^^f'u w^i^: v^ iv*xf .v M .\« m^ ^t^ ^^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA \ | J AT LOS ANGELES ' I ill SOUTHERN BRANCH UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY I OS ANGELES. CALIF. THE WoKKS WK POUGLAS JERROLD. DN- Eradt'irv .i: Evans :i Bo'jverie Street 2 r THE WORKS OF DOUGLAS JEEROLD. WITH LIFK BY W. BLANCIIARD JERROLD, IN FIVE VOLUMES. VOLUME 1. CONTAISIKO ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, AND PUNCH'S LETTERS TO HIS SON. ^ 5 i ^ 9 LONDON : BRADBURY, AGXKW, & CO., 10, BOUYERIE STREET. LAX DOS : BKXCBVRT, i.CNKW, k CO., PHIS.CHr., WHr;KrRIARS PR MA INTRODITTORY ME^rOTR. A BTOORAPHICAL introduction to tho collected writings of a working; man of letters is useful, often, as explaining many of thi- oluimctoristics of tho author's mind, und how he reached tho tit'lds in wliich he fed his imaj^iuation, or built up his theories. There is pleasure in ti-acing tho thread of his own life, that, whetJier thin as spider's silk, or broad ' and clear, the author draws tlu"ough his ^^Titings. "VN'e appear to gain a personal actiuaintanco with the man whose pen has charmed us, or has taught us wisdom, I believe that this is the chief reason why tho lives of literaiy men, even when most uneventful, are welcome to the public. Headers are delighted to learn how the man who, fiom his silent study, so long entranced them, appeaj-ed in his slippera. Did he eat, and drink, and sleep like otlier men ? He had genius : what, then, were his eccen- tricities ? For — authors shall spend the most humdrum lives, living on roast and boiled duly paid for ; reading at the club ; and keeping aU the business of their days by double entry ; and it shall still be some time before their readers will believe that a man may be a genius, and have no more ecceutiicity than a city banker. There are crowds of people who hold that a gi-eat scientific thinker must, of necessity, use a lady's finger as a tobacco-stopper. I remember sitting, at a continental table d'hote, neai- an enthusiastic family, who were thrown into a VI INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. condition of dangerous mental excitomont, by the arrival of » quiet, gentlemanly man ; who took his scat at the lower end of the table, and talked easily and cheerfully to his neighboui-s. They had discovered that he was the groat Mr. Blank, whose last novel they had been reatliug. Every car was stretchetl to catch Mr. Blank's lightest word. But Mi-. Blank, having arrived with a good appetite, confined his convei-sation to the merits of the dinner, with a passing allusion to the ])robablo state of the weather; and, his diiuier over, lighted a cigar in the court-yard, and walked smarily away — to the port. " "Who would have thought that was the great Mr. Blank ? " cried the enthusiastic family. " ^^'hy, ho might have been Mr. Brown or Jones I" The difficultj' is to persuade enthusiastic readers, that most modern men of letters have the appeai-ance and manners of ordinaiy English gentlemen; and never go to baUs or routs in shooting jackets, nor wear thtii- hair curled to the waist. A traveller early on his waj' to Richmond, passing over the then picturesque heath of I'utney, some ten years ago, in the summer time; would piobably see, by the gipsies' tent, a short gentleman, with wild iron-grey hair peeping from under his straw hat ; a sharp, bright eye ; and a lip with mocking comers to it; chatteiing with the gipsies, who would lie upon the gi-ass, shielding their eyes fiom the sun, with their rhc'^tuut hands ; and laugh at their neighbour from the smig Lodge yoniler, cur- tained in lime-trees, and musical -with a little farm-yard at the back. I am sure the stranger would hardly have paused to listen to the badinage, nor to mark a point of eccenhicity in the owner of the Lodge. I am quite cei-tain the gipsies themselves, who were old fiiends and neighboui-s of DougLis JeiTold, never saw anything more in him than a lively gentleman, who was very fond of early morning on the heath ; who appeared to love the yellow furze very much, and pick it veiy often, and hold it apparently with gieat pleasuie between hi^ lips, while, bending IXTUOnUCTORY MEMOIR, tii himself Lack, a litllo painfully, leaning on Lis stick, he ■watched tho riky-pi onii.-oy for the captain's lady to pet, not for the hoarse throat of Mai-s to thunder at! But these children in uniform had the blood of the gentle and brave in thom ; and it was a good sight to behold how pmudly they sported the du-k, and bore theii* duties, while their mothers were mournful in the empty nursery. Childhood was gone, to thom. Among these my father stood, through the influence of Captain Austin, relative of the novelist, and met a brave sailor on the ship^who has since, with a master's hand, painted the sea he once sailed — Clarkson Stanfield. In those rough dajT? of the olTl war, a young gentleman on board one of the king's ships, did not lie on a bed of roses. The discipline was hanl, and the kicks were many. They sickened, and I have no doubt well nigh broke the hearts of crowds of dehcato boys. Wliat a story for the cock-pit must my father's grandmother have uncon- sciously made, when she sent to the captain, to beg that her dear young Douglas might be allowed to wear pattens on the sloppy decks ! Dear Douglas must, on his side, pray to be transferred to a ship that was something more than a log anchored at the Kore. He touched his hat to the captain, and begged to be sent to gloiy. His petition was granted, and ho went to the Ernest, gun-brig ; and dipped, in his turn, under the horizon he had watched from his Sheemess nursery. Of the war he saw nought, save its last horror. The ship in which ho sailed, con- veyed troops to Belgium for Waterloo, and brought back a cargo of wounded. He has described the gim-brig in Jack Eunny- mede. This last service in which our young midshipman was engaged, was a hon-or that lived ever after in his mind, and INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. ix tinchircd all his thoughts of war. When ho mot a parado of laiui'ls. his mind tlcw buck to the gory stumiw he usi'd to see dics*!i'd of mornings, as he sailed fi'om the Belgian coast, with a cargo of heroes. A bi-aver spiiit never stood ; and he has boon heoi-d to say, glowing with his memorios of the sea, that, had he been somewhat tullcr and sti-ongor, he would have been heard of fi-om Bntish oak ; bnt the normal state of my father's mind was one of disgust for Barod to give his sons a lesson in boxing; ho could not but bo won thi-ough his imuginution, that loved the hannouies of nature, to the quiet and Chiislian glare- noss of his boily, and made his presence redoubtable, lie flashoti his sjivings across the table, aa from a port hole ; and everybody remembered, there was a gallant little gimner in company, who had more powder and shot at hand. He needed all the strength and couiage he could biing from the sea to London, on that chill new year's daj-, 1816, when ha landed from the Chatham boat. His father was now a man ot broken forttme, from whose exertions there was little more to hope. Alone with his father, the ex-midshijiman tasted what sharp food Poverty offers to the adventuiei"s who meet her, in Loudon. He turned to a printing office, and brought to his father the little monej- he could earn. They shared it in the court "where they lived ; and saved enough to hire volumes of Walter Scott to read. There can be no doubt in the minds of men who knew my father intimately, that his early days in London gave a bitterness to his mind, which would burst out from time to time. He abhorred tyi-anny ; he passionately hated injustice ; and his attacks were vehement when a tjTant X INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. appeared, or an imjust thing was done. Thiongli the j-onngor liali" of his lilb ho suffered much, llo was galled by hard task- masters, and buffeted nidoly by men whom he despised. When he had emancipated himself (while he wa.s yet a boy) from the diudgcry of a printing-office, to which he was not bom, and for which the position of " otHcer and gentleman " in the king's ser\-ice had not fitted him — he sought to live by his pen. Men who knew him in those his boyish days, attest how braveh' ho fought, with his head higli, and a resolve in his heart that never forsook him. Tho labour ho performed was so great, aiul was so broadly spread, that it has become impossible to trace all of it. Scraps of poetry, squibs, cb-amatic criticisms, and diinnatic pieces of aU descriptions, flowed from his pen ; but brought no great supply of grist to tho mill ; — antl giist was wanted. In his twenty-fii-st year, my father had married Miss ^faiy Ann Swann of Wetherby, in Yorkshii'c ; and his friend Blanchard had duly cxjngiatulated him in verso. A young fanxily wa-s in- creasing his responsibilities. Tho giist must come therefore ; and so, he struck his bargains in fetters. His pieces made suc- cesses on tho boards of tlie minor tlioatres; and tho scene- painters received more money than the author. lie hate for tho minor theatri* — making his way steadilj', but with toil and trouble, to Covent Gai'den and Di-urj- Lane. And all this time he was educating himself. He would have hi;* fij-e laid over-night, and rise by candle-light on winter's morn- ings, to read his Latin and French ; and to make read}' for his Itaban master (he still lives in Boulogne to tell the stoiy), who was to come presently. He retid all the old dramatists and poets ; and he was not content until ho could enjoy Eabelais easily in the original. He was a diligent student of Jeremy Taylor, and an enthusiastic Shakspearian. He worshijiped the genius of the Bai-d of Avon, and bade every young man read his Bible and his Shakspeare. Wit like his belongs to a serioas ^"^-^ mind.* ^NTiere other men saw only a black hole in the bottoai * " I am convinced that tbe world will get tired (at least I hope so,) of this eternal guffaw at all things. After all, life has something serious in it. It cannot be all a comic history of humanity. Some men would, I xii INTRODUCTORY MKMOIR. of the well, he caught a sparkle from the water. It is the privilege of the dull to sneer at wits, as shallow, or, at least, not learned men. He never condescended to be a mere comic talker ; and when he was expected to shine, was sUent. He had a respect for that which was deeper in him than his wit. The poetic germ that bubbletl up in him, was that which he cherished, and was at pains to cultivate through his life. He used hia force as a satiiist with a will, because by it he could best chas- tise those he deemed to be political or social wrong-doors. He had felt all the poor feel, with the acutoness of an exquisitely sensitive nature. He was a liberal by instinct, and the acci- dents of his life had sharpened this instinct, by proving to him that it was good. No man ever had less of the agitator in him. The coarse forms — not to say company — which were the belong- ings of Chartists and demagogues in his time, were detestable to him. His was a piu-e literaiy mind, that was satisfied to I dwell in literature for ever ; and never sought for power beyond the library. Aly father had strong political feelings which came from a heart that had suffered much. Ho grew serious in windy weather, because he had sailed the stormy seas. All the powers he had in him were in battle array in a moment, when a great calamity had happened, or a grievous wrong had been com- mitted. He did not coolly divide the question into three heads, and examine each : he pouied out that which he deemed to btt the truth in him. It would be impossible to evolve a political sj'stem from his newspaper wiitings : but they abound in bits of most eloquent, pleading for the helpless and the oppressed The Corn-laws did not appear to him as they would appear to the editor of the "Economist." He simply called for a big believe, write the comic Sermon on the Mount. Think of a cpmt'n;8 hi^ now friend with tho hunch, miifht tuko. llo mi<,'ht bo wild biiHiHin, or a wise fool, in liis genomtion. " Punch' wivs not int<>ndeil to bo a merely comic porimlicul. "Punch" was to be a grave philo>on \ 1. Tho i-apid hold which tho now world-rcu<>\viiL-d uud most puissjmt " Punch," took of the British imljio, fairly astonished all tho heaN*)' -wnseacres who had fcittold the speedy discomfiture of a mountobank. Tho cap and bells wero fitted uiMin wiso h-'uds : thi- fooling was not purjKiseless, and was oven learned. The hunchback had been removed from the street-corner to tho drawing-rfK>m. and the libraiy ; and might bo seen in tho palace tho Sovereign, and in the cabinet of the premier. Ho was a 1^,1 Jef — a relaxation— a new stimulant to griave professors and faa.»ed students. Just as men whose lives are spent in grave pursuits that stretch the intellect to its extremest tension, run away from the labomtory, or the study, or the studio, to some club whei-e thev will see theii- fellow-workers roaring like lions, and wagging their tails (being members of the British Lions^^ — so reverend readers and lecturers, pacing tho quiet quadfangles of ancient colleges, found "Punch" a right welcome hour's laughter once a week. From the establishment of "Punch" to within one week of his death, my father was an incessant contiibutor to it. Into its columns he ^ured an infinite vaiiety of quaint papers, satires, stories, essays, humorous and grave, and facetife and mot;!, by the hundi-cd. "Punch" gave his mind a holiday, Tvherc it covdd play freely. Here was a public channel for th^ J x„ INTRODUCTORY MEilOIR. sudden thought, the spontaneous joke, and all the