker defeated him—his lordship for the second
time, made answer “Well, sir?” -
“Mrs. Snipeton, my lord, is at this moment in this house,”
cried Crossbone, with the emphasis of an injured man.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 361
“Is it possible 7" exclaimed St. James, and his blood rose to
his face.
“Permit me to observe, my lord ”—said Crossbone, naturally
affected, hurt by the placidity of his patron—“ that to devo-
tion, and fidelity, with a little intelligence — for true wisdom
never brags—I defy my enemies to say it of me—all things are
possible. Mrs. Snipeton is here ; here, my lord, without *—and
the apothecary chuckled at the thought, it was so droll—“without
Mr. Snipeton.”
It was very strange—very odd–what could his lordship be
made of ? He showed no sign of an attempt to Snatch the
apothecary to his arms; in the gratitude of that warm embrace,
forgetful, for one fleeting moment, of the world and its ceremonies
that ought to make the gap between them. No : as though his
lordship was sitting for a statue of patriotism, or stoicism, or any
other virtue to be wrought in stone for a very miserable posterity
—for as the world, upon the best authority, with every generation
gets worse and worse, in due time, the demi-gods of one age will
of course become the Troglodytes or Cretins of another—as though
we say, his lordship had posed himself for a sculptor, to go down
a seated giant to future dwarfs, so did he listen to the tremendous
intelligence uttered by Crossbone. Isgratitude extinct —thought
Crossbone; passed from the world with its dragons and griffins 7
Crossbone was not a man to weep : nevertheless, he believed he
felt a moistening of the eyes, as he looked upon the extra-
ordinary indifference of his friend and patron. Would he never
speak | . -
At length his lordship somewhat relieved his faithful vassal.
“Mrs. Snipeton here Alone 7 Without her husband, you say 7
And how is this 2°
“You know not, my lord—no, and you never shall know—the
pains I have taken, the danger I have risked, to insure your happi-
ness in this matter. You never shall know it.”
“And was the lady carried off by force : " Crossbone paused.
“Answer me, man : was violence used ? Speak,” cried St. James.
“Why, that is—gentle violence. The-the sort of violence
that is not displeasing to any of the sex. Just a violence that is
nothing more than complimentary to the dear things: enough to
keep up appearances; not a bit beyond.”
“She struggled—screamed—and—”
“Yes; there were all the graces, all the etceteras, and little
flourishes used on such occasions; but, as I say, not a whit more,
my lord, than enough to keep up appearances. The lady felt that
she was being torn—yes, torn is the word with the world—torn
from an old, and ugly husband ; and submitted to the operation
362 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
with proper fortitude. But for appearances, as I say, she’d have
Squealed no more than a rose-bud pulled from a bush—a nectarine
twitched from a tree.” *
“Come, sir,”—and young St. James smiled, though somewhat
Sourly,–" you shall tell me all about it.”
Never did veteran tell the story of his laurels with greater
relish than Crossbone felt as he narrated the history of his con-
quest. “You see, my lord, I knew your heart was set upon this
matter ; and therefore, though there are people in the world who
may affect to lift their eyebrows at the transaction, therefore,
urged by a sudden friendship for your lordship—if you will permit
me to use the delightful word—I was determined to gratify you.
But it was necessary for both of us, that I should go warily to
work. Hence, in my professional capacity, I threw in the pre-
scription of horse-flesh, that I might get the lady from under her
husband's roof. This settled, my next care was to secure a sweet,
sequestered spot, far from the meddling intrusion of a scandalous
world; and fortune, seconding my wish, flung the owner of this
house into my hands,--a pliant, easy man, my lord, who knows
the worth of money. By the way, my lord, your servant—I mean
the fellow you gave me as a follower—is, by no means, a man for
our work. When the woman was in our power—that is, in the
power of my friends, for it would have spoilt all had I mixed
myself in the matter—the rascal would have fought for her, when
he was levelled by as pretty a blow, I am told, as ever fell to the
lot of a fool. We must get rid of him, my lord, that's plain.
Well, my lord, my friend Mr. Shoveller—”
“And who is Mr. Shoveller ?” asked St. James, drily.
“Oh, the owner of this quiet little castle. A snug, silent
retreat, is it not, my lord 7"
St. James cast no complimentary look at the walls, and then
motioned Crossbone to continue.
“My story,” said the apothecary, with commendable spirit,
considering the coldness of his hearer, “my story is now soon
told. The lady had left her husband on his road to London—to
St. Mary Axe, my lord; you know the den—strewed with the
bones of young spendthrifts, though we can’t see 'em, my lord—
well, she had left him, and her rascal servant, mounted on a
wretched horse—Shoveller, deep fellow, had taken care of that
—could not keep up with her, and to bring the story to an
end, there was a little Squealing—just for appearance—when
Mrs. Snipeton was safely lifted into a carriage. The horses
tore along—and here she is.”
“You are a bold practitioner, Mr. Crossbone,” said St. James,
with a disturbed look: a look that showed perplexed thoughts
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. - 363
—increasing hesitation. “And there was not much violence 2"
added the young lord, slowly.
“Just as much as I have said, my lord ; nay, hardly that.
The truth is, I believe—indeed, I am sure—the pretty creature
knew—for women have shrewd guesses in such matters—knew
where she was coming—knew whom she was to meet—and so,
yes, so, my lord, behaved herself accordingly.”
“Well, it may be. I wish I could think it,” muttered
St. James.
“You may soon assure yourself, my lord. The lady is, I say,
in this house. After much toil and trouble and—but, as I have
said, I won't brag, it isn't my way—she is here—under this roof
—up stairs”—for the coldness of St. James made Crossbone
emphatically precise—“and, in a word, my lord, here is the key.”
As the apothecary suddenly presented that domestic implement
to St. James he unconsciously recoiled from it as from some
mortal mischief. “A prisoner—locked up !” cried the young
Iłłall. -
“Why, my lord, after so much ado to cage the bird, think you
I’d leave the door open 2 * Thus spoke Crossbone, and with an
impatience a little disrespectful of his hearer's rank. But, it must
be confessed, even by the most ceremonious, that when a man
for the sake of friendship and a little alloy of gold, risks the
reward of felony, it is somewhat trying to the spirit to be met
with the blank face and wandering eye of the gentleman assisted.
Crossbone felt smitten to the soul as he still felt the key between
his fingers—still saw the young nobleman regard the piece of cold
iron as iron, nothing more ; and not the instrument that, with a
turn, would open a gate of Paradise. And then pride—it was
very natural—arose in the breast of the apothecary ; and with a
cold, thick voice, he said—“What am I to understand, my lord 7
Will you take the key, or will you”—the alternative was tremen-
dous—“leave it alone ”
Instantly, St. James snatched the key, and Crossbone felt lighter
by many a hundred weight. “ Upstairs?” cried St. James.
“ Upstairs, my dear lord”—answered Crossbone—“ along the
passage, and the first door to the right.” St. James quitted the
room ; and the apothecary sank in a chair, one heap of thank-
fulness. Deluded man He had little cause for thanksgiving ;
but then, he knew not as St. James mounted the stairs what
virtuous resolution accompanied that good young gentleman ;
knew not that his noble friend—the friend for whom he had
worked so hardly, had risked so much—turned, loathingly from
him, as from so much moral carrion. Again and again had the
visionary carriage-wheels rumbled in the ears of Crossbone: again
364 ST GILES AND ST, JAMES.
had he seen himself the court physician ; again had he laid his
finger on that most wondrous mechanism, a royal pulse, and
now, whilst St. James trod the stairs, the day-dream came full
and glowing on the rapt apothecary ; and he sat in clouds of
happiness.
Now and then it is well for the peace, the self-complacency of
folks—determined to consider themselves very worthy individuals
—that the world is a world of masks; that thought, the face of
the mind, may laugh or frown unseen behind that vizor of flesh
bestowed upon all men. Indeed, it is only by means of such
vizors that the masquerade of human life is carried on ; for when
the mask drops, earth ends. Had it been otherwise, could Cross-
bone have looked upon the mind of St. James, he would have
given up all thoughts of carriage-wheels, and possibly—like many
a disappointed varlet—felt an instant yearning for virtue, if
assured with bodily safety. With Newgate suddenly frowning
upon his soul, he might have welcomed his old abode ; and
thought more tenderly of the human weeds of earth, all careless
of its flowers. But Crossbone was denied this knowledge; and
therefore sat happy in his ignorance; still listening to the lies of
harlot fortune. And her silver tongue so beat upon his brain—
with such sweet harmony possessed him—that it was not until she
had twice spoken that Crossbone heard the syllables of a real
woman ; and then fortune was silent, and melted away in a
golden mist, and the apothecary saw Mother Daws—for so she
was affectionately named by Shoveller—standing at the door.
It was difficult to think her of the sisterhood of Eve. However,
the mind was fain to submit to the tyranny of petticoats, and—
though not without a struggle—believe their bearer, woman.
There was that about her would make a reasonable man, with
affectionate thoughts for the past, think tenderly of the times
when that old, human husk with blinking eyes and mumbling
tongue, would have been to the world no more than a Christmas-
log ; a thing to cast upon a fire, to make men merry with. In
those good times, not a cow would have suffered that woman to
approach her, but would have inexorably refused the eventide
milk; not a porker would have caught her eye, but would have
obediently sickened and died of the witch. Heavy, sedate hay-
stacks, at the step of that old woman, would have taken a thousand
wings and flown upon a sudden hurricane. And, worse than all,
impudently, most irreverently taking to herself the form of a hare,
she would have led poor Squire October's hounds some twenty
miles and more, and then have vanished in a flash of light. She
would have fed little children upon a diet of crooked pins, and
blasted the hopes of butter-churns. And now, Mother Daws was
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 365
an ugly bunch of an old woman, and nothing more And thus it
is, by the presumption and hard usage of man, Time—like a
venerable sire, fobbed by unfilial sons—is wronged,—in his old age,
cheated, and debarred of dearest rights, and wholesomest amuse-
ments. We have long since taken witches from him ; and there
are men who, after all his losses, would deprive him of the gallows!