ideas to vhich the parsing events gave rise, at the reiuling of the morning paper. He had a storehouse, whore he could depoeiit all the li"htcr play of his rich fancy ; and save for others, tho pual« of laughter that were, before Mi-. Punch came into the field, reserved for his friends. Tlie first series of contributions in which he was of undoubted value to the rising fame of " l^ulch," were those which wei-e signed " Q." These are a most fanciful, vigorous, pungent, and sarcastic set of political squibs. They stir tho blood, and provoke the laugh ; aye, and attune the mind to ihoughlfe tliat have no laughter in them. They wore written in fine Saxon English ; and went home to the hearts of IhoiLsands. Some were thunderbolts which Mr. rundi sent with his comi>limcut.s to enemies of tho people, and puneyors of shams, and uncon- scionable pluralists, and to tho martinets who held up tho cat-o'- uine-tails as real commander-in-chief of Her Majesty's forces. Othei-8 were shai-p lancc-thrusts at bigots and noodles. I make no doubt, however, that many holo-and-comer politicians of the day, decided that they ditin't go far enough. There ai-e men who would look uj)on a leader who should head the mob into the •wine cellars of Buckingham Palace, as a mere trimmer who had only made a feint in the right ilirection. There aie extreme men tacked to all political parties : and these hate the moderate and rational men of theii- own party, with a deeper hatred than they bear to their poUtical opponents. I remember a wild democrat of the famous 10th of Apxil, who was disgusted, and declared he desj)aired of the Liberal party, when some i-ational men whom ho addressed, declined to help him in getting up an organisation, the object of which was to blow up Westminster Bridge by penny Bubscriptions ! The opening of the Punch campaign — where Mr. Punch's political creed was explained to the British public — was hinged ui)on the celebrated Bed-chamber plot. My father's first con tiibution to the new periodical appealed on the 13th of September, INTR01?UCT0RY MEMOIR. xvu 1841, and was entitled " Peel Eogulaily Called In." My father had been a passionate reader of natui-al history always (ho had a copy of Buffon with him on board the Namur), and in this article, and in a hundi-ed others, ho turned this reading to witty account. Le Vaillaiit speaks of a turtle that continued to live after its brain was taken from its skull, and the cavity' etufl'ed with cotton. " Is not," says " Q.," " England, with 6i)inuing- jenny Peel at the head of its affairs, in this precise pretiicainent !' " The Tories were giving themselves a new name ; and " Q." writes, " When adders shall become eels, then will wo believe that Con- eer\-atives cannot be Tories." The times in which these papers were begun and continued, were bigwith events : and great changes impended at home. It was a time when Toryism was powerful ; and my father could sjn-ak in his own way, that which he knew £i"om his heait, aye, and fixmi his sufToring. It is almost incon- ceivable that so shrewd a man as the late Duke of Wellington should have said, in hard times too, that even;- poor man, if only "sober and indnstrious," was " quite cei-tain " of acquiring a comi>etency, — a monstrous assertion to make of any countiy on the lace of the earth. My father's pen was dipped in gall most~ wholesomely bitter. He declared that if this were the Duke's bebef, he knew no more of England than the Icelander in his sledge. This was hard hitting; but a calumny as heartless as it was absurd had been spoken of the sufifeiing thousands who were in the United Kingdom. "Q." concludes, in no mood to mince matters, " Gentlemen Tories, shuffle the cai-ds as you will, the Duke of Wellington either lacks principle or brains." The reader who should be at the trouble of following these papers through "Punch," as the daily newspapers suggested subjects to " Q,.," will see how closely the man and the author stood together ; and how the strength was always put forth for Hie weak side. The picture of pure Christianity in London, for one day, is in my father's happiest manner. Dr. Chalmers would have nought to do with getting a big loaf for the poor ; ne was for " universaLChristian education for the poor." " Q." VOL. I. , b xviii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. applied the doctor's tost. Everybody has been made, or is to be made, a practising Christian. The bench of bishops meet at Lambeth Palace, and — " discovering that locusts and wild honey -^the Baptist's diet — may be purchased for something less than ten thousand a-year — and after a minute investigation of the Testament, failing to discover the name of St. Peter's coach- maker, or of St. Paul's footman, his valet, or his cook, tako counsel one with another, and resolve to forego at least nine- tenths of their yearly incomings." A Christian Sunday I " Had one page," "Q." writes, " t^n thousand times its amplitude, it would not contain the briefest register of the changes of that day." " Q." concludes with Doctor Chalmers : " We ore with Dr. Chalmers for Christianity, but not Christianity of one »iJe." There are whimsical as well as solemn papers. The masons who were building the Houses of Parliamt'nt, struck during a distress. Q. suggested that the membera should build their own roof, like beavers. Shall cuckoos and members of Parlia- ment alone be lodged at others' pains ? Follow some humorous suggestions. As — Sir James Graham would do the dove-tailing. Disraeli was to do the light interior work. "Ilis logic, it is confessed, will support nothing ; but we think he would bo a veiy smart hand at a hat-peg." The article on Politics of the Outward Man — a propos of some fashionable reporter's sneers at fustian-coated men, »S:c., is full of indignation most forcibly expressed. Man's covering — " the livory of original sin, bought with the pilfered apples — is worn into a hole ; and Opinion, that sour-breathed hag, claps her blue lips to the broken web, gives a puff, and out goes man's immortal spark ! From this moment the creature is but a carcass " — that can work. Poor Sir Peter Laurie's woful mistakes and persevering blunders, did not escape the satirist. The opening fire is heavy. " Q." has no more thought of dodicating a whole page of "Punch "to one Sir Peter Lamie than the Zoological Mr. Cross would think of devoting an acre of his gardens to one ass, simply because it happened to be the largest known specimen of the species ; still, INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. zk for the aldennan's benefit, he paints life by Comfort and then by Penuiy . Sir Peter had conunitted a starving man to the treadmill for a month, for having attempted to put an end to his life. " Q." ends thus, t>n this theme: "The surest way for the rich and powerful of the world to make the poor man more caieful of his life, is to render it of greater value to him." Kunning over tho pai)er8 — and there is deep feeling and abundant \»nt in all of them — my eye is arrested by the luiiue of the Marc^uis de Boisi.>-y — so far buck as 1842 — talking tho nonsense of the withered brains of tho Quartier St. Geiinains, in Louis I'hilijtpe's Chamber of Peers. Said the Marquis — " The worst onenaies of govern- ment are persons without piqjjoi-ty." This speeeh from a cruel heiirt, speaking through a hcud where oiJy tho smaUest cavity had been left for braiui*, was twL*tfd !jc(»nvfully, a thcxisand ways, by "Q.," under the head of "Tlu.'Tnutc«- 'Xutliing.'" There was a proi)hocy in the peroi-atiau. " Ami, ahis I wo fear it is too true — Xotliing is an eni'iuy of the Government I And Nothing — let tho Goveitmient be sui'e of it — has a hundred thousand emissaries." Nothing proved too sti'ong for the Maiquis de Boissy's then master in 1848. \Mien the CQjUJit3;r£p*U'te-were nnder discussion, " Q." was, of course, on the side of cheap law. " Turkey," he said, " has her eunuchs, Russia her Cossacks, and llngland hoc attorneys." And agjun, of the clamour made by lawyers for dear law : "It is because hf^-yei-s are not wedded to justice that, like other proflig-ates with theii" nominal wives, they would have her diees finely." I give these as instances of the kind of jx>litical wiiter my father was ; and how he attacked, with new weapons, and had tactics and ammunition all his own. The following, of dii'ect and indiieet taxation, is a good example. Mi'. Charles Buller preferred indirect taxation to direct taxation. " Q." likens mdirect taxation to the activity- of the vampire bat — ^he is the indirect tax-gatherer. "Foi- we are told that the creature, in the silence of night, fixes itv-^elf upon the toes of the sleeper, and drinks and diinks its gieedr di-aughts of blood, and while 62 XX INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. it drinks, benevolently fans its victim with its wings ; and so the sleoper, i. e., the tax-payor, sleeps on until the vampire is gorged; and then the creature goes away, leav-iug the man in perfect ianoranco of the amovmt of income he has, in his slumber, subscribed. Now, this is the sort of tax-gatherer proposed by Mr. Charles Biiller. Dr. Peel, however, says, 'No; I want so nrxny ounces of blood from eveiy man. according to his capa- bilities of losing the same. I will Uxko them, weigh them faiily ; so hold out your arm, and — where's the ba-sin ?' " Enough — to give the reader an idea of the manner in which Douglas Jen'old touchwl i>«)litioal questions. lie was enthu- siastic on the popular side, as Shellej' was. Ho dfalt with great indisputable wi-ongs, and drove shaiT) epigrams into tho vital marrow of them ; or wrapp^l them in quaint storj' or hajipy metaphor. Of these paiM?i>i of his contributed to " Punch," whether signed " Q.," or called *' Punch's Letters to his Son," or •' Punch's Coniiileto Letter Writer," it may bo equally said — in tho words of Mr. Ilannay : the paper — "stands out by itself from all the othei-8 — the sharp ciitical knowingness, si^arkling with puns, of A'Bockett — the inimitable, wise, easy, playful, worldly, social sketch of Thackeray. In imagery he has no rivals there ; for his mind had a very marked tendency to the ornamental and illustrative — even to the gi-otesque. In satire, again, he had fewer competitors than in humour; sarcasms lurk imder his similes, like wasps in fruit or flowera. I will just quote one specimen from a casual article of his, because it hapi>ens to occur to my memory, and because it illustrates his manner. The • Chronicle ' had been attacking some artists in whom he took an interest. In replying, he set out by teUing how, in some vine countries, they repress the too luxuriant growths by sending in asses to crop the shoots. Then he remarked gravely, that young artists required pruning, and added, ' Uow thankful we ought all to be that the "Chronicle" keeps a donkey !' In sterner moods he was grander. Of a Jew money- leader he said that ' he might die like Judas, but that he had nq INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxi bowels to gush out ;' also, that ' he ' (the money-lendor) ' would have sold our Saviour for more momy.^ An imaginative colour distinguished his best satire, and it had • the deadly and wild glitter of war rockets. This was the most original quality, too, of his satire, and just the quality which is least common in our present satLiical literature. Uo had read the old writers — Urowne, Donne, Fuller, and Cowley — and was tingod with that richer and ([uainter vein which so emphatically distinguishes them fixtm the j)rosaic wits of our day. His wcajMaus reminded you of Damascus rather than Binningham." Bushels of articles of everj* description were carved with this poetic weapon, during the sixteen years that iutoi-vened between the establishment of '* Punch " and my father's death. In addition to the miscellaneous list — -the titles of wliich would fill pages— he coutiibuted to " Punch" — the tender " Story of a Feather," and " Our Honeymoon." "Mi-s. Bib's Baby" and "The Female Robinson Ci-usoo " were soon abandoned. ]{ut ** Mrs. Cauille's Curtain Lectures " sjirang into a wild jiopularity that travelled over Europe. I have a Dutch translation of what Mr. Job Caudle sulfered, in my possession. The " Story of a Feather " had a success which my father valued more than the noisy tiiimiphs of Mrs. Caudle. Mr. Dickens wioto to con- gratulate hun on his " wise and beautiful book." A well-known critic wrote of it : "The predominant chaiacteristic of this story is power, and the moral character of it, earnestness ; it is painted with mtensity, for it has feeling in every paragraph. No ' wit ' could have written it, any more than he could have written the funeral service." The same critic remarks on the manner in which my father got under weigh with a subject, and how he conducted the jom-ney with " pomp and plentifalness." This active work continued for "Punch" to within eight days of Douglas JeiTold's death. I suspect a fragment I have entitled "Adam's Apples," was the beginning of a new " Punch' eeries. xxii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. I>et the reader observe wliat manner of worker my father was, even in the prosperous times to which " Punch " and his brilliant success on the stage" introduced him. lie edited successively "The Illuminated Magazine," "Douglas Jerrold's "Weekly Newspaper," " Douglas JeiTold's Shilling Magazine," and for the last five years of his life "Lloyd's "Weekly London News- paper." Let the reader run down the list of his re-publishfd dianiatic works only (and they ai-o not half ho wi-ot*.* for tho stage), and ho mu.st be astonished to tind that tho writer had time to edit a new.spapor and a magazine, and contribute oveiy week to " Punch" into tho bargi\in. In his Shilling Magazine he wrote his story of "St. Giles's and St. James's." Ho was attacked, hereupon, as a wrjt<»r who desired at all times to i-ob the rich for the benefit of the poor. He appealed against tliis charge, which angeretl him always. " It has been my endeavour," ho says, " to show, in the person of St. Giles, the victim of an ignorant disreganl of tho social claims of the jx)or upon the rich ; of the goveme«l million upon the governing few; to present — I am well aware how imi>ei-fectly — but Avith no wilful exaggeration of tho jwrtraiture — the picture of the infant pauper roared in brutish ignorance, a human waif of dii-t and iarkness. Since the original appearance of this story, the reality of this picture in all its vital and appalling horror, has forced it.self upon the Ijogislature, has engaged its anxious thoughts, and wiU ultimately triumph in its humanising sii-m- pathies. I will only add that, upon an after rcvii^ion of this stoiy, I cannot think mystlf open to the charge of bedizening St. Giles at the cost of St. James ; or of making Ilog Lane the treasury of all the virtues, to the moral sacking of Mayfair. • • • Some of it has been called 'bitter;' indeed, 'bitter' has, I think, been a little too often the ready word when certain critics have condescended to bend their eyes upon my page ; so ready that, were my ink redolent of mynh and frankincense, I well know the sort of ready-made criticism that would ciy, with a denouncing shiver, ' Aloes, aloes I' " INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxiu My father's last work of fiction was "A Man Made of Money," bop^nn in that, to him, fruitful literary year 1S51. There are pound critics who believe that it will be read longer than any of his works. It has been ranged with "Peter Schlemil " and " Zanoni ; " and has been said to d<.'sorve nnik with the philo- sophic stories so fa.shionable in the hist contuiy. The philosophy on the money -gniblxr'e fa to, ponneatcs the stoiy. In his literary estimate of my father, Mr. Uannay says, alluding to "A Man Made of Money," it " ia the oompletest of his books a-s a creation, and tlie most characteristic in point of stylo— is based on a prinoii)le which prudominatcnl in his mind — is the most original in imaginativoncfis, and the best sustained in point and niiituess, of the works he has left." Even in this the midily turns up — as it does in the lust fragment he left in MS. The fi-ogmeut is in "Adam's Ajii»les:" "Adam lay beneath the oak. An acorn dropiKxi into his hand, llis world-i-cading eye dwelt uptm the seed, lie saw forests. IIo heard the ham- mere of shipwnghts ; and he saw the oaks, bowed into ships, take water, bi-oasting it like swans. And then, ^i-ith somewhat of the saddest look, ho saw Uoratio Nulson smitten on the deck." Between 1851 and his death, my father made three more appeaiunces on the stage, viz., •«'ith " liotiieil from Business," " St. Cupid ; or Dorothy's Fortune," and " The Heart of Gohl." In 18j4 he resolved not to write again for the theati-e. I believe the happiest time of my father's life was when, feeling that he had made his giound good, he could take his occasional leisure ; pass his summers in the countrj* — and when ha\-ing had successes at both the patent houses with " The Bride of Ludgiite," "The Bubbles of the Day," "The Prisoner of War," &c., he brought a- five-act comedy to the Haj-market in 1Mb. For about twelve years of his life — and these the last — he enjoyed the fniit of forty years of as hard fighting as ever man, who took up literatiire as a profession, could know. The long summer he spent in an ivj'-covered cottage, near Heme xxiv INTRODUCTORY MKMOIR. Bay, appeared to open a bright way into the futm c. Tic enjoyed that holiday like a boy. He was in the orchard while the dew ■was on the grass : ho played upon the haycocks. lie was known in the Bay, for his lively talk with the bathing folk. In the villages round about, ho would watch the sports, and laugh as though he had just come out of school. Ever}- muiute, the beauty of the country enraptured him. lie would pic-k a beetle fi'om a rose bush, and laWng it upon the buck of his Imud, would watch it for half an hour ; and then put it upon the Hower again. As he sat reading, or taking his claret under the trees with a friend, he would raise his face to the heavens, and draw in the pure air, and vow that the day was exquisite. IIo prided him.self on his botanical knowlrnlge ; and went from bu.sh to bush, and flower to flower, absolutely revelling in the nature alxjut him. lie would turn suddenly ujwn the nearest companion — " And this, sir, is "within five hours of Fleet Street I" The thought seemed to sadden him. He had spent nearly all his life hardly clear from London smoke : but he was never of London. lie hated the stony streets and noisy thoroughfares : and so, rich or poor, he generally contrived to stow his household gods somewhere whore there was, as ho said, "a bit of green." He once took a cottage in the Vale of Health, towards the end of one of the severest Decembers I can c;ill to mind ; and was surprised to find that the family did not entirely approve of the measiu-e. His Kentish walks suggested to him some of his best papers, and they were written in the ivy-covered cottage, after rambles. In this way the article on " The Reculvers," that on " The Old Man at the Gate," and " The Two Windows," were written— and printed in his lUuniinated Magazine, which he was then publishing. With his pet spaniel, and his stick, he would stroll off slowly between the Kentish hetlgerows — and sit, to watch the sea, from the mined churchyard of the Eeculvere. He could see the breezy entourage of his old home at Shecmess — and past these two turrets he sailed, when he brought back those maimed INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xx» men from Watei-loo. Sometimes he -would dip down to the valley behind, past King Ethelbort's gateway. " The Two Windows " were seen on a simimer's day. We had strollod tlirough the lovely English village from which Iltmie Bay gets its name, and had gone through the churchyard to tho park beyond. The rise and swell of tho iinoly-timbcred land, dotted with sheep, and white and yi-llow witli daisies and butter- cups, woke all my father's enthusiiusm. lie liiigfrcnl. and turm-d about — and could not feast enough on tho beauties before him. As we turned the angle of a clump of trees, a long, low whito building appeared, on the brow of the hill. •'There's a lovely situation!" said my father — " WTiat a view ! " View ! There wa.s a long blank wall — stretched to the beauties of one of the luviliL'st sjiots in lovely Kent — with two little windows, about large enough for a hen to ]>iiss through, lie wondered what the strange building could be. " The House," said a passing rustic. It was the workhouse : and the humane authorities, had denied the j)oor the comfort of this view of the meiidow, with Ueme Church in the distance, and the blue sea beyond. My father turned abruptly back fi-om his walk, declaring agsiin and again, that it was tho most detestable bit of wickedness ho could remember. He sent me back to sketch the scene, and the lightless wall: and ho wrote "The Two Windows" for the " Illuminated Magazine," while I put my sketch u]x»n wood. I remember the fei-vour of the concluding lines : "If God punish man for sins, as man punishes man for poverty, woe to the sons of Adam!" But the chief result of the summer in Kent — among the wheat and hops, and under the noble chestnuts, and amid the Saxon peasantry : the result of endless solitaiy i-ambles through Bunny villages, under creaking signs where steaming horses were slaking their thirst ; and past doorways where bacon could be espied smoking in the chimney corners ;— of days spent with xxvi INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. u i-irh. Kentish farrarr hard by — who may have sat for the Hennit of Bcllyfulle, and whose homestead soemod to be greasy with the plcnt}- there and thereabouts — was the sunny book, which my father hehl cliief among all hia works, as the truest fragment of him he had managed to throw off — " The Chit)nicle8 of Clfivemook." Tlie Chronicles aiv* a fragment of wluit it was originally intoiulcd by tho author they should be ; but the fmgment, it was his belief, had a hotter chance of reaching the hands of future generations, than the rest of his works. All the qualities of his genius shine their biightest here. The study of. benignant nature is rich and rare. Sunday in the countrj' is a picture of peace and beauty and .simple worsliip, away fitjm " the bemum- mying wrappers of scrt." The legends have "purposes" ir tliem, from which the author, being a man in downright earnest v,i{]\ the world, could nev»'r long wean his fancy. The piiinting of ■" Tlic Gratis," is in s\inV>eams. Tlie Hennit is damai-tino was paramount in 1848, intending to wiitc a Maries of articles on the jtspoct of I'aiis in Eovolution, and on tlio state of ]HU-ties. lie was accomjianied by a secretarj- ; Mr. Gt>oi ge Ilodder. A most imjKjrtant series of papere were to bo producwl. My father caiTieaper that the projected series should have a marked success : but ho coiUd not vanquish his rei)ugnance for the work — the fact being that he was totally unfitted for it. He was angry with himself, and could not bear an allusion to the subject. I mention this as illustrative of the way in which he observe*! : not by eye, and note-book, and to oi-der, and with the ilelibei-ntely proposed object of making copy of what he saw. His reply when some friend stoppeil him in Jennyn -street, and asked him whether he was picking up character, and he answered — "No: but I understand a great deal is lost here" — is suggestive to any man who knew him, of the impatience he xxviii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. would manifest nt the degradation of a faculty to a mec-liauicol operation. Albeit there are men who, ordered to describe the noisy realm of an animal fancier, would begin by counting the haii-8 in the eyelashes of the giunea-j)ig3. In my father's de- scriptions there is the fidelity of the artist, and not that of the camera. ^Vll ho wi'oto — the time once jiast when ho could not choose but write — came to him. I e-\cpi)t, of course, his writing for his own newspaper, and for *' Lloyd's Weekly Paper," his connection with which ho made one of the great successes of hU life. Custom makes comments on passing events natural to tlie pi-actised writer ; and these are distinct and apart from the genius that is in him. This work is a relief to the more exhaustive process of creation. The dream of my father's later days, was to break wit h the work- day life of lileratme, and to t*i)end the close of his career in some sunny jilacc in the .South ; where, at ease and in peace, he might work out one or two ideas that he had long hold floating in his brain ; and thi-ough which he should make his appeal to the judgment of posterity. He had done enough to tire him of the wear and tear of life. I have books full of his notes of his i-eading for these pet ideas, that were to bo worked out far away from London. They are materials thro\s-n i>ell-meU together, that give no clue to the design of the building which they were to deco- rate. They are montiments of i)atient closet-work, to be glanced over by all who value what my father actually accomjilislied, with regret. If he never obtained the settled leisure he anticipated — and that would have enabled him to carrj' out a few of his ambitious projects — at any rate, as I have already observed, he enjoyed about twelve years of absolute prosperity — of welcome change from one new scene to another, beibre he died. He had risen to the position for which he had toiled. He saw himself recognised from one end of the covmtiy to the other. Public invitations flocked to him from all sides. He presided at one or two great ceremonies. He presented the Shak.«peare testimonial to Kossuth He took the chair at an annual soiree of the Bii-- INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxix niinghnm Litonuy Institution. But ho disliked public ap- pearances, and novor cjirod to speak to an audience. On one great occusiou, chooixHl to the echo by a crowded meeting of working men, whoso cause ho had es])OU8cd throughout his public lite ; he muttered a few words, and declared that his heart was too full — he must sit down — ho must be excused. In vain, at a later period of the evening, ])utroni«ing stump orators invited him to make a second attempt. Ho was not equal to a sentence. A deputation of Dinningham working men pre- sented him with an onyx ring : and he could only stammer his thanks. These few es-says proved to him that nature had not fittotl him to shino at de])utation8 nor uixm platforms ; nor to twirl an eye-glass pla\-fully while thuiulers of applau.