What, in time, will be left to Time !
CEIAPTER XXXVI.
“You didn’t call ?” said Mrs. Daws; and Crossbone looked a
Savage assent. “The gentleman's gone up-stairs,” added the
unmoved woman ; for it was not in the face or words of tyrannic
man to shake her. “Well, I only say what I said when you
brought her here—I know what I know.”
“To the devil with you, and all your knowledge at your back!”
cried Crossbone, and he jumped from his seat, and strode towards
the door. There he paused ; and from his lips dropt that manna
of life, good counsel. “I tell you what, Mother Sulphurtongue;
let me advise you neither to see nor hear.—At your age, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself, not to be blind and deaf too.”
And Crossbone quitted the house, and strolling down the lane,
turned into a little wood; possibly to think of the reward awaiting
him ; possibly to add to his knowledge of herbs and simples. As
to Mrs. Daws, she looked full of slumbering destruction; and
with a passing smile of conscious mischief, she betook herself
to household affairs, calmly, patiently awaiting her time. She
would wash up the breakfast-things, and well contemplate her
Ilê8,SUII’éS.
We left St. James upon the stairs. In a moment he was at
Clarissa's hamber-door. Determined upon making the amplest
atonement within his power, he had resolved to restore the lady
to her injured husband. Yes; he would himself lead her back to
Mr. Snipeton's home; and, confessing the part that his weakness
had consented to in the plot which, whilst unacted, seemed of such
light account, beg the good man's pardon. Pledging his noble
word never again to offend, he would cure himself of the un-
lawful passion by foreign travel; or he would fall in love with
another woman. At all events, he was determined to make a
sacrifice; and would crown himself, the conqueror of his own
passions. What a vile, base, inconceivable scoundrel was that
dirt-eating apothecary ; how atrocious was the part he had
366 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
played; how degrading the association of a moment with him ;
and then, how satisfactory, how truly ennobling to confess a fault,
the confession coupled with a determination of future amendment
And these varied thoughts possessed young St. James, as pausing,
with the key in his hand, he was about to open the door : he
listened; all was silent. Well, there was nothing strange in that.
Again he listened: no, she was not sobbing—there was no sound
of grief. Perhaps, she was fast asleep. There was an air of
peacefulness—of repose—in all things, that even confused him.
After all, he had possibly wronged the apothecary: the man had
been a little over-zealous; nothing more. Still, all was silent.
FIe listened : yes; he thought—or then tried to think—that he
heard a low breathing, as of deep slumber. Grief never slept so
soundly—a torn heart sank not so suddenly to rest. It was plain,
he had been too precipitate; that is, in his determination to
restore the woman to her husband. She might, in her heart,
despise him for his pusillanimity. In her heart, she might rejoice
at the violence that supplied her own want of courage by bearing
her away. And then, what a jest would it be for the world—for
his world—should he think to play the moralist He might be
nicknamed Scipio for life. Still there was no sound, save that
of lowest breathing. What a simpleton he had nearly shown
himself! There could be no doubt that the woman loved him ;
and, the step taken, was profoundly happy for her deliverance.
Placing the key in his pocket, St. James descended the stairs to
have some further talk with the apothecary; the ill-used man
who had suffered in the hard judgment of his noble friend.
Now, whilst St. James, following Crossbone, takes counsel of that
wise, worldly man, we will return to the Honourable Member for
Liquorish ; all the time tremendously indignant at the violence
offered to Snipeton's household gods, and resolved, at the cost of
any exertion or peril, to revenge it.
Mr. Capstick left Snipeton late in the evening, having exacted
from him a promise that he would attend a council to be held at
the Senator's lodgings, in Long Acre, early next morning, should
no news be obtained of the fugitive ere then. In the meantime,
Capstick, advised by Bright Jem, had summoned Jerry Whistle,
that meekest of human bloodhounds, to assist them. Late at
night, Mr. Whistle had been acquainted with all the circumstances.
Whereupon, he had played with his watch-chain, and observed—
“This sort of caper, you know, Mr. Capstick, is very often a put-up
thing; very often, indeed. And I must say it, the evidence is all
against the 'oman. Yes, I must say it, against the 'oman.”
“But you have heard that the young man says she was carried
off?” said Capstick. “He’ll swear to it.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 367
“No doubt on it, so far as he could see; very honest young
man, that ; I hope, too, he’ll take care of himself. Still, it’s
against the 'oman, and it’s my 'pinion, any jury would so find it.
Why, bless my heart, Mr. Capstick, and have they sent you to
Parliament, and saving your presence, do you know no more of
life than that ? Why, look you here. The young 'oman, they
say, is like a full-blown rose, and the old man’s as wrinkled as a
prune; there’s a young nobleman, too, in the case, and—well,
well; depend upon it, if we find her out—and I’m safe to do that,
or my name 's not Whistle—she’ll not thank us for our pains,
I’m bound for it.” And Whistle went his way.
Now, Capstick, though he would not confess it to himself, was
nevertheless shaken in his faith by the officer; he spoke with
such a weight of official experience. “Jem, I don’t believe a word
of it; Mr. Whistle has seen so much of the black of life, poor man,
he can’t believe in any white at all—eh, Jem 7 °
“He has seen a good deal, sir; good deal. Wonder he doesn’t
look quite worn out, and quite wicked,” said Jem. “Eor I don’t
know how it is, though wickedness and misery ain’t catching, to
look at 'em, nevertheless they do seem to leave a shadow in a
man's face ; a something that’s a part on 'em. I know now,
when I’ve been digging among the flowers—ha! I wonder who's
looking at them precious carnations, now I’ve always felt as it
I’d got some of their brightness about me. A man that looks
upon tulips, and roses, and flowers of all sorts all his life, why,
it's quite plain, he catches their good looks as I may say ; for
that 's the beauty of flowers, they always look happy and good-
tempered; bits of innocence that almost seem to make us innocent
while we stare at ‘em.”
“This is not a time to talk of such trumpery, Jem,” said Cap-
stick : and Jem winced at the contemptuous word, which, to say
the truth, came from the throat, and not the heart of the speaker.
“My opinion is, that Mrs. Snipeton has been carried off by ruffian
violence. I hope I don’t think too well of anybody—I trust not
—I never did in all my life, and I’m not going to begin now ; but
I must believe her to be a guiltless, ill-used gentlewoman. And
then the man was knocked down in her defence—and, by the way,
I was going to speak to you about that young man.”
“Yes, sir, to be sure; he’s now searching all corners, and
swears he’ll find his mistress, if he dies for it. A mice, honest
young fellow that, sir,” said Jem. “Has it all in his face,
hasn’t he 3’”
“Why, to say the truth, I think he has ; that is, he looks too
honest. People who’ve so much of it in their faces, people who
somehow make a show window of their countenance—well, some-
368 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
how, I distrust 'em. Where does he come from ? Who were his
parents' Has he got a character, and did the parson of the
parish sign it ! If he hasn't, I don’t believe in him. The fact is,
I've been too easy all my life ; and will never take a man’s
character again if it isn't written in a good bold hand, and pro-
perly authenticated. Who is he Ever since he called at the
Tub—well, those bees have a nice time of it, they have ; they
hav’n’t to go down to the House—ever since then, he’s been flitting
about me, as if he was some mysterious puzzle of a vagabond
that—why, Jem, what are you looking so hard at . What's the
matter, man 7”
“Well, sir, I must say it ; though you are a member of Parlia-
ment—heaven help you in all your misfortunes, say I–you
hav’n’t grown the wiser on that account. Don't you remember a
poor little piece of a dirt of a boy called St. Giles?”
“Certainly ; one of the things raised to be hanged ; one of the
little rascalities of life reared up that respectable folks may seem
all the more respectable ; one of the shades of the fine picture or
life, bringing out the bright colours all the stronger. It’s a
pity they didn't hang him. Mercy's a bungling virtue, after all,
Jem ; and nine times out of ten, does just as much harm as
mischief itself. Well, what of St. Giles?” cried Capstick, quite
relieved by his burst of cynicism—quite refreshed with his own
vinegar.
“Why, you know, he was transported for life. A long time
that, sir, for fourteen to look for’ard to,” said Jem.
“Pooh, pooh ; he went to a fine place, Jem : Botany Bay;
lovely climate ; six crops of peas in a year ; pine-apples for a
penny ; and cockatoos so plenty, they put 'em in pies instead of
pigeons. St. Giles—he he l—a great man now, I’ve no doubt.
Shouldn’t wonder if he hunts kangaroos with fox-hounds, and
drives a coach-and-four.”
“Well, with any chance of that, I should say he'd never come
back agin,” said Jem, very gravely.
“Back again Why, Mr. Aniseed, are you ignorant of the laws
of your country 7" cried Capstick, his eye twinkling.
“I am,” cried Jem ; “and when I know what a lot of wicked-
ness is in some of 'em, I can’t say that I’m not glad I don’t know
any more : Saving your presence, agin, as a member of Parlia-
ment, and a maker of the same.”
“Well, then, you do not know, perhaps, that if St. Giles was
to put his foot in merry England, they’d hang him for the imper-
tinence Are you aware of that interesting fact, Mr. Aniseed ?”
cried Capstick.
“Why, without any conceit, I should hope I did know that
ST GILES AND ST. JAMES. 369
much. But you see, sir, love of country is strong; though I don’t
know why it should be,” said Jem.
“Nor I. But a man's love for his country is very often like a
woman's love for her husband ; the worse the treatment, the
deeper the affection. To be sure, we’re all of one family—all
men; and that, I suppose, is why we quarrel and go to war so
often. And a droll family we are, too, Jem. I declare, Jem,
when I sometimes sit and look at that globe—for since I was
made a member, of course I could do no other than buy a couple,
One for the earth and one for the stars; in case anything should
Come up about boundaries of ’’
“Of what ? The stars 2 ” cried Jem.
“No ; not of the stars. And—though I wouldn't answer for
anything an Act of Parliament couldn’t meddle with—when I sit
and look at the globe, I do think that the family of man, as we
Call ourselves—even while we’re grinding swords to cut some of
the family's throats—the family is, after all, a droll lot. I often
do pity my millions of brothers. When I’m in bed, I think there’s
my brother in Greenland going to turn out in the snow, to catch
a seal for dinner. And there 's my brother in Kaffirland making
himself a very handsome sash of sheep's entrails. And there’s my
brother in India laying down his body for wheels to roll him into
paste. And another Oriental brother standing upon one leg for
twenty years, that he may pass to Brama as a cock passes to
sleep. And there are thousands of other brothers notching,
cutting, tattooing fraternal flesh in all shapes and all patterns.
And there is a brother on the banks of the Bosphorus going
home from the purchase of a fiftieth wife, thinking no more of the
bargain than if he had bought a tame rabbit. And there are
crowds of other gluttonous brothers dancing round a brother tied
to a stake, ere he shall be roasted—dancing round him, and, with
sparkling eyes, anticipating the tit-bits of the living animal. And
there is another brother dying, with a cow's tail in his hand, as
though that tufty queue tied heaven to earth, and he could climb
to bliss upon it. And there are millions of brothers playing such
tricks, aud, what is worse, permitting such tricks to be played
upon them, that sometimes, Jem, I do feel ashamed of the family.
I do. And then I have wished myself—since I have a habit of
walking upon two legs, and any other manner of going would be
inconvenient—I have wished myself, Jem, an old, grave, patriarchal
baboon, deeply buried in some forest ; some thick, impervious,
abiding-place—some green garrison, made unapproachable by
spikes and thorns, and matted canes and reeds, and all the
armoury that nature grows, to guard her solitudes. Yes, Jem ;
Sometimes when I have been out of humour with my family—that
B B
370 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
most quarrelsome biped lot—I have wished myself, as I say, an
old baboon.”
“Well, I never did that. But I do recollect this,” said Jem.
“Onee, when I was a little boy, and had been licked for doing
nothing, but saying I was hungry, and standing to it, once I did
Wish myself a monkey, at a parlour window in a square, eating
cherries like any Christian, though at the time they couldn’t ha'
been less than a shilling a-pound. I did wish that, and thought
it very wicked arterwards; but I never did, in my proper senses,
wish myself a baboon, straddling about with a young tree for a
walking-stick, like I’ve seen 'em in the pictur-books. I never
did wish that.”
“That Only shows you want ambition, Jem. But to return to
our love of country, Jem, and young St. Giles.”
“Well, all I was going to say is this. Suppose he was here—
what would you do 1" asked Jem.
“Do As a law-maker, respect the laws. Give up the mis-
creant, of course,” said Capstick.
“You couldn’t do it, sir; no, you couldn’t do it,” cried Jem
with despairing emphasis; and Capstick, though he tried to look
astonished at the contradiction, cared not, it was plain, to pursue
the argument.
Early the next morning, Mr. Whistle made his appearance at
Capstick's lodgings; and Mr. Whistle was so calm, so self-pos-
sessed, apparently so content with himself and all the world about
him, that it was clear he had passed the last night in a manner
most profitable to the ends of justice. With the customary ſlower
in his mouth, he still hummed a tune, still played with his watch-
chain. He seemed perfectly happy; his heart was warmed with
a great secret.
“Well, Mr. Whistle, about this most unfortunate lady,” said
Capstick. “Any news?”
“News | To be sure. She's all right,” cried Whistle.
“Right !” echoed Capstick. “Carried off—torn away from
her husband—and all right Mr. Whistle !”
“This is rather a serious business; not at all a common matter,
Mr. Capstick. A very nice and delicate affair, I can tell you :
and for this reason "-said Whistle, with his finger at his nose;—
“there's nobility in it.”
“Nobility That makes it more atrocious,” cried Capstick.
“That nobility should violate the laws—”
“Well, I don't know,” observed Mr. Whistle; “as they’re born
to make 'em, perhaps they think they’ve the best right to do what
they like with 'em. Howsomever, it will be a difficult job; a very
difficult job,” and Whistle shook his head.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 371
“I can’t see it. You say—at least I understand as much—that
you have got good scent of the runaway?”
“Scent | What did I come into the world for 2 I was made
on purpose for the work. In course I have. Before I went into
my blankets last night, I could almost have sworn where to put
my hand upon 'em ; and afore I got up this morning, I was moral
certain of it : and it’s turned out as I thought ; in course, as I
thought.”
“Well, then, Mr. Whistle,” cried Capstick, “there's no time to
be lost, 7 °
“We’ve the day before us,” answered the officer; “and we
musn't spoil it by too much hurry, you see.”
But here Mr. Whistle was interrupted by the announced
arrival of Mr. Snipeton's servant; and St. Giles, pale and
haggard, presented himself. He winced, and the colour flew
to his cheek as he saw the officer, who—still chewing the
flower-stalk—looked calmly, nay kindly, upon the returned
transport. -
“Well, young man,” said Whistle, “and what news do you
bring 7”
“None at all, sir: none. I’ve not been off my legs all night;
and I can hear nothing—nothing,” said St. Giles.
“Humph I believe you know one Crossbone, an apothecary 2
He was Mrs. Snipeton's doctor down in Kent, eh? Perhaps I’m
wrong, but I’ve heard so,” said Whistle, and he looked with a
shrewd, magpie look at the interrogated. “And I believe this
Mr. Crossbone is the friend of a young nobleman, somewhere
about St. James's-square, eh? And it was the apothecary, Ithink,
who recommended you to good Mr. Snipeton 7 °
To all these questions St. Giles silently assented.
“Pray, my man,” cried Whistle sharply, “do you know a
gentleman, by name Thomas Blast !”
“No,” cried St. Giles, quickly ; and then he coloured at the
falsehood. “Why do you ask?” he stammered.
“Nothing: Ithought you might have known him. Howsomever,
it seems you don't ; and as his acquaintance isn’t to be bragged
of, why "-added Whistle, with a sidelong look, “why you
don’t lose nothing.”
Capstick, who for the last few minutes had been shifting his
feet, and vigorously biting his thumb, here cried out, “Well, but
Mr. Whistle, it strikes me that we should immediately commu-
nicate with Mr. Snipeton. That wronged, that worthy man—”
“Left his home a little after daylight, sir,” cried St. Giles.
“I’ve been to Hampstead, sir. He's gone, nobody knows where.”
“Poor man ’’ cried Capstick, “let’s hope the best ; but I’m
B B 2
372 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMIES.
afraid he's desperate. What's to be done, Mr. Whistle 7 What
do you propose 1 Pray speak, sir; for I’m in such a flame, sir—
pray speak | *
“The first thing to be done,” said Whistle, “is to hire a
chaise— ”
“Of course, instantly. A chaise and four, Jem ; directly,”
cried Capstick. “Well, and what next 7”
“Well, that I’ll tell you, when the chaise comes,” answered
Whistle ; and, with this answer, we for a short time leave the
party, returning to the neighbourhood of the house of Shoveller;
—the house so hospitably surrendered, for so much cash, to
Mr. Crossbone.
In a small room in an old farm-house, about two miles distant
from the prison of Clarissa, sat a party of three ; two were
engaged on ham and eggs, and country ale; eating, drinking, as
though life to them had no other duties. The third sat silent
and sad ; with a heavy, leaden look, that seemed to see nothing.
Now, these three were Tangle, Tom Blast, and Snipeton. The
old man had quitted his home to take the earliest counsel of his
professional conscience; and on his road to town had met Tom
Blast ; who, as he declared, had risen early that he might seek
the disconsolate husband, and pour into his ear consolatory tidings.
Mr. Blast had spent part of the previous night in contemplating
the iniquity of the case ; and determining within himself at once
the wisest and most profitable conduct. It was plain, that
Mr. Shoveller looked upon his merits with a very contemptuous
eye, and, therefore, though he had duly assisted at the abduction
of the lady, knocking down his young friend with a stern sense
of duty and a bludgeon—therefore he felt that he should still
best perform his duty to his conscience and his interest by doing
service to Mr. Snipeton. He would, no doubt, pay a good sum
for the knowledge of his wife's whereabout ; and therefore Blast
rose early, like an honest, thrifty man, to make offer of the
pennyworth. And this intention Mr. Blast merely indicated to
Snipeton on their first meeting, assuring him that as the day grew
older, the information would ripen; and with this hope, Snipeton
took Blast with him to the house of Tangle. It was here that
Mr. Blast spoke out. It would be his ruin for life—there was no
doubt of that—if it was known that he had peached : he would
be hunted all over the world, and never know a moment's quiet ;
yet he had, he hoped, a conscience; he had been an unfortunate
man, always trying to do the right thing, but the world never
letting him do it: nevertheless, he would not despair of honesty and
a good character, yes, with a quiet, happy, comfortable old age
to end with. And so, as it was a wicked thing to part man and
ST, GILES AND ST. JAMES. 373
wife, and he could not think where people who did such wickedness
could ever expect to go to, he would at once tell Mr. Snipeton
where Mrs. Snipeton was for—yes, for ten guineas. Anybody
who did not care to be honest would have asked twenty, but he
would say ten at a word ; leaving anything beyond that to the
generosity of worthy Mr. Snipeton.