-iew of him: with the partiality of a son who has gratitude and a loving romembranco in his heart, it is true; but only one placed in the relation of affection in which I stood to him could, with authorit)% imdurtake to diuw a picture sufficiently close to life — not of the author — but of the man. I saw that his sharpness in attack came from a deep heart. It is with a vivid idea of Douglas Jerrold at home, that I should like every reader to make acquaintance with his writings. This idea would explain what is called his bitterness here and there. He was a wit alwaj's and everywhere ; and he wounded — sometimes even his friends. The sudden rush of a witticism that springs from a bright brain to the tongue, and is shot forth because it is a witticism and must fly, must be taken into account. The shaft is void of malice, if it have other poison in it. I can remember dozens of an-ows, pointed as needles, that stung mo ; but they left no scar. In the midst of some of our plea- sant^ist and most genial evenings at "West Lodge, a shaft would fly and hit home. The victim might wince; but all would laugh, iUid tjie victim with the rest, Did these an-ows, so often feathei ed INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxxiii from "Wisdom's pinion," keep a friend from the wit's study fire, wliere the beech-wood crackled, lighting up faces that beamed under the welcome which made them childi-en, for a time, of the familj' ? For a joke which might escape, there would be hours of talk over books, passing literary news, or the political event of the day, or the whimsicalities of the last club night. These friendly meetings happened weekly, year after year ; they travoUei, by monthly chapters, in 'Jerrold's Mapazine,' was the means of giving rue peace of mind for a twelvemoLth. Th se who have ever known what it is to expect a twelvemonth of stmggle and doubts, perhaps dis- appointments, and proliably a tlionsand 'vexations of spirit' in dismal hii:hwa\8 of the battle of life, and who have suddenly seen all this trans- formed into a sunny course for a fair exercise of the energies openetl out before them, can best appreciate the kind and degree of such a service rendered at once, and in so frank and off-hand a manner. The grateful memory of that year's peace of mind is the flower I now send half vjtoss the gluW, to be affectiorately la'd npi n the grave of Donjlas Jerrold. Hail ! and farewell! 'Yale, vale! nos te ordine quo natura permittet eiHjuemur." VOL I. e XXXIT INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. testimony to my fiithor's kindly nature. Ilosaid: " Within theao three years" (writing in 1807) " I have been once or twice his debtor for kind and encouraging 'words, and I would willuigly thiow my little flower. On the verj' few occa-sions upon which I saw him personally — not more than twice or thrice, and undc his o-vra roof — I found liim the most genial, Bincore, and /utlurl^ of men; perfectly simple, a man who looked straight at you« and spoke without an-iere pen$fe — without any of that doublo consciousness which makes the talk of some mi u of talent dis- agieoable — and most thoroughly human. That ' uboui;ding humanity,' which I once said elsewhere is the distinguishing chanicteristic of Mr. Jerrold's writing, shone out conspicuously in all his beha\-iour. It was never necc^sarj-, as it is in convoi-sing with too many, to say, by imj»lication, ' Never mind the book, and the reputation, and the viit, and the wits, and \shat I am thinking of you — am I not a man and a brf)ther ? ' Mr. Je« rold recognised the manhtKxl and the brotherhood .so fully at starting, that there was nothing to be said about it ; and youi- iutercoiu^e with him went smootlily ujx)n its true basis — the natural ' j)ix>- clivity ' of one human ci-eature for another. •• • • His writings are full of a gracious domestic purity, quite distinct from the claptraji of the plaj-wiight or the novelist. The poetrj* that was in Mr. Jerrold has, I suspect, been much undermtod by the general public." I cannot altogether pass over the aspect of my father as "a elubable man." He was a most social man : and in the neighbourhood of Covcnt Garden — the region sacred to social clubs — it wa.s that, when a very young man, he met a num- ber of friends who were clubbed together, in an humble tavern, under the magic name of Shak-speare, each member contributing a poem, essay, or drawing, in the poet's honor. The club was called " The Mulbemes " — and the book in wliich the members' contributions were kept, were — The Mulberry Leaves. The young men were all destined to be heard of in the world — save poor William Godwin (the gieat Godwin's sou) INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxxv who died young, suiitten with cholera; but who had, as my father testified — "an uufohkd genius worthy of his name." WTien Elton, the actor, one of the Mulberries, was drowned ; my father took occasion to produce one of Elton's mulbeny leaves fts illustmtive of his "graceful intelligence." Ho then said of tho Mulbenios : "The society in wliich those poems wore pro- duced, is now dis.«*olved. In its early .strength it numbered some who, what«'ver may have been, or maj- yet bo thinr success in life, cannot look back to that society of kindnnl thoughts and sympathising hoj»es, without a sweetened memorj* — ■without tho toucJies of an old adV-ction. My early boy-friend, Lnmau lilanchard ; and Konny Meadows, a dear friend too, whoso names have become musicul in the world's ear, were of that society — of that knot of wise and jocund men, then unknown, but gaily struggling." The Mulbem' Club blo.^jsomcd into tho Shaksj)caro Club — and, wiUi great names on its list — died. My father con- tribtitcHl " Shiikspoare's Cnib-treo " to the leaves, and on rare oc- casions, whi'U tho friends were few, woiUd sing it, in that soft, sweet voice, lu> had to tho last. He \\Toto other things also for " the leaves." Tho theme over tempted him — to essay some new and (juaint tapesf ry work on tho beloved poet — now it was ' ' Shak« spearo at Bankside," and now ' ' Shakspearo in China." I can well imagine how his mind was set to music, and winged with dreams, when he read this passage fi-om Godwin's "Essaj'on Sepulchi-es." — "I cannot tell that the wnsest mandarin now living in China is not indebted for part of his enevgj- and sagacity to Shakspeare and Milton, even though it sho\UJ liappen that he never heard of their names." This subtletj- was exactly suited to treatment by my father. Other clubs succeeded the Mulberries. The coterie of literaiy men and artists who were struggling together ' ' through difii- cnltics to fame" felt that "the bow should be sometimes loose." Their clubs were merry meetings of wise men : and many wise heads still meet, to play like boys — and then go home to the studio again, the better for the laugh and the xxxvi INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. eong. In all classes this loosoning of the bow is sought. My father, true to his life, tried to ext<»n(l club luxuries to the many. He founded the "WTuttington Club.* Gartered notabili- ties delight to have a stoak, from a gridiron within view, and to diink from pewter pots, and smoke long clay pipes. The " Hooka and Eyes" and '' Our Club " were clubs, which, in later life, my father founded : and ho was the life and soul of the wisely meiTy meetings of men, to meet whom, a traveller making notes, would give half ho possessed. lie was welcome, as much for the oveiflowing humunity and the boy-freshness that were in him, as for the flashes of his wit and the brilliancy of his con- versation. He brought fresh air with him into the room. Pi-ofes-sor Masson said of him : "There was, perhaps, no con- vereation in which Mr. Jerrold took part, that did not elicit from him half a dozen good things. To recollect such good things is proverbially difHcult ; and hence many of Jeirold's died within the week, or never got three milas from Covent Garden. Some, however, lived, and got into circulation — u little the worse for wear — in the provinces ; and not a few have been exported. * At the opening, after a ile8|>er8te effort, he nerveJ him-elf to take the chair at the first niettinp, and to wy:— "If we l^ave clutw cimposed, I »ay SHV, of canes with gold heids — or, if not alway.s with gold heads, at least with plenty of gold about them — if we have clubs of nobles, where- fore not clubs of clerks ? For ray own part, there are lions and tigers, even in the highest heraldry, for which I h.ave certainly not more respect than for the cat, the legendary cat of Kichatd Whitlington. Nevertht-ieas, the ]>roposed institution of oar club has, in two or three quarters, been criticised as au impertinence — as almost a revolutiomry movement, dis- respectful to the vested interests of worshipful society. It has really been inferred that the social advantages contemplated by our institution would he vulgarised by being roao. Ho never put his hat on without wishing it was a wide- awake, shielding' liim fix)m an Italian sun, or shading his eyoa on the Nile. At one time ho had a pnyoct for buying .Sark, — he was so enraptured with its wildne-ss. " I am hero," ho wrote to Mr. John Forster, "in this most wild, most soliUuy, and most beautiful place. No dross — no fashion — no respoctability — nothing but beauty and grumlour, with tho sea rolling and rooiing, at timos, 'twooa me aikd Fleet Street, as though I should never walk there again." In tho winter of 1806, and the Hj)nng of 1857, what projects of tnivel to bo done in the coming sum- mer, were discuss^^-d in tho snug study ! Nice, I'ortugal, liuuie I wore to be visit^^l. Fri«'nd l^ron do Fom'.stor's boat was to roi'oive a laughing coini»any, when the summer cumc. My father had been ill recently — and dtrsponding — but ho was better — and it wa.s spring. Tlio birds chatterwl at his dressing-room windows: and the buds wero bursting I Ho turned a gay face upon life ; and laugliing said, again and again — "a ninn was exactly as old as he felt." Yet he hail rcceivelled upon his lawn : saw his friends — and he had many — and was never in hajtpier circumstances. It was in the last week of May that he accompanied Mr. Dickens to a dinner given by Mr. W. H. Rus.«cll, at Greenwich. He was ailing then : but he attributed his illness to the smell of INTKODUCTORV MKM«iIR. xxxix tho new paint on tho gai-dcn steps loading fi-om his stndy. lie battled with his weakness, as ho walki'd to the bout, with Mr. r>iokens and Mr. Itussell. "I huvo a lively recollection of him," m Mr. Dickens wrot*' to me, "stumping about Elm-tree Court (with his hat in one hand, and tho other puBhinf> his hair back), laughing in his heartiest manner, at a ridiculous remembrance wo hiul in coininiiu, which I ha«l prescnte«l in some exaggerated light, to divert him. We found our boat, and went down the river, and lo<.>ked at tho Ivoviuthan which wu.s building, and tulk<'ointing his own time for coming to see me there. A week aflorwaixis, another passenger in tho railway cajiiago in which I wua on my way t«) London llridge, opened his moniing pajKr, and said, * Douglas Jt-rndd is dead I ' " It was but too true. He breathed his last, in our anns, at noon, on tho 8th day of June, 1857. To tho last ho was calm, and resigned ; with most Christian courage took leave of all ; and left directions — and died, saj-ing — seeing txs all about his bod — " Tliis is as it should be." We laid him in Norwood Cemeter}', on a sxinny day in June (loth) near the grave of his boy-friend Laman Blanchurd, who had gone before him : and in one yeai" and eleven months aftei"R'ai-ds, we laid at his side, the remains of her who had sweetened and sustained him through his life: the best ■wife I have ever seen in this world — and a mother whose loving eyes, no worldly pleasui-es could ever turn, for one moment, fix)m her children. It now remains for me to leave this collected edition of the works which my father selected to represent him in the Uterature of his country, to the judgment of the public. I most cordially thank his old and dear fiiends Messrs. Bradbiuy and Evans, for having given me an opportunity of putting the brief itory of xl INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. his litei-ary life with his wiitings; because I ftfl that the reader'* knowledge of his story is necessary to the full eiijoj-ment of his writings. AVhere I have ventuied upon criticism, the ven- ture has been made in the hope that it might lead to a know- ledge at once true and close, of the subject of my memoir. BLA>:ciLUiD JEEliOLD. ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. VOL. I. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. jjURIXG the progivss of tlic original pulilicntion of "St. Giles and St. Jaines " — which it is lioped is reuderetl somewhat less faulty in the present revisevl edition — certain critics would charge the writer with a cleaving desire to despoil the high for thepi-otit of the low ; with a besetting tendency to mum as a sort of morul Rohiu Htx)d, stripping the rich of their virtues that only the veriest poor might strut in the plunder. In reply to this, I will content myself \vith saying that I somewhat contideutly await tlie 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 tiie victim of an ignorant disregard of the social claims of tlie \)Oor 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 diil and darkness. Since the original appearance of tliis 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 hximanising sympa- thies. I will only add that upon an after revision of this story, I cannot think myself open to the chai'ge of bedizening St. Gilea B 2 4 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION'. .it the cost of St. James ; or of making Ilog 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 sj)ace of years — is an ojiportunity tempting to tlie 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 lus after vocation. I will not, at least, in these pages, yield to the inducement ; further than to say that, sclf- helperuaching mi'Tnight, when a woman s^it on a duor-stej) in a I^>nd<>n street. Was she sleeping, or was she another victim of the icy season ? Her head had fallen backward against the d(.)or, and her face shone like a white stone in the moonlight. There w:ia a terrible history in that face ; cut and lined as it was by the twin-workers, vice and misery. Her temples were sunken ; her bn.)W wrinkled and pinched ; and her thin, jagged mouth, in its stony silence, breathed a frightful eloquence. It was a hard mysteiy to wurk 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 w.is motionless — breathlejis. And now, a quick, trij^- piug footstep sounds in the deserted street ; and a woman, thinly, poorly clad, but clean and neat withal, approaches the do<.