“And you are not aware, Mr. Blast,” said Tangle, “that at this
moment we may take you up for an accessary; that we may cage
you, instead of paying you, eh?”
“Well, and what if you did ” asked Blast. “You might lock
me up, I know ; but you couldn’t unlock my mouth. But it’s like
the way of the world ; you won't let a poor man be honest, if he
would. A fine handsome young gentleman's run off with this old
gentleman's wife, and 52
“There—no matter—hold your peace,” cried Snipeton. “You
shall have the money”—whereupon Blast immediately held out
his hand—“when the the woman's found,” said Snipeton.
“I can’t give credit, sir; I can’t, indeed ; and for this reason,
—you see, my character won’t let me. Because, supposing I give
you up your wife, and you don’t give me the guineas, well, I’ve
such a bad name, and you ’re sich a respectable gentleman, all
the world would be on your side, and nobody on mine.” We
know not whether this reasoning weighed with Snipeton; but he
counted out the ten guineas upon the table, which Blast duly took
up, counting them again.
“For sich a beautiful cretur as your wife, it's cheap, sir; I
must say it, dog cheap.”
“No remarks, fellow,” cried Tangle ; “but let us to business
directly.” Whereupon they left Red Lion Square ; and, a few
hours past, were in the county of Surrey, at the farm-house
already named. Their meal finished, Mr. Tangle rose, and with
Snipeton held whispering counsel. Then Tangle left the house,
recommending Blast to remain with his patron, who was duly
advised to watch him, in the fear of treachery. And so two hours
passed, when Tangle returned; and again whispering with Snipe-
ton, the husband, with rage newly lighted in his countenance,
quitted the house ; Tangle, in his turn, taking charge of Blast.
To return to St. James. His good genius—shall we say good,
for he thought it so —led him to Crossbone, who, it will be
recollected, had walked forth, it may be to contemplate the
profitable prospects of his future life; it may be, as we said,
to peep and peer in hedge and ditch for health-restoring herb.
Crossbone — there was magic in that knowing man — speedily
reassured the timid nobleman. Clarissa doated upon him—
was only too happy that violence had been used—and, in a
374 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,
word, what would she think of him if, with the dove in his
hand, he again flung it into the sky, when it must needs go
home Had he, so handsome—so spirited a gentleman—no fear
of the laughter, the ridicule of the world ! What would the
world gay of him
It was very strange, that the thoughts of the apothecary should
so harmoniously accord with his own, St. James was determined.
He would see Clarissa ; would passionately seize the advantage
offered him. He must be an idiot—a block—a stone to think
otherwise. And with this new resolution, St. James returned to
the house ; Crossbone promising to follow him.
“And do you mean to murder the sweet lady ?” asked Mrs.
Daws of St. James, who started at the hard question.
“Murder my good woman | What do you mean " " And
his lordship blushed.
“You’ve the key of the door, and she ha’n’t had no dinner,”
was the old woman’s cutting answer.
“Here is—stop ! I will myself see and apologise to the lady.”
Saying this, St. James mounted the stairs, and placed the key in
the lock. One moment, reader, ere he turns it.
An opposite door, unseen by St. James, is ajar; an eye, gleaming
like a snake's, looks from it—looks murderous hate. It is old
Snipeton's. Tangle had effectually performed his mission, winning
over Mrs. Daws; no difficult achievement, for the old creature—
warped, withered, despised for age and ugliness—had a woman's
heart that revolted at the duty forced upon her by her master.
Snipeton had resolved to watch from his hiding-place ; to listen
to the words of St. James and his wife, that he might distinguish
between treachery and truth; and so he had promised himself
that he would suffer the interview, and calmly—very calmly—
listen. Such was his thought. Weak man St. James was
about to turn the key, when Snipeton, with the strength of mad-
ness, sprang upon him, and whirled him from the door. In a
moment, St. James's sword was in his hand; in the next, through
the body of Snipeton; who, reeling, drew a pistol and fired.
St. James was scathless; but the bullet did its mischief; for Tom
Blast, rushing up stairs, received the piece of lead—it must be
owned, a damaging alloy, to the ten golden guineas.
And now the cottage is filled with visitors; for Capstick, St.
Giles, Bright Jem, and Jerry Whistle—with a couple of official
friends—arrive at the door. Snipeton, speechless, with looks of
agony and hatred, pointed towards St. James. Whistle at once
divined the truth. “My lord, I ax your pardon,” said the polite
official, “but you ’re my prisoner.” St. James slightly bowed,
and turned away, followed by the two officers.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 375
“And there's another,” cried Tom Blast, “there's St. Giles—
horse-stealer—returned convict—you know him, Jerry: you
must know him — I’m done for—but it's something to hang
that dog.”
“'Tis too true, mate,” said Whistle to St. Giles, “you must go
along with me.”
“With all my heart,” answered St. Giles. “I see there's
nothing left me but to die; I may be at peace then.”
Capstick tried to speak, when his eyes filled with tears, and he
seized St. Giles by the hand, and grasped it. “I knew you—and
hoped better—but take heart yet, man, take heart,” said Capstick,
whilst Bright Jem shook his head and groaned.
“Come in, come in, directly,” cried Mrs. Daws, with her hands
fast upon Crossbone, then at the threshold. “Here’s the good
gentleman killed—murdered.”
Crossbone looked at Snipeton—felt his pulse—and said, “Who’d
have thought it ! So he is.”
CHAPTER, XXXVII.
TT was but the walk of a few minutes, and the two cuhprits,
St. James and St. Giles, who could have prophesied this com-
panionship of guilt —duly escorted by the officers, arrived at the
little public-house, where Capstick and his companions on the
journey had left the carriage. The muffin-maker himself remained
behind at the cottage, insisting that Crossbone should not quit
the wounded Snipeton; as, in the avowed ignorance of Capstick,
“it was quite impossible that he should be dead.” Crossbone
could only smile contemptuously at the hopeful man, and look
about him, as one looking for an easy escape. “The body is the
body of a dead man, sir,” said Crossbone. “I think I ought to
know : T have not practised so many years not to have an intimate
acquaintance with death.”
“Dead | Bless my heart | Really dead, and alive but this
minute l’’ cried Capstick, vacantly. .
“Of course. What do you expect hearts are made of . The
left ventricle—I’m sure of it—cut quite through,” said Crossbone.
“So a pretty piece of news to tell the Marquis—and that
blessed woman,—it will kill her—the Marchioness.”
“And the wife of the murdered man * * cried Capstick—“but
dear soul , she mustn't see this sight : ” and he withdrew the key
from the unturned lock. “Let us remove the body.”

376 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
“Not by any means,” said Tangle. “Quite illegal. Here it
must lie for the inquest.”
“Lie here ! Why, man, the poor soul must step across it to
descend the stairs. “Here, Jem ; help me to break the law just
a little, will you. In that room, Jem ; in that room.” And
Capstick and Jem lifted the dead man into the chamber whence
he had rushed upon his death ; Mr. Tangle, during the brief
operation, loudly declaring that not for the best fifty pounds would
he have a hand in it. “And now, Mr. Crossbone,” said Capstick,
“we’ll go down stairs to that poor wretch.”
“I really have not any time to waste upon such people now,”
said the apothecary. “And when I remember that, at this very
moment, his lordship may have the greatest need of me, 22
“You don’t stir from this house"—and Capstick, with calmest
determination, grasped the apothecary’s collar—“until you see
the man. You don’t know what may depend upon his life.”
“His life l’’ exclaimed Crossbone. “Why, I’m much mistaken
if it’s worth a sixpenny rope.” -
“IPerhaps not, as you may value the article; but as the life of
an innocent man may depend upon it, you must save one for the
other's. I tell you, sir, you must ; and there's an end of it.”
With this decision, Capstick led the apothecary in custody into
the parlour, where Tom Blast, with several of the country folks
about him, lay writhing in misery—pain giving to his features the
most terrible expression. All the hidden wickedness of the man’s
heart seemed brought into his face, intensified by suffering. Two
poor women hovered over him ; whilst other spectators stood
apart, contemplating with a curiosity that seemed at once to
fascinate and horrify, the terrible show before them.
Crossbone, still in charge of Capstick, was brought to the
wounded man ; whose eye, flaming with new hate, burned upon
the doctor; and whose voice, rattling in his throat, growled
inarticulately like a beast's. Crossbone recoiled from the patient,
but was brought back by the grasp of Capstick. “Come, sir;
what do you think of him '''' asked the senator. “There's life
yet, eh?”
“A nothing, sir; I can see it—oh, yes; a mere nothing. The
ball is somewhere here,” and the apothecary manipulated, with a
strong hand, the sufferer. “Can’t get at it just now ; but a little
medicine—something cooling—and in a day or two we’ll extract
the lead.”
“You’re sure of that, Mr. Doctor 2 Quite sure ?” asked Blast,
with a ferocious grin.
“Quite certain,” answered Crossbone. “I’ll pledge even my
professional reputation upon it.”
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 377
“Well, then, that's nothing but right,” gasped the wounded
man ; still terribly eyeing his professing preserver. “For as the
bullet came all along of you—why you can’t do better than 25
“A little light-headed just now,” cried Crossbone, as Blast failed
in his sentence. “But, my dear sir, since you take an interest in
the person,” added the apothecary to Capstick, “I can promise you,
that in a few days you shall have the bullet now in his body in
your own hands, sir; and his life Safe—that is, understand me,
safe from lead. All he wants is quiet—merely quiet.”
Capstick, for a moment, looked thoughtful. He then observed
—“Well, then, we must nurse him.” And saying this, the
senator exchanged a look with Bright Jem, who, with his best
significant manner, nodded assent. Leave we, then, for a short
time the dead man, lying stark for the coroner, and the wounded
ruffian tended by present care for the hope of future benefit.
Mr. Whistle, on arriving at the public-house with his prisoners,
with many apologies requested his lordship to make himself as
comfortable as possible under all the circumstances. It was an
ugly business; very ugly. Had the old gentleman been merely
pinked a little, it would not have signified ; but death, downright
death, made the affair extremely disagreeable. Nevertheless, his
lordship had friends who would see that he had justice done him
—the best justice—justice that became his station as a nobleman
and a gentleman. And reiterating this consolation, Jerry Whistle
again apologised that he must call upon his lordship to consider
himself a prisoner ; and, for a time, until it was quite necessary to
appear before the magistrate, to accommodate himself to the best
room of the public-house. As to the ruffian, St. Giles—well, it
was very odd, Mr. Whistle observed, that things should so fall
out—but surely his lordship would be good enough to remember
the little vagrant wretch that stole his lordship's feathered hat
when quite a baby; or, if his lordship's memory could not go
so far back, at least his lordship must recollect the pony stolen
by the youth, St. Giles—he was then, the rascal, fourteen, and
must have known better, and for which he was to have been
hanged; only, foolishly enough, he had been sent to Botany Bay;
whence, not knowing when he was really well off, he had run
away, that he might put his head into a halter at Newgate. He
must say it : it was odd, that a gentleman like his lordship,
St. James, and such an old offender as St. Giles, should be, so to
speak, in trouble together.
“Poor wretch!” said the nobleman. “And where is St. Giles?”
“Why, my lord, he is properly secured in a bit of an out-
house. There's a nice clean wisp of straw for him and his own
thoughts. And, moreover, for though it's weak, I somehow like
378 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
to treat a prisoner like a man—moreover, I have Ordered him a
pint of beer and some bread and cheese. The county pays for it
—and if it didn’t, why, though I don’t brag, 'twould be all the
same to Jerry Whistle.”
St. James was about to reply to this, when, after a slight, brief
knock, the door opened, and Mr. Tangle, with a face of most
tremendous woe, and his whole figure full of affliction, crawled
into the room. He looked mournfully at St. James, bowed, and
deeply sighed.
“Do you come to reproach me, Mr. Tangle,” said St. James,
“with the death of your old friend ?”
“Not I, my dear lord,” cried Tangle, quickly, “not for worlds.
I would reproach no man in his trouble, much less a gentleman—
I beg your pardon, my lord—I should say, much less a nobleman.
Besides, allow me to disabuse your lordship's mind. Mr. Snipeton
was no friend of mine, certainly not. No two could be less alike
—I hope. We were only professionally bound together, nothing
more. Ties of red tape, my lord; ties of red tape—that's all.”
“To what, then,” asked St. James, “may I owe the favour of
this visit 7”
“Oh, my dear lord ' " exclaimed Tangle, at the same time
slowly taking his handkerchief from his pocket, and well shaking
it ere he applied it to his eyes. “Oh, my lord ' " he repeated,
with his face covered.
“Excuse me, Mr. Tangle,” said Whistle, “but I cannot have
his lordship distressed after this manner. I’m a man of busi-
ness, whatever the grief may be. Now, if you’ve anything to
say that will serve the pris , what am I about !—his lordship,
I should say, why, put aside your pocket-handkerchief, and give
it mouth.”
Mr. Tangle seemed to struggle with himself to obey this
injunction. At length, however, he displayed his naked face,
and vigorously winking his eye-lids as though to well dry them,
he said—“It is not, my lord, for me to forget that I was once
honoured with the patronage of your noble house. At a time
like the present, when an accidental death—”
“Yes, I know,” said St. James, and he shuddered from head
to foot—“I know : the man is dead.”
“He is, my lord,” said the consolatory Tangle. “What then
We all must die.”
“What a blighted wretch am I | * exclaimed the young man ;
“blood, blood upon my hands !”
“Not at all, my lord,” cried the attorney ; “for depend upon it,
a verdict must wipe 'em clean. And that, saving your lordship's
presence, that I have ventured to come about.” St. James idly

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, 379
stared at him. “There will, of course, be a trial : that is, a form,
an honourable form to clear your lordship. And, my lord, it
would be an honour to me in my declining age—at a time,
too, my lord, when honour is doubly precious to a professional
man — to be allowed to attend your lordship through this
unpleasant business.”
“That can’t be, very well, can it,” asked Whistle, “for won’t
they call upon you as a witness * *
“Impossible. I saw nothing of the transaction, I’ll take my
oath *—and Tangle became even enthusiastic in his asseverations
—“I’ll take my oath, I saw nothing of it. Will you, therefore,
my lord, honour me by your approving commands !” And Tangle
bowed to the floor.
“As you will, Mr. Tangle; do what you please,” said St. James,
indifferently. - -
“Thank you, my lord. I am delighted, my lord, at the oppor-
tunity—that is, I am grateful, my lord ; particularly grateful ;
and now, your lordship”—and Tangle suddenly fell into a solemn,
organ-like strain, befitting his words—“and now, to business.”
“Well, business. What is it—what of it ! Do as you please,”
cried St. James.
“Oh, my lord, this confidence is, I must say it, affecting. Well,
then, my lord, you must have counsel.”
“Go on, sir.”
“Permit me, then, my lord, to recommend—the only man—
Mr. Montecute Crawley.”
“Montecute Crawley,” faintly echoed St. James; and at the
sound, he was in the criminal court of the county of Kent, and
saw that weeping advocate of hapless innocence.
“Were my own brother in danger—no, I mean, were I myself,
—I know no man like Mr. Crawley. Bless you, he has all the
heartstrings of the jury in his fingers, like the fellow with Punch,
and pulls 'em just which way he likes. He’s safe for office—
nothing can keep him out of it. As I heard a young barrister
say only a week since, ‘Crawley,’ says he, “will take the turn of
the tide, and float into office on his own tears.” What a speech
he will make about your lordship ! Not a dry eye in court, and
for what I know, folks weeping outside, Well, then, my dear
lord, say Mr. Montecute Crawley. There isn’t a moment to lose.
In a matter of murder—that is, what the fiction of the law calls
murder—he's in first request. At this moment, for all I know,
we may be too late. And should they have him on the other side
—pardon me, my lord—though I know your case is admirable,
nothing stronger—nevertheless, pardon me, my lord, I must
tremble. I say it with respect—I must tremble.”
38() ST. GILES AND ST. J.A.M.I.S.
“Well, Mr. Montecute Crawley, if you will,” said St. James,
carelessly.
Ere, the words were well out, Mr. Tangle had caught his
assenting client by the hand, and with a fervour more than
professional, exclaimed—“Thank you, my lord—bless you, my
lord—you have made me a happy man, my lord. I’ll ride myself
for post-horses to Kingston, and before I sleep, depend upon it,
Mr. Crawley’s clerk has the retainer in his hand. Keep your
spirits up, my dear lord, and remember—if I may be so bold to
say it—that you live under a constitution in which a nobleman
is not to be outraged by the hand of plebeian violence without—
without ’’
“Enough, sir—I known what you would say,” cried St. James
with disgust.
“It’s very kind of your lordship to say so,” and, with his
humblest bow, Tangle left the room.
“We shall not stay long here, Mr. Whistle 7" asked St. James.
“Of course, there is another ceremony 1 °
“To be sure, my lord: of course, my lord. We have to go
before the magistrate : a matter of form. But every respect will
oe paid to your lordship. A terrible accident, my lord, but
nothing more. Nevertheless, it can’t be denied that, just now,
uries are getting a sort of spite against folks of nobility, and
therefore, my lord, I am glad—yes, I will say it, I am glad—
tnat, to prevent any accident, you’ve got Mr. Montecute Crawley.
bless you ! He's such a man for washing blackymoors white—
got quite a name for it.”
“Will you grant me one favour, Mr. Whistle '''' asked St. James,
suddenly rousing himself from deep thought.
“I wish you could ask twenty, my lord : any favour, except—
of 20urse, your lordship knows what I mean—any favour
out that one. Never lost a prisoner yet, my lord ; and
though I’d do anything for your lordship's noble family,–still
I couldn’t do that :” and Tangle looked at the door, and shook
his head.
“You misunderstand me, Mr. Whistle; I have no such pur-
pose. Whatever may be the result of this most miserable deed,
I must and will await it. The favour I would ask is this.
Can you let me have some conversation with—with my fellow-
prisoner | *
Whistle stared. “Fellow-prisoner ' " he echoed. “Well, there
isn't a bit of pride in your lordship ! If, of course, you wish it,
why, of course, it's done. But your lordship should recollect,
he's a returned transport, a rebellious convict, that 's again flown
in the face of his mother country by coming back to her. As
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 381
sure as you’re alive, my lord, he’ll be hanged, and—however, it’s
for your lordship to choose your own company ; of course.”
“Then I am to understand, Mr. Whistle, that you consent 7 °
asked St. James, a little impatiently.
“To be sure ; whatever your lordship wishes—in reason. Here,
Wix ;”—and Whistle, opening the door, called to one of his
assistants—“bring your prisoner afore his lordship, and bear
a hand with him. Not a bit of pride, I do declare,” repeated
Whistle to himself, as he surveyed St. James with wonder and
admiration. -
St. James, in silence, paced the room, and Whistle continued to
contemplate him as a marvel of condescension ; and then Whistle's
thoughts took another current. “To be sure, when the best of
people are brought in danger of the gallows, it does a little take
the starch of pride out of ‘em.” This all unconsciously floated
through Whistle's brain, as still he looked upon the young noble-
man, and with all his might endeavoured to consider him a
paragon of humility.