>r. 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 scemetl, in truth, the ethg}' of death. In a moment, recovering herself, she stooped towards the sitter, and gently shook her. " Stone- cold — frozen ! Lord in heaven ! that his creatui"es should jxrish in the street ! " And then the woman, with a piercing shriek, called the watch ; but the wateh, ti-ue to its rejmtation for soiinci substantial sleep, answered not. " Watch — watch ! " screamed the woman with increasing shrillness ; but the howUng of the midnight wind was the only response. A moment she fiaused ; then looked at what she deemed the dead ; and flinging her arms about her. flew back along the path she had trod. With scai'cely breath to do common credit to her powers of scolding, she drew up at a watch-box, and addressed hereelf to the peaceful man within. " Why, watch — here ! a pretty fellow ! — |>eople pay rates, and — watch, watch '. — there s a dead woman — dead, I tell ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 7 j'ou — watch — pay rates, and are let to die, and — watch — watch — watch ! " And still she soreaxued, 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 ciNnl guardians. The watchfiian was coiled up for unbroken repose. He had endently settled the matter with himself to sleep until called to breakf;tst by the tradesman who, at the corner post, spread his hospitable table for the early wayfarers who loved saloop. Beside.'!, the watchman was at le^ hat, and opening his two small, swinish eyes, looked at the intruder. "Well! after that I hope you are awake — and after that " " AVhat 's the matter ? " asked the watchman, feeling that the hour of saloop was not arrived, and surlily shaking himself at the disajipointment, " What 's the matter ? " " The matter ! Poppy-head ! " " Any of your bail language, and I shall lock you up." And this the watchm;ui said with ijuite the air of a man Mho keeps his word. " There 's a woman froze to deatli," 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 creatui-es ai'e 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 f.ice, with about tive-and- thirty years lightly laid upon it — and closing one eye, as if the act gave peculiar significance to what he said, slowly obsei-ved, syllable bj- syUable, "Any more of your imperance, and" — here he took an oath, confi^rming it with a smart blow of his stick upon the pavement, " and I 'U lock you up." The woman matle 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, prolongeii, and carried forward ; and small bye- lajies gave forth a wooden voice — a voice that cried to all the 8 ST. GILE:S AND .ST. JAME3. astounded streets, "Jii.stice is awake I " And then l.Tntem after luntem flinimered in the nifrht : one lanteni advanciii'r witli a .sober, a considerate pace ; another, with a .sort of flutter ; another, danciu? Hke a jack-o'-lantem over the snow. And so, lantern after lantern, witli w.itchnien behind, came and clustereii the ]>ave- ment, like indijipiant virtue, imi)atit'nt of a wrong. " What 's the row ? Is it her 1 " and he was alxjut to lay hia civil hand upon the woman. Ev»My watchman asked hi.s separate question ; it seemed to Ihj his separate right : and Drizzle, as though respecting the privi- lege of hia brethren, hea.nl them all — yes, every on^ — before he answered. Ho then replietl, very measuredly — "A woman is froze to death." " AVhat I agin ? " criet. " Froze to death ?" cried Drizzle dojibtingly, holding his lantern to the bloome hither, stati-s- man ; you who live within a j)arty circle ; you who nightly fight some miserable fight ; continujilly strive in some selfii^h struggle for power and jjlace, considering men only aa tools, the merest in.strumeuts of your aggnindi.-^ement ; come here, in the wintry street, and look uj)on God'-s image in it^i babyhood ! Con.sider this little nutn. Are not creatures such as these the noblest, grandest things of earth ? Have they not solemn natun-s — are they not subtly touched for the highest pui-jxises of liuman litV- f Come they not into this world to grace and dignify it ? There is no spot, no coarser stuff in the pauper flesh Wfore you, that indi- cates a lower nature. There is no felon mark upon it — no natural formation indicating the thief iu its baby lingers — no inevitable bhisphemy upon its lips. It lies before you a fair, unsullied tiling, fresh from the hand of G04.I. Will you, without an effort, let the great fiend stamp his fiery brand upon it ? Shall it, even in its sleeping innocence, be ma«le a trading thing by misery and vice ? A creature borne from street to street, a piece of living merchandise for mingled begg:ay luid crime ? Say ; what, with its awakening soul, shall it learn ? What lessons whereby to pass through life, making :in item in the social sum ? Why, cunuiug will be its wisdom ; hyjxjcrisy its truth ; theft its natural law of self-preservation. To this chikl, so nurture*!, so taught, your whole code of morals, nay, your brief right and wrong, are writ in stranger figures th:m Eg_\'ptian hieroglyphs, and — time passes — and you scourge the creatui-e 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 eveiy turn and variatiini of the mai'kets, abroad and at home. But there aro 10 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. state-smen yet to come ; statesmen of nobler aims — of more lieroic .■iction ; teachers of the people ; vindicators of the uiiivoi-sal dij^niity of man ; ajmstles of tlie great social truth that knowledge, which is the spiritual liglit of God, like his material light, was made t.som ; and j)res.sed it to her cheek. As she did so, she tunieoor just us much as they think o' meat and 'tatos, — as only things to live upon." And still the workhouse bell rang a comfoilless accompaniment to the watchmiui's indignation. " Now, I know it ; I could swear it " — cried Drizzle — " they 're every one on 'em awake ; they cant be otherwise ; wide awake, and tlanking how precious nice their blankets is, and how cruel cold it is here. Yes ; they hear the l>ell — they do ; tln-y can't help it ; and thoy 6Jiy to themselves, there's some i)oor devil out.side th.it 's frost-bit and going to die, and wants a hot bed, and a dose of brandy, and all tliat, to bring the life into him again ; luid he won't have it. No — its \):\st the houi-s, iuid he must come agin to-morrow. That 's wliat the vai-mint sjiy" — cried Drizzle — " that 's what they 8;iy to them.selves, and then they go oH", and sleep all the sweeter for knowing it. It 's as good its 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 o the watch-house." " And I '11 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 ? " asked Diizzle, suddenly tender. •^ She '11 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 Di-izzle. " Folks needn't steal things o' that sort, I 'm sure ; the market 's overloaded with 'em ; they 're to be had for nothin', and thank 'ee too. So you '11 take care of it till the mother comes round ? "' " To be sure, I will, poor dear heart ! " answered Mrs. Aniseed, hugguig the child closer. " And your name 's Aniseed, eh ? Yes ? And you live in Short's Gardens ? All right : to-moiTow morning bring the baby to the watch-house. We 've nobody to uui"se it there, neither wet nor diy." This touch of humour was not lost upon the watchmen, for they acknowledged it with a loud laugh. Then one of them 12 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. CHAPTER 11. It was past twcWe when Mrs. Aniseed reached her abiding- place in Short's CJardens : a place, whoso name gave warranty of by-gone rusticity ; of a time when St. Giles really broathed in the Fields ; when blossoming hawthorns offered incense to the saint ; when linnets, building in the furze, sang matin hymns to the protector o( the leper. Many changes has St. Giles beheld : other and better changes are, we hope, to come. Here, in the fields, was good St. Giles installi^d the physician and the comforter of leprosy. Here was he known, and j)rayed to as intercessor between Heaven and suffering man. Disease, the bom thing of dirt and poverty, knelt at liis shrine and begged for health. And yi-are jwussed on, and the disea.se abated. The plague of human kind — arrestetl by human knowledge and energy — was smitten down, and the lej)er became a sutftTtr UTiknown. And then St. Giles gathered about him the children of poverty. He became the titular siiint of rags and s<|ualor. The clestitute and the criminal took refuge under his protecting wings. The daily h^-jiocrite on crutches owned St. (JiU-s for liis jirotector ; cheats and mumpers of every sort — the town brigands, that with well-aimed falsehoods make waj'faring compassion stand and deliver — dwelt about the shrine of St. Giles, and lied and cheated, staived 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 bom evil, disease ; agiun, 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 reputatioD 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 IjTng, and thie^■ing. 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. 13 a sort of half-way house, where he ofiFered the final bowl to the Tybui-n-bouud felon. St. Giles was poor, anil was assorted with the gjillows. 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 cleiinly saint. His cellars, where his infiint votaries are begotten for crime, and nurtured for the gaol, are to be destroyed — filled up again. The demon tj^jhus is to be killed with sweet air and fresh water. The brotherhood of St. Giles are no longer to be of tho Blessed Order of Filth ; they are to wear linen, and wash their hands and faces ! To our storj'. 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, Susiin, 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 fi-om a ruin of a pipe, he con- tinued to stai-e at the coals and talk : " If I didn't think some- body had run away with you. I 've been home thi.s 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 sometliing for you, Jem ;" said his wife, seating 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 upUfted eyebrows, " Wliere did you get it 1" " I found it, Jem," said the woman. " Found it ! Well, next time, when luck 's upon you, I hope you '11 find something better." And then, 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 ? " asked Mrs. Aniseed, and her eyes softened. " Why, it 's like all babies," answered Jem. " I never see any dilTercnce in 'em : all the same, like Dutch cheeses." 14 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. " Ha ! Jem," said Mrs. Aniseed, " you 've never been a mother." " No," said JeoL " Else you 'd have seen that it 's aa like our dear lost Dick as one angel's like another" " Not a bit — nut a bit," said Jem in words ; but hid 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, »tuue-ut the room, ami soon prejannl for it a sufficing 8ujip«r. Few were the minutes, anoon in hi.s mouth alrea*ly. Humph ! a lx)y is it 1 And what, after idl, Jklrs. Aniseed, what business had you there / You know I don't like it — and you trill go." Now tliis remoiuitrancc upplieil to the visits of Mrs. .inster sister of the linkman's wife flnuriHlud as undt for St. tiilcs's, and all its dwellers ; and on certain occasions had not scrupled to express her wonderment that her sist^jr, " who after all wjus not sich a very plain gal," should have ever tiiktn up with so low a husbiiud as a nasty linkmiui. She h:id st>mehow comi»arelaced the baby in them. " Well, he is a capital little fellow," cried Jem. "IIjuj he done Bucking, I wonder ? " "To be sure he has," averred Mrs. Aniseed on her own respon- sibility. "A lively little dog, isn't he ?" and Jem danced the child upon his knee, and snajijw*! his fingers at it, and the child leapt up, and laughewunlowd, and in all sons o' places in the streets; yes, a schuolmaater tejiching little tliiufpj — and huw they do learn, to be sure — no UiUor thaji that ; " and here Jem, with iiupreasive action, held ujj a wire to.i8ting-furk. " I never heiird of hiia in the pariah," said Mr3. Aniseed ; " what schoolmaster do you mean I " " The devil, Susiin, the devil : I Ve seen him amonjT the children, honis, tail, ainl all — ha ! quite as nat'nil aa he 'a shown in any j)antomime — I've seen Mm Jis 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, luid a smackin' his mouth like a fellow as sees a hearty meal, and wanUs to fall to. I say it, Susan, and I '11 stand to it — it 'a a shame they 're lx»ni." " Won't it Ik? a ble,-«ent them as know her give her shockincf words. So here 's the oliilti, .Jem, ;i beg;j^ing of you, with all its little might " — anil here the womiiii put the bciby'a hnnds together — " to take it, and to du all you can fur it, and to be sure tl»at our little, undt-r .such a.blfssing, will never grow less ; aj>d he)"e it i.s — isn't it like our ih-ar Dick, Jem ? — here it is, a i>niying you to take jjity on it, and love it, and be a lather to it. And you will, Jem 1 — you will ?" cried the woman, the teara coming into her eyes, as Bhe held the infant towards her hu.shand. Now Bright Jem wa.s in face and tigure as uncomely a lump of liuinaiiity a.'^ is onlinarily met with in any one day's travel. His flat broail f;ice was the colour of ancient ixirchmont, thinly sprinklt^l with deep pf>ck -marks. Hi.s mouth was cajuicioua its a horse-shoe. Sliort brush-l>ristle8 thatelie*! his head ; and his eye-brows, clubbing togi-ther, CT>uld not have nnistered fifty hiiira between them. Ilis sm;ill, deep-set black eye.s — truly blaek, for there seeuie*! no white to them — werv the lamps that lighted up with quick and various expn-s-Mon this n»tv»t dithcult countinance; and, in tin* present instance, did certaiidy appear as though they twinkhil with a tire, direct from the heart. Jem wa« an ugly m.ui. He knew it. This truth luid been so fre(|U»'ntly, so earnestly, so jilainly impre.ssitl u]K>n him, that — slow aa most men are in such belief — he could not but Wlieve it. More : we believe that he was quite contented Nvith the cretnl. There are times, however, when ugliness may steal a lX)k the creature in his arms, aiid hugged it foniUy, nay, vigorously. And now is young St. Gile-s snatched from the lowest round of the ladder — (can it Tx? Jacob's laddt-r that, resting on the mud of a cellar, Ls still to lead to heaven ?) — Now is he caught from direst destitution ; from the teaching of hj'poerisy, and craft, and crrme^ to have alx)Ut him comf nts — though small comforts it is true ; to be no longer shown, the image of poverty — a thing of human flesh 02 80 8T. GILKS .*;D ST. JAMES. anil Llood to extort lialfi)eiice upon ? Is he really to be promoted from the fuul, dark vault of a loathsome lane — sjivage bt-jists 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 ^luggs, of St. James's-wiuare, looks down upon from her 8e!" cried the first wonuui, and was falling in a heap upon the rioor, when Jem rapitUy i>laeing the child in his wife's anus, caught the intruder. Annise*!, excited beyond her strength, she pointed to tlte child, trielomatic precision. " But if she 's the mother," asked ilrs. Aniseed, " for what should slie lend the child ? " " For what should she lend the child ! " crowed the old woman, looking very contemptuously at her catechist — " for what .should Hue lend, — why in the name of blessed heaven for what else, if ot, to go a begging with it I '' ST. GILES. AN'D ST. JAMKS. 21 In fine — for wliy should we protract the scene? — young St. Giles, the unconscious baby beggar, was bonie back in triumph to Hamp- shire Hog Lane, CHAPTER III. It would be tedious work f«ir the reader, did we chronicle every ewut 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 south, th.it BIX. years and a h;df ; f ir how nntch liad St. Giles ncconipli.^hed in it ! What a stride had he made in existence, jKussing over cliildisli days — childish ignorance ; exoni]it, by fortune of his birth, from all the puerilities, the laugliing thoughllf.ssue.xs of babyhood. He was now a suckling, and now a dw;u-fed man. There wjis no dallying jtause, no middle sjiaee 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 \'ioleiice, to know life. He saw not the lovely thing life, through gold>^n shadows, roseate hues ; he looked not at it through the swimming eyes of childhood ; a glorious thing to be ajiitroaclied through what seem beauties numberless, that gradually fade and fade as we jidvance uik.u the green uplands of time, unveiling to us hy degrees the cold, hard, naked truth — the iron image, life. St. Giles haystery of mysteries ta'ight within. And what prophecies — with 22 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. what "sweet breath composed" — were uttered to his glorifica- tion I What a man he would make! What a blfssinf,' he would prove to his begt-tU-i-s ! What a tn-a-sure to the world at large ! And so, young St. James, fed with the sweetest and the best, clothed with the softest luid the richest — fomlled, ki.-^scd, caressed — was, in truth, a glorious crt-atuie. There was hajipiiiess, deli- cate beauty, in his soft puik and white cheek — innocence, uitelli- geiice, in his large, laughing eyes. All he knew of the world w;w, that it wa.s one large play-place fdled with many-sorted toys ; with battledores, hunuaing-toi)s, ami rockiug-hoi-seti. Compai-ed with young St. Giles, how very ignorant ! In something more th.au the six years elapsed since our last chajiter, .St. (iiles had made more profitable u-se of time. But then he had had the 8har])et>t teachers — and so many opjwrtuuities ! Hunger and cold were his tutors, ;uid rapid juid many are the degrees of human knowledge conferred by them, alWit thoir scholars are not prone to brag of their learning. Young St. Jiuues wiis boundeen to the universe. There was no mys- tery in him, none at idl. And then he would say, glowing at tiuie.'^ with a stnuige eloquence, " What a glorious thing it would be for the world, if ever)' man made his nmihu — whatever that mullin might be — in the open light of heaven ; iuid not in a cuj)- board, a hole, a corner ! It w;is making mutlins in secret, and in darkness, that made three parts of the miserj' of mankind." When ]H.'ople heai'd Mr. Caj)stick discoui-se after this fjushion, they would conriilentially declare to one imother, 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 (lisgnice. True it was, there wjts a pompousness, a swagger, an atlected contempt of the people with whom he turned the penny, that gave some warranty for these opinions. Notwithstanding, Iklr. Capstick, with all his consetjuence, all his misiuithmpy, — and he wore his hatred of mankind as he would have worn a ditmiond ruig, a thing at once to be put in the best light and to be very proud of — was a great favourite. The cellai"s of St. Giles's echoed his praises. He was, in his way, a great benefactor to his poorest neighbours. " You see, Marj' Anne," he would say to his wife, *' what a blessing there is in com. 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 natui-e, his own particular nature included. 24 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Siicli was Iklr. Capstick — such was the self-important muflRn- makc'i- — wlioni we liave now to introduce to the reader. Tht- tiiue was about two o'clock on a f^sty Iklai'ch afternoon ; and Mr. ( 'ajv stick stood erect beliind hi.s counter, evidently stning for some important task. Tliere was a weight of meaniu'.; in his hroad, wliite face ; and a big black cap, selected it would seenx witli an eye to the picturesque, impending over his brow, imparted to it a severity not to be lost upon vulgiir behoKlers. Having thnist his hands and half his amis into his breeches )>ockets — as though to place hini.sclf firmly on his centre — the mulHn-maker proceeded to interrogate a child before him, speaking very loud, ;uid frowning very- signififantly the while. The child, reader, was young St.Giles. You k'ft him when he was a nui-sling ; and the W>y man stands before you. He is puny and -k eyes, now looking bjtshfulness, and now brightening witii im])udence — his voice, now coaxing, and now drawling — jji-ove him to be an almost equal m.atch for his l)urly questioner, the clever, poiDj/vus, world-knowing muflin-makcr. " So ; you are the little dog that came begging of me in Bow- Btreet ? " growled Capstick. " I 'm the worry dog, sir," answered St. Giles, in no way daunteil by Capstick's thunder. " Don't you know that lK)ys oughtn't to lieg? Don't you know that T cnuld have sent you to gaol for l>egging ] Eh? Don't you know that ? " asked the magnilict-nt muirm-maker very loudly. " Yes, sir ; I knows it, sir," replied the child, with a wondei-ful knowledge of law. " And if you know better, why don't you do better ? " said Capstick. " Don't know what bettor is, sir," returned St. Giles, looking down at the flooi", and shuffling his feet. " Humph ! " mused Capstick, and then be somewhat gently asked, " should you like to learn it, my little boy ? " "Isn't it worry hard, sir?" inquired St. Giles. "Don't like hard learning, sir." " ^V^lat, you 've tried, have you ? You have been to school, eh ? You can write a little, St. Giles, and read a little ? " said the muffin-maker. " No, sir ; never went to school ; never had time, sir. Besides, sir, father always used to say, school was so weirv dummy." " Dummy ! "WTiat 's dummy ? " cried the muffin-maker. Young St. Giles leered up in Capstick's fivco, and then gi^'ing himself a twist, as though enjoying the tradesman's ignorance. ST. GILES. AND ST. JAMES. 25 said — " Xut know wh;it duiniuy Ls ! Why, sir, if you ple;ise, duiimiy 'sjfiis/iy " Oh I then you know /?//.■>■/( .? " a-skcil Capstiek. " I know ji.little, sir," rejilied St. Giles, very njcnlestly : "know more, when I grows bigger." "1 dare say you will," cried the munin-niaJier, pityingly, "And tell nie, what '.s your father doing now ? " " He '9 a doing nothing now, sir." '• No ! " said C.ai)stick. " No, sir, — he 's deail," saiil St. Giles ; but whether in sim- plicity or jest, the muflin-maker did not discover. " And you 've never been taught to do anjlhing i Poor little wretch ! " cried Capstiek. It was plain that young St. Giles rejected the compassion of the nndlin-niaker ; for he immediately, with much volubility, as.sei-ted : " I knows a gootl many things, sir ; sometimes, sir, goes singing o' ballads with Tum Bliust : was to have gone with him to-chiy ; only Tom 's so precious hoarse, crying dying speeches yestorstick 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, — " Vou '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 \1 like it, eh ? " " "Wouldn't I though ! " cried St. Giles, playing with his hair and m-inninf'. " Instead of wandering about the streets — and sincrinjr ballads — and going along with boys, that at last may le;id you to be hanged ?" " I saw Bill Filster hung, yesterday," cried St. Giles sharply, and his eyes sparkled as with the recollection of the treat. " Oh Lord ! oh Lord ! " groaned the muffin-maker. " You little rascal ! who took you ?" "Went with some big boys," answered the unabashed St. Giles. " I give Piiil Slant a happle to let me set apon 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 wi-etcU! Poor little animal ! " 26 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. •'I know'd Bill Filster. Once he lived in our Line, Oh, couliln't he .sing a sdug ! He teached me one about Dick Turjjin. Sometimes," aiid St. Giles, bending liis small quick eyes on Cai)stick, "sometime.s people have given me a j>omiy to sing it." The muffin-maker made no reply ; but with a lofly waving of the hand — immely undei-stood by St. (liles — commanded silence. Then did Mr. Capstick walk up and duwnj behind his counter, self-corarauning. 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 maimer in the little villain, too, that promises something better. He's but a babe ! Toor miserable thing ! and what a knowing little ra.scal ! Well, it won't ruin me — thank God! — it can't ruin nie." And then Mr. Caj^tick agivin laid himself aerosa the counter, and sjiid a little stendy to young St. Giles — "Ch, wouldn't I, sir !" cried St. Giles. " I jest would then." '•Well — do you think you coidd sell mutfins?" And this question Mr. Cajwtick put in a low, cautious voice, with his eye turned watchfully tow.uds tlie b.iok jKU'lour, as though he feared some sudden detection. "I shouM like it so!" cried young St. Giles, rubl/mg his hands. Capstick was evidently taken with the Ixiy's alacrity for the profession, for he quickly said — " Then I '11 make a man of you. Yes ; I '11 set you up in business." With these wonls 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 iu 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 biisket and a bell," — for in the days we write of, the mulfin-bell Wiis not unmusical to legislative eai-s — " and two dozen muffins. You '11 get two shillings for 'era, for they 're baker's dozens. Then come here to-morrow ; I '11 Bet you up again, and give you a lumping profit for yourself There's the goods;" juid Cap.stick, with exceeding gravity, ylaced the basket in one hand of St. Giles, and a small metal bell ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 27 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 ^Livor in his gold coach, and tlie trunipetei-a before him, anfl all that ? Now, attend to me" — and the muflRn- niaker bocanie still more grave. "Attend to nie^ There's many a Lord Mayor who never had the start you have — wlio never was so lucky to begin life upon muffins. So, when b:vd boys come alM)Ut you, and want you to idli- antl play with 'oin, and do woi-se than that it m.ay be — just think of the Lonl !^Layor, and what you may come to." " Yes, sir, I will, sir," said young St. Giles, impatient to begin business. " Tlun 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 !" St. Giles ium])ed from the step into the street, and rang his bell, and chiri>ed " mutfins " with the energy of a young enthu- siast. (.'a]Kstick, with coniplacfiicv ujwn his face, looked for a tiiue after the child ; he then muttered — " Well, if it saves the little wi-etch, it 's a cheap j^enn 'orth." " At your old doings again I" cried Mi-s. Cai^stick, who from the dark nook of a back j)arlour had watched, what she often called the weakness of her husl)anon 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 ! ha I I like to spe the villany of life — it does me good. After, as you know, what life 's done for me, it 's meat and diink 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 1)6 served ; for it 's a bad world — biise and bra-ssy as a batl shilling." And with this ostentatious, counterfeit misanthroj)y, woidd the muffin-maker award to his best deeds the worst motives. And ^Ii-s. Cajistick w;is a shrewd woman. She sufl'ered hei"self to seem convinceil 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 vineEcar." " Well, you '11 be ruiueil yovur own way," cried IStrs. Capstick. " And that, Mary Aome," .said the mutfin-maker, " is some com- fort in ruin. AVhen so many people woidd ruin us, it 's what I call a triumjih over the villany of the world to be ruined aft^r one's own pattern." 