In brief time St. Giles, in custody of the officer, stood at the
door. “Mr. Whistle,” said St. James, with the most polished
courtesy, “may I request that, for a few minutes, this young man
and myself be left together.” Whistle was melted, awed by the
politeness, yet, nevertheless, looked doubtingly about him. “You
can still keep watch through the window. There is but one—one
door, too.”
“Of course, your lordship—to be sure; not that I thought of
that—by no means; ” and Whistle, assuring himself that he could
keep as certain watch outside the room as within, bowed, and
hastily retired.
“So, young man,” said St. James, with a forced calmness, “So,
we have met, it seems, in early—very early life.”
“Yes, my lord; very early,” answered St. Giles. “I take it,
I remember the matter better than your lordship.”
“FLOW SO 2?”
“Why, my lord, wretches such as I am, and such as I have
always been, have—saving your presence—quicker memories
than gentlefolks like you. We take a sharper account of life, for we
feel it sharper—earlier. I recollect when I was little more than
a babe, I may say, robbing your lordship. Well, it was my fate.”
“Not so, St. Giles—not so.”
“How was I to know otherwise ? Who taught me otherwise?
How did I know that I was not made to steal and be whipped for
it—and still to steal and—and—be hanged for it ! Your lordship,
when a child, was—I know it—kind to the boy-thief. You said
a good word for him ; they told me all about it, and my heart
382 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
felt strangely enough—softened, I thought. And still I went on
—and still you was my friend.”
“And will still be so,” said St. James; “if, indeed, such a
miserable creature as I am may promise anything. Now, tell
me; Mrs. Snipeton—did she seem a willing agent 2 Was her
resistance, when carried off, a real passion; or was it, think you,
but a colourable show of opposition ?”
“I cannot say, my lord ; that is, I cannot speak from what I
saw ; I was unhorsed, struck to the ground, stunned and
bleeding. The worse luck it was so—otherwise, I think, the
lady had been now at home, and the old man alive, and your
lordship—”
“Unstained by murder. Oh, that my life could bring back
yesterday !” exclaimed St. James; and, for the first time, his
grief burst forth in all the bitterness of remorse. With his face
in his hands, he wept convulsively.
“I am afraid, my lord,” said St. Giles, “I am afraid that
man Crossbone has wickedly deceived you. I’m sure on it ;
nothing short of force would have taken the sweet young cretur
from her home.”
“You are sure of it 2 Was she, then, so fond—so tenderly
attached to—to Mr. Snipeton ?”
“Oh, not so, my lord—not so, so far as I could see : but,
somehow, when the old man looked at her as if his own heart
was in her bosom, I could see—even for the time I was with
'em—I could see she pitied him too much to run away from him.
Bless you ! she was too good and too—”
“Enough—we will talk no more of it. I have been gulled,
duped—the vain, yet guilty victim of a scoundrel; and the end is
—I am a blood-shedder.”
“I can’t say your lordship's been without blame ; bad as I
am, I can’t say that. Nevertheless, you didn't mean to kill the
old man—I’m sure you didn't. 'Twas a hot minute, and it. 's a
bad job ; for all that, your lordship will, I hope, see many happy
days to come. Though my time's short, I’ll pray for that, my
lord, with all my soul.”
“I tell you, St. Giles, you shall still find friends in my family.
Your life shall still be spared.”
“And what for, my lord? To be shipped-off again ; to be
chained and worked worse than a beast ; to have every bit of
manhood crushed; to have no use for thought but to think curses 7
No, my lord Fate's against me. I was sent into the world to
be made, as they call it, an example of ; and the sooner it 's all
over the better. I was born and suckled a thief. I was whipped,
imprisoned, transported, for a thief; and something better grew
**w-º-º-
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 383
up in me, and I resolved to turn upon the world a new face. I
was determined, come what would, to live honestly, or die in a
ditch for it. Well; the world wouldn’t have it. The world
seemed to sneer and laugh at me for the conceit of the thing.
I’ve been dodged and dodged by the devil, that first sold me;
I’ve tried to defy him ; but, as I say, fate 's against me, and it 's
no use. I look out upon the world, and I only see one place—one
little piece of ground—where there’s rest for such as I am ; and
where mercy may be shown to them as truly repent. I trust to
get from God what man denies me.”
“Nay, poor fellow—”
“Beg your pardon, my lord,” said Whistle, putting his head in
at the door, “but the post-chaise is come, and—it's only a form
—but we must drive to Kingston, to the magistrate’s.”
“I am quite ready,” said St. James, taking his hat. “And
your other prisoner?”
“We’ve got a cart for him,” answered Whistle.
“Not so,” said St. James, “we’ll even ride together.”
“Why, your lordship would never so condescend—never so
demean yourself— ”
“Get in,” said St. James, opening the chaise-door, and urging
St. Giles, who reluctantly entered the vehicle. “There is no
condescension for such villany as mine.”
“All right,” said Whistle, mounting outside ; “all right—to
Ringston.” And St. James the homicide, and St. Giles the
horse-stealer, were, in close companionship of guilt, driven to the
magistrate's, on their way to the county gaol.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
“WILFUL murder.” Two ugly words to be flung in the teeth
of a young nobleman. Nevertheless, a Surrey jury, having Sat
upon the body of Ebenezer Snipeton, returned such verdict—
went through such matter of form, as Tangle benevolently ex-
plained it away, and young St. James, in Kingston gaol, awaited
the opening of the sessions. Happily, however, for his cause,
Mr. Montecute Crawley was retained, and from the interest he
expressed for the young nobleman himself, and for the house of
St. James at large, there was no doubt that the learned counsel
would be more than ordinarily pathetic. Kingston gaol was for
some weeks the resort of very fashionable people, tender in
inquiries touching the health and spirits of the noble offender;
384 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
and—we sigh for human depravity as we chronicle the wickedness
—more than one Kingston innkeeper was known to express a lively
hope that “some fine young lord would kill a money-lender every
week, it did such a world of good for business.”
And the out-cast, vagabond horse-stealer and returned convict,
was not left friendless to count the passing hours between the
dungeon and the gibbet. The Member for Liquorish, at least
once a week, condescended to visit Kingston gaol, generally
accompanied by Mr. Tangle, who, suddenly expressed the ten-
terest sort of professional sympathy for the offender. Mr.
Capstick, the lawyer, and Bright Jem, were one day some fort-
night before the Sessions, at the prison with St. Giles in counsel
upon his mode of defence, a subject which the muffin-maker
seemed to fondle with growing affection—when they were
summoned by the turnkey.
“If you please, gen’lemen, and you, St. Giles, you’re wanted in
the infirmary,” said the man.
“With the greatest pleasure—certainly,” said Mr. Capstick.
“What's the matter ?”
“Why, the prisoner, Tom Blast’”—he had been committed to
Safe custody to insure his evidence—“wants to die.”
“Well,” cried Capstick, “has anybody expressed any
objection ?”
“Not a bit,” said the turnkey, “only he says he can’t die
comfortable, afore he sees you, sir, and the prisoner, St. Giles,
in partic'lar. He says he wants to make himself as clean as he
can afore he goes out ’o the world, and the governor has sent for
the magistrate and clerk that all things may be done proper.”
“Very right—most important,” exclaimed Capstick. “Come
along, St. Giles: well, death's a rare softener. The inexpressible
rascal Poor miserable wretch 1” and Capstick, duly followed,
proceeded to the infirmary.
Snipeton's bullet had dome its work, although Mr. Crossbone's
professional reputation had been duly vindicated, and the lead
extracted from the ruffian. It had, nevertheless, left its mortal
sting behind : Tom's intemperate habits had rendered him, as the
doctor familiarly observed to the sufferer, a ticklish subject;
inflammation ensued, and Thomas Blast was in a fair way, in his
last hour, to defeat the prophecy of past envy, and to die in a bed
with naked feet. “If I hadn't a drunk so, doctor says I’d ha’
got over it,” observed that philosophic scoundrel to the nurse.
“It isn’t the lead, but the gin. Well, if gin isn't the devil him-
self-cheat him as you may, he's sure in the end to be down
upon us.” These moral reflections were delivered by Blast with
the air of a man who, nevertheless, believes that he has strength
ST GILES AND ST. JAMES. 385
or luck enough in him to beat the devil in the long run, though
he does not care to withhold a compliment to the subtlety of the
demon, But days wore on, and Tom—in the agony of a hopeless
soul—began to execrate the past, and to howl at the future. A
day or two, a few hours, and all would be known . The chaplain
of the prison preached repentance, and the culprit writhed at the
adjuration as though beneath the lash. It was impossible then to
repent ; it was only to add to crime a mockery of goodness.
Nevertheless, he would confess. Yes; he would lift away some-
what of the load of lies that stifled his heart; though it was no
use—he knew that—still he would do it. No harm at least could
come of it ; and it would be something, at least for him, to do
any deed not hurtful to somebody. And so—he would confess.
Whereupon the turnkey, by direction of the governor, proceeded
to St. Giles's dungeon, and delivered the summons. Death was
in Blast's face—death in his eyes—and he mumbled with a dying
tongue. His awful look, his silent fight with the mastering
power of nature, subdued in St. Giles all thought, all purpose of
revenge. He saw before him the man who had stamped upon his
yielding childhood the ineffaceable brand of infamy—he, the
felon reserved for the gibbet, beheld the villain who had in very
babyhood pre-doomed him—and yet he viewed him with com-
passionate, with charitable looks, for he saw a human creature
fast subsiding into churchyard clay. St. Giles moved silently
to the dying man; and, after a brief mental struggle, revealed
by an outward shiver, held forth his hand to his old and early
enemy.