28 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. •* Good .afternoon, ma'am — why, y(>n 're welcome as the flowers in spring," siiid Mi-s. Capstiek to a wonjan flainilily u tliese tliree months." " Oh lor no ! " said the woman, " that court will be the death of all of U.S." I.«t not the reader iniaifine that Kitty Muggs complained of the tainteil ;iir or contincd limits of .-my court in the ncighl>ourhood. No, indeed ; she spjke of no other court tli.m the Court of St, James. " What I Queen Charlotte will so often make yon t.ake tea with her, eh I" said the niufhn-m.an. with his severest ^neer. "It's too had ; she oughtn't to lie so h.ard upon you." " Oh, there 's no much dining and dining — cabinet dinners, my dear, they call 'em — for they .alw.nys e.at UHxst when they 've most to do, — that I might as well be ui 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 Cap.stick ; "there 's a good deal to be learnt at a play, if fools will learn anything.'' "Oh! a tiddle'.s end Ujwn learning. I go for a nice deep trageter 's only got to catch the king in a good humour to do anytliing with liim. I tell you what do," s^iid Kitty, as struck by a brilliant thought : " send in a couple of dozen muiiins to-morrow, and I '11 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 ha^'ing a master in what they call a cabinet ? There 's nothing like working up "tmls, Mi\ 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 fts proud as a peacock with a Sunday taU. I covdd have got hilft 30 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. —ah ! T don 't know wliat I couldn't have got him— only he 'd never let me lusk for it. lla. ! if my foolish sister hadn't married, as I may s;iy, in the gutter, she might have been quit« as well off as me." "She seems veiy happy, for all that," 8aiml>s who clKK)se to stare into them, — driven the man to the gl:i»is of his own mind. AVith such small 8)icrifice, he might have been a i)hilo9opher. Thus considered, how mjuiy a coxcomb may l>e within an inch of a sjige ! Time, there was jiu age when wise men — at least a few of them — ^gloritieeauty, the older it grows the more it lays on the paint. And the sum juid end of this swelling ])aragra]jh is this. If, O reatler ! you are young and Kdieve youi-self handsome, avoid the i»eril of beauty. Think of Narcissus, and — cut off your nose. Onlv :ui inch ! And now let us descend to the hearth and home of liright Jem. Mrs. Aniseed still shone, in comfortaltle looks, at the fire-side. Her face w:is a little thinner, a htile longer; but time had touched her as though, for the good heart that was in her bosom, he loved her. A thu-d person — a visitor — wiis pre-sent : a woman of any age. Her face seemed bloodless — white a.s chalk — formed in sharp out- line. She was jworly drest, — and yet it was pLiin she aimed at a certain flow and ampUtude of costume that should reileem her from among the vulgar. Her head was armed with a white stitf muslin cap, frilled and pointed : it seemed a part of her ; a thing grovving upon her, like the crest of some sti-auge bird. She sat motionless, with her anus crossed, Uke 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 V)e, purposely le;ives them for a while as century jx)sts of a pjust age. Miss Canaiy — such was her name — was very poor ; nevertheless, she had one sustaining comfort, 82 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMKS. which — asthouiili it wore a conlial — she took t«i her heart twenty times .1 l the gigu'ling of holiday maid.s. The ilignity of her uttenuico, her stately bearing, had some years jkujI obtained for lier the name of I.«*idy (,'anary An«l .she deseived it. For .she offered apple.s, onuigi-s, cider, and a bill of the pliy, a.s though .slie really invited the gods to the fruit of the ^e^^|^erill<:s, to tlie vei-y choices: sort of nectar, ainl a new j)oem by Aj»<>llo. There was no solicitaliou in her tone, — but a sort of tli.sciplined conilescen- siou ; juid she tot>k the money for her commoresses for a night), — to the po.s.se.saing idea Uiat "she wjis born a laily ; and nolxjily could deprive her of that." It waK this f;Uiiily priik — from what family she rose and decluied she never toKl — that now engaged her in, we fear, an unequal controversy with T.right Jem ; his wife, oddly enough, taking no j)art in the debate, but sittiir; at the fire, now smiling and now nodtUng commendation of either deserving jiarty. " No, Mr. James, no, 1 tell you, I was bom a lady, and I couldu't do it," said Miss Canary. " You ai-e a verj' good man, a very kiud creature, Mr. Aniseetl ; but excuse me, you don't know what high life 's made oC '' Not all made o' sugar, I d.are say," said Jem, "no more than our life 's all made o' mud." " But I ought to know ; for I tell you again, I was bora a lady," Ciied the playhouse Pomona. ''Nonsense," said Jem. " I tell you. ^Dss Canary, there isn't sich a thing as a bom ladv in the world." " \\'hy ! you never, Mr. James I " and Miss Canary was scan- dalised at the heresy " Born lady I " repeated Jem, laughingly ; and then raoA^ng his chaii' towards his disputant, he touched her niittened ami with las l>il>e, s;iYiug — " Look nere, 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 yon allow ? And fur that reason — now :ell me this. — for that reason is her little RT. r!TT-F,«! ANO ST. JAMFA 33 baby ^K>m a clear-starclier ? Eli ? I sliould like to know aa imicli as tlijit uuw ?" '• ( »li. Mr. JjiuR'S ! you 're a good ]>c'i-stin, — b\it you know you 'n; a low man ; \w, no ; you can't undei-slaud tjjeae things." And Miss Canary sniik-d a jtitying smile, " I tell you," HJiid Jtin, " tliere 'a no such tliuii^ as bom ladie.s and gentlenitn. Tiure 's little bits of red prls and boys born if you will, — and you may turn 'em inti>^now, look here," said Jem, " if there was to l>e some folks bom gentlemen and some not, — why wiusnt tliere two Adiuns luid two Eves, fur the high people and the low oneji ? " " (Jh, Mr. James I " criee not ; but I Jo think y<»u 're an athijit" " I can't tell, 1 'm sure," said Jem, not comprehending the con- veyed reproach. "1 don't know; but a.s for my seak nothuig that 's comfortable. If you and Miss Canary want a good bout together, why, I ho|ie 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 i iwn fiieside, where you ask a body to come and sit do^\^l cosily with you. It 's a mean advantage. A wild lujiui wouldn't do it." " I 'm sure, Jem, I meant nothing," said Mrs. Aniseed, " That 's it, Susan ; that 's the shame and nonsen.se o' the thing, A man might bear a good deal of noise from you women — I don't mean you, Miss C'anaiy — ii" there was luUf-an-ounce of menning VuL I. 13 34 ST. GILES AND ST. JA:\IES. in it. But when you jjet ujxin ;in arginieiit one with .anotlior, roa go at it like a nionkey on a «h-um. 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 aimther, you make it up you don't know why, and all of a sudden you 're sociable together as two kitton.s at the same sarcer of milk. And now, Susan, my old woman, get the tea." Mrs. Aniseer me, that I couldn't have d>>ne myself; but then, as I say, Mr. .Tames, I was Ixirn a lady, and though 1 ut I can't quite forcret what I came of — no, nothing on eaith shoulil compel me to take in the cat's-me.at. Pride must 8tf»p somewhere ; and till my dying day, I stop at cat's-meat." " Well. I "m very glad, ^liss Canary, I 'm not your raouser — that 's all." said Jem ; who was interrupted in further speech by tiu' suililen appearance of his wife, who, somewhat flustered, /et with laughter playing about her moulb, bounced into the roor i. '* Jem," she cried, " who do vou think 's coming ? And who flo you think " — and here she aji])roached her husband, and waa about to whisper in his ear, when Jem drew himself majestically back. •• Mi-s. Aniseed." he said, somewhat sternly, " j'ou 've no more manners than a poll parrot." " Don't mind me," .said .Miss Canaiy rising. " I '11 go upon the landing for a minute." " Don't stir a foot, ma'am," cried .Jem, jumping up and handing ber the chair; then turning to his vdt'e — *" And this is your Vtreedlng, — ^to whisper company out o' your room ! What liave you ^t to say 1 " ST. GILES AND ST. JAME^. 35 " "VTell, then, notliing but this — Kitty 's do^^'n staii-s. come to tea. And she 's brought somebody with her," said Mi-b. Aniseed. " "Well, poor soul ' I hope it 's a sweetheart : she 's been a long while looked over, and I hope her tiino 's come at la^t Does he look like a sweetheart ] You women can tell that." Baid Jem. " I don't know, I 'm sure," answered Mi-s. Aniseed, and she burst into a loud laugh. At the same moment, Kitty ^Iugi,n? entered the room all .^smiles and good-hunmur. .shaking handu with Bright Jem, and her esteemed aajuaiutance, Miss Canary ; who, more than once, had sunk the recoUtction of her ladylike origin, and visited the kitchen ol St. James's as an especial guest of Kitty's, " I never saw you look so charming, Kitty — well, that 1 loimet does become you," said !Mi.ss Can;u-v. "And what a sweet riband ! " " AMiy, Kitty, there is mischief in the wind, I 'm certain," sjud Jem. " You 've got somebody tight at bust, I cm see that. Don't pucker your mouth up as small as a weddin' ring, but tell us who it is. 1 '11 give you away with all my heart aiul soul." " Lor, Jem ! you are such a man. It 's only one of our gentle- men come with me ; we 're going to tlie play." And tiien a foot- step w;is heard on the stall's, and Kitty ruiuiing to the door, cried encoui-agingly, " Come up, Cesar." Cesar obeyed the invitation, and in an instant stoud iKtwing about him on the floor. Jem was twitched by a momentary surjtrise, 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 Mu^es brings here is welcome as she is." Jem, turning his eye, detecttxl his wife painfully endeavouring to kill a laugh by thrustin" her apron corner into her mouth. Whereujjon he repeated in a tone not to be mistaken by his helpmate — " Quite welcome ; as wel- come as she is." Mi-s. Aniseed, thus rebuked, with a great effort swallowed her mirth, and immediately busied hereelf 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. La his great contentment, he saw not Miss Canar}-, who had risen fiom her chair, ;uid stood still with unclosed lips and wandering eyes, evidently feeling that all her treasured gentility was quitting her for ever, dx-awu magnetically from her by the presence of a negro. She could not stay in the same room with a blackamooi- — that was impossible. No ; she waa born a lady ; and she would die rather than forfeit that consolation. Bewildered, yet endeavouring to make a graceful X> 2 SS ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. retreat, she still reuiiiLiied motionless, drawn taller, as pride and death will draw peo{)le. " There 's no need of ceremony. Miss Canary," s;ud Jem, moving the chair to her, with an emphasis — " Come, sit down, and make your life ha]>])y." Without knowing what she did, Miiw Canary dropt in the chair; and then vehemently hated herself fur the docility. Nevertheless, she would not remain in the room with a negro fuotman. A livery was bad enough ; but a livery with a black man inside it ! There was no lie she would not tell to eacajte the degnulation. " Yr>u 're very good, Mr. Jamea ; ver}- kind, but I 've such a headache," said Miss CaniU'V, '* I do think my head will split in two." " Well, two heads, they say, is l>ettcr tlian one," cried Jem, who gjiw at once the ciuise of the sudden illness. " Cot a head-ache ! " exchiimid Kitty. " AVliL-re 'h my salts, Cesai" ? " Immediately, Cesar takuig a small bottle, warm from his pocket, advanced towards Miss (Janary, who tried U> shrink through the back of the chair, as the bhick approached her. " Take a gocnl smell at 'em," said Kitty, " they 're fresh to-day ; I had 'em for the j'luy to-night. I never go without 'em, since I wjis taken out a fainting." " Never mind tlie sidts," said Mrs. Aniseed ; " a cuj) of nice tea will do you gooout to consign the treasure to the tea-pot, when liright Jem snatched up the VL-s-sel. " Much obliged to you Kitty, all the sanje, but you '11 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 oidy taken." Jem, inexorable, sliook his head. " Well, you are such a strange man. and have such strange words for things!" " No. Kitty, " answered Jeqi ; " it 's having the right words f< >r things, that makes em seem strange to you. I 've told you this afore ; now, don't you trv it again." Mi-s. Aniseed, to divert this little contest, bustled about with unwonted energy! ringing the cups and saucers, and then calling out loudly for a volimteer to toast the muffins. " Permit me, marm," said Cesar, with exuberant politeness ; the while Mi-s. Aniseed drew back the toasting-fork, declaring she could by no niamier of means " allow of such a thing." " Let him do it ; he toasts beautiful," cried Kitty ; and Cesar icd his wLih. ST. GILES AN'D ST. .lAMKS. 