“I can’t take it, St. Giles—I can’t take it—'twould scorch me
—burn me—like—like where I’m going,” muttered Blast ; and
still he fought for breath. “Don’t speak—nobody—make no
noise. And you, sir, God bless you—if I may say God—you,
sir, take down what I say ; ” and Blast motioned to the magis-
trates’ clerk, prepared to take the deposition. “Now then,” cried
Blast, and with an effort, the result of indomitable will asserting
its last, he sat up in the bed, and controlled the horrid working
of his face, the convulsive movement of his limbs. He looked
terribly calm as he thus delivered himself—“St. Giles, poor boy
never stole no horse—I did it—I tricked him into it—I had the
money for it—I made a thief of him—and I transported him. I
wish I could live to be hanged for it—don't laugh, I do—so that
they shouldn't hurt a hair of that poor cretur’s head. It’s been
a bad world to him all along, but I’ve been the worst devil in it
to him—and I know it. I’m a-goin’ where I must answer for it.
There—that’s all I have to say. He was wrongfully transported,
and had a right to come back agin. If any harm comes to him for
C C
386 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
it, it's murder, that’s all. I’ve got nothin’—nothin'—more to say,”
and the poor wretch fell back in the bed.
St. Giles sprang forward and had already one arm about Blast's
neck. The dying man unclosed his burning eyes, and, for a
minute, gazed intently at his victim. Then his chest heaved and
laboured, and with a loud sob, his heart loosed itself in tears, that
trickled down the hands of him, who had been his baby victim.
Not a sound, save the sobbing of remorse, was heard. And then
Capstick coughed loudly, as was his wont, on strong occasions.
Bright Jem shrank into a corner, and plied his arm across his eyes.
“God bless you, St. Giles—yes, now I can say it, I didn’t think
I could—God bless you, St. Giles. Whatever fortin's left for you
in this world, you’re all right, you are in—in—” and Blast, as
though choking, paused.
At this moment, an old acquaintance of the reader's, Kingcup,
schoolmaster, entered. He was followed by a clean, comely looking
child; no other than that babe of the gutter, little Jingo. When
St. Giles, wandering from the town of Liquorish into its green
neighbourhood, met Bright Jem, it may be remembered that a
minute after young Jingo fell into the hands of his brother.
T}right Jem was bound on an errand to the schoolmaster; and St.
Giles, revealing himself to his early friend, took with him the
vagabond boy, and briefly telling the story of his destitution, of
his certain destruction in the hands of Blast, implored and induced
the good old man to receive the child, Bright Jem—Capstick was
for a time to know nothing of the matter—answering for necessary
charges. Kingcup, one of the unrewarded heroes of the world—
a conscientious village schoolmaster—received the child as he
would have snatched him from fire or flood. And the boy, in a
brief time, unconsciously vindicated the wisdom, the goodness of
Almighty Nature, that does not—however contrary the old-
fashioned creed—send into the world crowds of infant villains;
suckling scoundrels who grow in wickedness as in stature ; and
would seem only sent upon earth the better by shadows, to bring
out the lights of respectable life. Jingo looked clean and happy;
and had lost that sly, sidelong, hound-like glance which at the
breast he had been taught to copy even from the eyes that gazed
down upon him. Early teaching this—but even at this moment,
how many the pupils |
Bright Jem, saying no word to St. Giles, had written to King-
cup to come to the prison with his pupil.
“Why—who's that ?” cried Blast, fixing his eyes upon the
child; “it can’t be him—no, it can’t be. That's how he would
have looked, poor cretur, if—if he’d had a raother ; if—” Here
the boy held forth his hand. Blast seized it, and Snatched him
…rº
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 387
close to the bed. At the moment, it was plain death was in the
man's throat—was creeping into his eyes; for he drew the boy's
face close to his own, and tried—and tried to read it—and
seemed baffled—and still tried. And then he passed his dying
hand over the little face, and a smile—a smile of knowledge
and assurance—gleamed in the features of the dying man. It
was their last living expression : the next instant they were
blind clay. -
There was silence for a minute: and then Capstick, with a
loud prefatory cough, observed to the magistrate, “The deposition
is quite in form, I hope 7 °
“Perfectly right, sir. With deponent's mark, and duly wit-
nessed. All in form, sir,” answered the clerk.
“I should like to have a copy,” said Capstick, as he turned
away with the magistrate.
“Certainly ; I can't see any objection. Nevertheless, my dear
sir, and though I very much admire your energy in this affair;
nevertheless, it would be very wrong of you to hope : don’t hope,”
said his worship.
“I can’t help it,” said Capstick; “it’s my infirmity : an ail-
ment I trust I shall carry to the grave.” And the muffin-
maker, urged by the inveteracy of the disease, walked from the
prison with the magistrate, affirming that it was impossible for
any Christian government to hang a man in the face of such a
deposition.
The magistrate paused, smiled, and, making a farewell bow,
blandly observed—“Impossible ! My dear sir, you’ll pardon my
frankness; but—I must say it—I wonder that you, as a member
of Parliament, don’t know better—very much better—than to say
impossible. Good morning.”
Time passed, and the trumpets brayed in the streets of King-
ston the advent of justice. She had come with nicest balance,
to weigh the sins of men—with mercy let us hope somewhere in
her train to wait upon her.
The trial of young St. James took precedence of the trial of
St. Giles. This was to be expected. “Betters first,” as a simple
dweller in Kingston observed, in easy gossip, to a neighbour.
The trial of a nobleman, and for murder, too, was a great event
for the town ; and the small traders and inhabitants, in their
artless way, hailed it with all due honour. Stalls—even as at
joyous fair time—were set up in the streets; and gingerbread,
and ginger-nuts, were offered to the ſaint aud hungry. People
put on their best clothes, and at parlour windows, in public houses,
and at street corners, airily discussed the question, “whether his
lordship would be hanged or not " " The general opinion,
388 ST. GILES ANT) ST, J A M JS.
however, ran in favour of his lordship's vitality: not from the
conviction of his 1...erits in the case; certainly not ; but from
a stiff-necked belief in a prejudiced people that “they'd never
hang a lord, though he'd killed fifty men.” And yet, had the
good populace paused to think, they might have acknowledged
that Tyburn Tree had borne such fruitage.
The day of trial dawned. Never before had ostlers been so
busy in the town of Kingston. “Never such posting in the
memory of man,” was an opinion generally held in the stable-
yards; “never so much nobility and gentry in Kingston afore,”
was the satisfied thought of innkeepers at the bar. Nobody could
have thought that the murder of a money-lender—who, it had
been profanely uttered in the street, was better out of the world
than in it—would have done so much good for the trade of
Kingston.
The town was all life—three parts fashionable life. Beaux and
beauties had flocked from London, significantly to testify, by their
presence, to the high character of the interesting nobleman about
to appear in the dock. The court was opened, and in a few
minutes—there was a murmur—a buzz—a profound hush—and
young St. James stood a prisoner at the bar, the jury—twelve
Worthy housekeepers of Surrey—looking at him as they would
have looked at one of the royal lions in the Tower ; a dangerous,
but withal a very majestic and interesting creature.
In the first quarter of an hour, everybody showed signs of
greatest interest in the case ; then, by degrees, anxiety subsided,
and ere half an hour had passed, a sudden stranger, uninformed
of the awful business of the time, might have thought the court
assembled, merely met for casual talk. However, in due season
Mr. Montecute Crawley touched the heart of the assembly. Great
Was the rustling of silk, when he rose for the defence. He rose,
he said, with great difficulty. It was plain that he was inwardly
Wrestling with great emotion. Already, the tears seemed very
close to his eyes, and, at every instant, might be expected to run
over. The learned and lachrymose counsel, in his defence, took
a very comprehensive view of the case. If ever he had felt the
acuteness of pain—the intensity of suffering from the conviction
of his great inability to grapple with a difficulty, it was at that
moment. However, he must not shrink, and would therefore
throw himself upon the best feelings of the jury. The learned
counsel said it was impossible that the distinguished nobleman at
the bar could have any malice against the deceased, who had
brought a violent death upon himself—and he, the counsel, could
only fervently hope that the wretched man was well prepared to
meet the sudden summons—by the vehemence of his passion. It
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 389
had been proved in evidence, that the deceased had, from his
hiding-place, sprung upon the prisoner; who, with a human
instinct, quickened by mobility of blood, drew his weapon, and
death ensued. Nobody could regret the issue more than himself;
but the jury must bear this in mind. A man—a nobleman—
believed himself assaulted by a sudden enemy; and the law of
self-preservation—who could deny it!—was paramount to any law,
with all humility it might be said, made by king, lords, or com-
mons. The prisoner was of noble blood. More than a thousand
years ago, the blood that beat at the prisoner's heart was
ennobled, and—even as a river (he would say, the Nile), flooding
from an undiscovered source, widening, deepening on, bearing new
glories as it runs, and with increasing and fertilising magnificence
enriching the family of man—so might it be said of the blood in
the veins of the nobleman at the bar, that from the time whereto
the memory of man ran not to the contrary, it had descended from
sire to sire, blessing and benefiting generation after generation.
He, the counsel, would beg the jury to consider the effect of even
an imaginary blow upon such a man—upon one, whose Norman
ancestors had leapt on this soil of merry England, making it their
own—on one whose progenitors had bled at Poictiers, and Cressy,
and Marston-Moor, and—but he would not weary the attention of
an enlightened jury by too minute an enumeration of the debts
owed by England to the family of the distinguished individual
who, at that moment unfortunately—he could not but say, unfor-
tunately, stood at the bar. No: he would leave the number to be
filled up by the intelligence and imagination, and gratitude—yes,
gratitude as Englishmen—of the jury. He would only again beg
them to consider the effect of an imaginary blow upon a man whose
family had given generals to the field, dignitaries to the court,
chancellors to the—
Here the learned counsel—whose eye-lids had for sometime red-
dened and trembled—burst into a flood of tears, sank down upon
his seat, and sobbed in his handkerchief. The effect was very fine
upon all in court. Ladies plied their scent-bottles, and one or two,
less guarded than the rest, violently blew their noses. After a
decent time allowed to grief, Mr. Montecute Crawley, putting
down emotion with giant will, was again upon his legs.
He had nothing more to say. With every confidence he left
the case of the nobleman at the bar in the hands of the jury; Con-
vinced that they would arrive at such a verdict as would to the
last day of their lengthened lives contribute to the sweetness and
soundness of their nightly sleep, and the prosperity and happiness
of their waking hours.
The judge summed up the case with unusual brevity; and ere
390 ST. GTT, ES ANT) S"I". J AMT.S.
Mr. Montecute Crawley had well dried his eyes, the jury returned
a verdict—“Not guilty.” -
Let us pass the burst of applause that shook the roof; the
crowding of friends about the innocent nobleman, no longer a
prisoner ; with his almost instantaneous departure for London in
the carriage-and-four, confidently prepared and waiting for him
at the prison walls. St. James is a free man. But our story has
yet a prisoner—St. Giles.
The next day was appointed for the trial of the returned convict.
The court was attended by a few idlers. Capstick, Bright Jem, and
Becky—herface scalded with tears—were present; and Mr.Tangle,
as solicitor for the prisoner, was very busy, and spoke in terms of
considerable tenderness to the Member for Liquorish, assuring him
that at least heaven and earth should be moved to save St. Giles.
“I tell you, sir,” repeated the attorney—“I tell you, I'll move both
heaven and earth. My interest can go no further.”
“Not yet,” said Capstick, and his eye twinkled.
“Silence in the court 1" exclaimed the officer, and the trial was
continued.
It was a very matter-of-fact case. The prisoner at the bar had
been convicted, when quite a boy, of horse-stealing; evidence was
given of judgment, his identity was proved, and there could remain
no doubt—nevertheless, if the jury had a scruple the prisoner
ought to benefit by it—no doubt of the crime of the culprit in the
dock. Blast’s dying declaration of the innocence of St. Giles was
put in ; but the judge, biting the end of his quill, shook his head.
Mr. Montecute Crawley, not being very well from the wear-
and-tear of his emotions on the previous morning, albeit retained
by order of St. James to defend St. Giles, was compelled to
resign his brief to his junior, who would be, Mr. Crawley
comfortingly observed, a very promising young man some day.
The young gentleman, evidently satisfied himself with his defence
of the prisoner, and, indeed, had hardly ceased to acknowledge
the encouraging nod of the leader, when the judge, having
shortly summed up, the jury, not stirring from the box, returned
their verdict—“Guilty.”
There was a heavy fall upon the floor, and poor Becky, pale
as a corpse, was carried out.
The judge placed the black cap upon his head. “Prisoner at the
bar,” said the judge, “you have been tried by a jury of your fellow-
countrymen, and have been found guilty of a most heinous crime
against the peace of our sovereign lord the king, and the laws of
this realm. I am sorry that there is nothing in your case that
pleads for the least chance of mercy. Far be it from me to add
to your suffering at this moment by any harsh word of mine.
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 391
Nevertheless, it is only due to society that T should briefly dwell
upon the career that has brought you to this most dreadful con-
dition. It appears that, altogether heedless of the blessings of a
Christian society and Christian influences, you, at a very early
age, in fact, as a mere child, broke the commandment that says,
‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Your thefts, I grant, were petty ones;
but robbery grows with growth. You proceeded in your reckless
conduct, and were at length—I have the conviction before me—
condemned to death for horse-stealing.”
“My lord, the deposition " cried Capstick.
“Take that man into custody, if he speaks another word,” thun-
dered the judge to the officer. Then, after a pause, he continued.
“The deposition shall be forwarded to the proper quarter, but I
would solemnly advise you, prisoner at the bar, to indulge in no
vain hope upon that head. As I have already said, you were
condemned to death for horse-stealing, when the royal clemency
intervened, and your sentence was commuted to transportation.
You were sent to a country, blest with a salubrious climate and a
most fertile soil. And you ought to have shown your gratitude
for your deliverance from a shameful death by remaining in your
adopted land. However, your natural hardness of heart prompted
you to fly in the face of the king's mercy, and to return to this
kingdom. The punishment for this crime is wisely ordered by our
law to be death. This punishment you will suffer. In the time,
however, that will elapse ere you are called from this world, you
will be attended by a Christian minister, who will instruct your
darkened mind with the glorious truths of Christianity; will
teach you their goodness, their abounding mercy, and, above all,
their charity for aiſ men. You will have the means of this con-
solation ; I implore you, make use of them. And now, the
sentence of this court is, that you be taken to whence you came,
and be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”
But, St. Giles was not hanged. No. St. James repeated the
good work of his boyhood, and—aided by Capstick, who made
his maiden speech in Parliament on the question, calling the
attention of the minister to the confession of Blast—St. Giles was
pardoned. He married Becky, and lived and died a decent shop-
keeper. Indeed, he had so far beaten the prejudices of the world,
that long ere he took his mortal departure from his parish, he
had been intrusted with the duties of churchwarden.
St. James, a few weeks after the trial went abroad, made the
grand tour, returned, married a duke's daughter, and supported
to the utmost the true dignity of his order. St. James had been
Schooled even by St. Giles: taught the best and highest lesson of
392 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.
life from his association with the born outcast and baby felon.
The man of conventional nobility had learned to see through
Want, and misery, and crime, the natural man : still the born
aristocrat of all created things, however degraded from the
hour of his birth by the ignorance and the injustice of our
social conditions. And St. James made noble amends in his
maturer years for the harmful vanities of his earlier life. Many
and many a pilgrimage did he make to the Hog-Lanes, that,
like hidden ulcers, rot the social body; still tainting outward
beauty with concealed loathsomeness. If St. James learned the
solemn truth that to make man respect his fellow, he must
be bred in self-respect—and that self-respect is not a plant of
darkness, growing and blossoming despite of gloom and filth—(as
Well look for water-lilies in common sewers,)—if St. James learned
this, and learning, laboured to shed abroad the humanising truth,
he owed its first knowledge to his fitful companionship with
St. Giles; to his strange association with a wretched being who,
first sinned against by society, became the avenging sinner. How
much of what our legal and moral codes alike denounce as guilt
—how much of this sinfulness, has the same inevitable cause !
Hence, our nobleman proved it by all his after life, how much
St. James in his brocade, may profitably learn of St. Giles in his
tatters.
Mr. Crossbone, baulked in his hopes of court preferment, retired
to the country, we fear—against his conscience, but in deference
to his pocket—to cultivate the weeds of life. He, however,
had the subsequent satisfaction of transporting Mr. Robert Willis
for highway robbery; an operation performed at the cheapest
cost to Mr. Crossbone, as the robber pillaged him of only four and
two-pence and a tobacco-stopper.
A metropolitan tombstone still attests the pleasing fact, that
Mr. Tangle died at the age of eighty-two, “a faithful husband, an
affectionate father, and an unswerving friend. His charity was
as boundless as it was unostentatious and unknown.” Thus
speaks Tangle's tombstone; and who—save it may be the
recording angel—shall contradict a tombstone 7
And Clarissa / She shrank from the world; and lived and
died the daily life and death of an outraged, wasting heart. In
her happy, hopeful youth, she had been sold to bondage ; a slave,
condemned to the most loathsome servitude. Her fetter was of
gold—how light, how small a link yet such gold is toothed with
canker, and eats into the very core of the heart. And so Clarissa
died ; another victim numbered with the thousands gone and—to
COIOle.
Capstick—the man with gall in his words and balm in his
ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 393
deeds—Capstick at the end of the first session, confessed to Bright
Jem, the proved vanity of Parliament. He would sometimes sit
—as he declared—late on a summer's night, and—despite of the
real atmosphere about him—could scent the bean-blossom wafted
from his garden. He would doze in his seat, and—when an hon.
member was making his twentieth repetition of a sounding
common-place—would dream of the cuckoo calling him home.
And so at the end of the first session, Capstick, the late muffin-
maker and philanthropic misanthropist, to give due warranty to
the Scandal and malice of a few of his neighbours, who declared
he only sought parliament that once there, he might well butter
his dry bread ; so Capstick took office. He became for a time
steward of the Chiltern Hundreds, and few men could give better
account of their stewardship; for, retired to the Tub, he culti-
vated his garden—whistled to his birds—talked to his bees—and,
if mingling amongst men, he had at times a playful tartness in
his words,-his daily acts were full as honeycomb with abounding
Sweetness.
Bright Jem shook off ten years as he crossed the threshold of
the Tub. And there he lived in simple and affectionate com-
panionship with his old master. And there St. Giles, and
St. Giles's wife, and St. Giles's little ones, would make their
yearly visit: a visit that caused to Bright Jem his only two
anxieties; namely, that the peas might in the opinion of Mrs. St.
Giles beat any peas in Covent-garden ; and the strawberries might
grow bigger and bigger every twelvemonth in the eyes and
mouths of the children.
*--- .......-
TIHE END.
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