3? * 'Sense my back, niarni," said Cesar, as, stooping to the fire, he turned his shoulders towards Miss Canarj'. " Always as he is now," said Kitty in a whisper to ^Tisa Canarj', "good-tempered as any dog." Ai\i\ then she furtively pressed the f(>j;bivs 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 tidng." " It 's their feelings, Jem," .said Mrs. Aniseed. " AVcll, I sui)pose it is. Just as folks cat and drink as they do at a funeral. When the feelings are stirred up they must have sometliing to struggle with, and so they go to eating and drinking." " Komeo and Juliet 's alwavs worth three shillin£rs more to me than any other play," said Miss Canar}', gradually reconciled to the black by tlie gunjiowder. " Onmges 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 — (I whole lot of full-gmwai women — sucking and crjing, like bi-oken-hearted babbies." " We 're all a going to-night, Jem," said Kitty, " that is, all our people. ^ly lord and my huly, and, for the first time in his life, the dear child. Oh, what a love of loves that babby is. lUit you remember him, Sus^m ? you recollect the night he was born, don't you ? " " I should tliink I did," said Mrs. Aniseed. " That 's the nifdit, you know, Jem, I brought home that blessed infiuit." " Blessed infant ! " groaned Jem. " Ha ! he was a blessed infant. And what is he now ? Why, he looks :i.s if he had be»in brought up by a witch, and played with nothing but devils. A. little varmint ! when he sometimes comes sudilen 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 Mi.ss Canary — " and if they wiJl — n 1 <} ^ ^ :J 38 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. little more sugar, plcjise — if they will, these little wretches, nish to destnietiuii, what 's t^ b« done with 'em ] " " Rush to destruction ! " 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 jus full of wrinkU-d as a monkey. He wfusn't above six months old when we h.ul him. Wi-11, they te 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 ; antl I 've heanl him lie and beg, and change liia voice up and do\^^l, anil down and up — lorxl ! it has miulc my blood turn like water to hear such I'lnniing in a little cretur that natur meant to !>..• aa inni>cent a.s heaven. Well, and now what is he ? At seven years old, what is he ? Why, that little head of his is full of w.'isjw :us July. Now and then, a sort of look comes Kaek 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 l>e in time to get a goon merely look upon Cesar Cum — the only creature of all the ten thousand thousand men, who in your jiilgrimage through life, has ever prolfered to you the helping of his arm, who haa ever stammered, trembleil, smiled at your look, and run like a hound at your voice — you merely see in hini a goodness, a sympathy that you have yearned for ; and, for the tint of the virtue, you see uot that : to vou it mav l»e either black, reil, or white. Certainlv, so much has the tire of your heart alisoibed tlie colour of your slave, that to you black Cesar Gum is fair as Ganymede. Sweet inagiclaii Love ! Mighty benevolence, Cupid, that takes away stains and blots — that gives the line of beauty to zig-zag, upturned uoses — that smiles, a god of enchantment, in all eyes however green, blinking, or stone-like — that gives a pouting prettiness eveu lo a hare-lij I, bending it like Love's o\\^l bow! Great j uggler, Cupid, that from his wijigs shakes precious dust in mortal eyes ; anil lo ! they see nor blight, nor deformity, nor stain ; or see them turned to ornament ; even, as it is said, the pearl of au oyster is only so much oyster disease. Plutus has been called a grand decorator. He can but gild ugliness ; passing off the thint; for its brightness. But Love — Love ciui give to it the shape, and jjiunr, it with tints of liis own mother. Plutus may, after all, be only a maker of human pocket-pieces. He washes deformity with bright niet;d, 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 o>i€, 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 \'isiou, turned ebony to ivoiy. " Didn't you heai* Jem say you might go ] " again cried the unconscious Kitty. " Shall be most happy, assure you marm," said Cesar, clasping 40 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. his hands, and raising them eutreatuigly. " Tiike gi-eat care ot you, nt'Vibt'r fear." " Well, I will go," said Mrs. Aniseed, her repugnance conquered by Cesar's good temper ; and in a few minutes — for Mi-s. Aniseed possessed, perhaps, that highest and most valuable of all the female virtues, a vii-tue that Eve herself was certainly not bum with, she was a quick dresser — in a few minutes the tliree were on their road to Co vent Garden Theatre. A few minutes more, and they entered the gjillery. All things jK>rtended a liappy evening, for they were early enough for the front row ; Mi*. Cesar Gum taking liis joyful seat between tlie ladies, "Mind tlie bottle, dear," said Kitty in a low voice to Cesar, who nodtled ; his eyes sparkling up at the temler syllal)lc. " Such a sweet drop of Matleary from our house, Susan ; ha ! ha ! never miml Jem." The gallery filled with holiday-makers ami gallery wits. Miss Canary was soon hailee a black rose atween a couple of lilies, too." And then other pretty terms, such aa ** snowball," " powder-puft'," were hurled at Cesar, who sat and jrrinned 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 rtll the woi'ld " was upon her, and she was being gradually scorched to tinder. At length the tragedy, " George Barnwell," began. Kitty was now melted by George, and now put in fever-heat by Millwood, of whom, leaning back to speak to ^Irs. 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, who. ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 41 witli its mother and father, bad just entered tlie boxes. Tho cliiM was superlily dresscil, and wlion he entered wore a wliite beaver hat, with a huge phmie of pink and white ft-atliei-a. "There he is," again cried Kilty; "we must drink his liealth." W'herenpon Oewtr pmdiici'd the hottle, and the he.-dth of young St. James — he all the while nnct^nseious of the honour — was ih-unk in Mjuleira from his paternal dwelling. The jjlay [iroceedeil, 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 onuige — ;uid then, when the play was over, said she was glad it was done, though she had never enjoyed heivelf half so much. And then she -said, "After all, I think a good ei-y sometimes does us good ; it makes us remember we are human creture. But oh, that ^Millwood, Susjm. "When wonu-n are bad — to be sure it's so vei-y seldom! — I'm afraid tliey beat the men." Every tear, however, shed by Kitty at the play, was recompensed by a roaring laugh at the farce. Anil, at length, brimful of happiness — all being over — the party rose to go home. "Let's see 'era get into tlie carriage — they needn't see us," said Kitty ; and hurriedly they quitteil the gallery, ;uid ran round to the box-arty ; and her indi^niation at the wronp committed "on so blessed a baby " — we mean, of course, St. James — woidd have burst forth in lomlest utterance liad she not been contmlled by the moral influence of Rrij;ht Jem, Hence, she had only the small .sjitisfaction of declaring, in a low voice, to her sister, "that the little wretch would lie sure to be liaULTed — for he had the j^ibbet, evi-rv bit of it, in his countenan'H*." "Willi this consulation, she .suflered lierself to be somewhat painful. " Tlie Lord help him!" cried M re. Aniseed. "Well, you ought to l)e ashamed of yourself to say such a thuig ! " whispereil Kitty Mugg.s. Bright Jem was sa«l and silent. As Cesar, with unu.sual gliV nes.>*, narratetl the capture of the prisoner witli the stolen property ujxm him, jioor Jem, shading his eyes with his haml, looked mournfully at the l»igmy culprit. Not a word did Jem utter- but the heart-ache spoke in hi- face. "And what liave vou CDt to aav to this?" askeil the ni'dit- 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 3'oung St. Giles, fixiiig his sharp black eyes full on the face of his interrogator, aid sjieaking jvs though he repeated an old familiar lesson, " I didn't take it : the at rolled to me ; and I thought as it had tumlded out of a coach as was going on, and I nin arter it, and calling out, if nobody had lost a at, when that black gentleman there laid hold on me, and sjiid as how I stole it. How could I help it, if the at would roll to me 1 I didn't want the at." " Ha ! " 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 ah'eady opened for the reception of tho prisoner. And ditl young St. Giles quail or whimper at his prisou ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 48 threshold ? Did his young heart siuk at the gloomy dungeon ? Oh no. C'liild as he was, it wits plain he felt that he was ae-tiiig a part : he had y)ecunie in some way important, ;uid he seemed resolved to rise with the occasion. He had listened to tales of felon loiiitude, of galluws heroism ; and ambition stirred witliia him. He had heard of the Tyburn humourist, who, with his miserable jest in the jaws of death, eaat his shoes from the eai't, to thwart an oft-told ])roplucy that he would die shod. All these stories St. Giles had listtned to, and took to his heart as precious recollections. While other children had conned their books — and written maxim copies — and letimed their catechism, — St. Giles had learned this one thiut; — to be " g.ame." His worUl — the world of Hog Lane had taught him that ; he hatl 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 tlieir neighlK)ur as themselves." Now, the prime ruling lesson set to young St. Gih's was " honour among thieves." Other boys might show lewanling metlals — precious testimony of their schooltime work ; youiig St. Giles knew notliing of these ; luul never heju'd 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." Scai'cely was he bidden to enter the dungeon, than he turned his face u\t to the constable, and his eyes twinkling and leering, anil 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 ! " cried the constable. " "Weil, then," s;iid the urcliin, " here goes — good night to you," and so saying, lie flung a summerset into the cell : the lock was turned, and Bright Jem — fetchmg a deep groan — quitted the watch-house, his wife, sobbing aloud, and following him. " WTiat can they do to the poor child ? " asked Mrs. Aniseed of Jem, as the next mornuig he sat silent and son-owful, 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 '11 teach him. They '11 make Jack Ketch his schoolmaster ; and nicely he '11 learn him liis lesson towards Tv'burn. The old stoiy, Susan — the old stoiy," and Jem drew a long sigh. "Don't you thuik, Jem, something might be done to send him to sea ? He 'd get taken away liom the bad people about 44 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES. him, and who knows, might after all turn out a bright man." Such w;ia the hopeful faith of Mi's. Aniseed. " Why, there's something in that to be sure. F.)r my part, I think that 's a goudy a.s would take him. I 'm told the se.a does waaket and a Itoll." " I see," cried Jem, with glistening eyes, " set hbu up in trade. G<'<1 bless that muthn-man !" "That's what he meant. Jem ; hut it wasn't to be — it wasn't to l>e," criee the y.iung un — .all .igog as he w.as — brought the muffins to the lane. "NVeli, we hadn't had two dinners, I can toll you, yesterday ; so •we sells the basket and the bell for sixpenn'orth of butter, .aiid diii'nt we go to work at the muffins." And Mr. lilast seemingly sjioke with a most satisfacton* recollection of the bantjuet. "And if they'd have pisoned all of you, served you right." cried Jem, with a look of disg\ist. " You icill kill that child — you won't give him a chance — ^\-ou will kill him body and soul." " Lrii, Jem! how cm you go on in that way I " cried the m >ther, and began to weep anew. "He's the ai)ple of ray eye, is th.it 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 w.ant neither of you at my heels ; what I '11 dit of Grub-street, that's all. Lut I don't know what's eonie to tlie people. They don't snap Jis they used to do. Why, there's that Horrible and Particular Account of a Bear that was fed ujum Young Children in Westminster : I 've known the time when I've sold fifty of 'em afore I'd bh)wn my horn a dozen times. Then there was that story of the L.-is, you Would. What's the ditt'erence atween me and some folks in some newspai)ei-s ? Why this : I sells my lies m3'.self, and they sell "em by other people. But I say, Mi-s. Aniseed, it is colil, isn't it ? " Mrs. Aniseed immediately jumped at the subtle purpose of tlie question ; and only replied — " It is." " A dri^p o' something would'nt be bad such a mornin as this, would it ? " askeil the imab;ished guest. " La ! Tom," cried St. Giles's mother, in a half-tone of astonishment and depi-ecation. '• 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 aini.hing 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 dont let him go about singing of ballads, and — " 48 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. " That 's all mighty fine, Mrs. Aniseed," said Mr. Blast, wIh) foiled ill his drink, became suddenly indei>endent in hia language, — " all mighty fine : but, after all, I sliuuld think singing ballada a little mure genteel than bawling fur coaches, and makuig diily money out of fogs, and pitch and oakum. A ballad-sijiger may hold hi.s head up with a liukman any day — ami so yuu may tell Jem, when you see him. Come along," and !Mr. Bhist twitched the woman by the ann — " come along : there 's notliiug to be got here l)ut 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 'a a good cretur, and means nothing. And oh, Mrs. Aniseed, do all you can with ^Ir. Capstick for my inno- cent babe, and I sha'n't say my prayers without blessing you." With tliis the unwelcome visitors depiu-ted. We must now follow Bright Jem to the house of the muffin- mau. Jem had already told his errand to Mr. Ca})stick ; who, with eAideut sorrow and thsappointment at his heai-t, is endea- vouring to look hke a man not at all sui-prised by the story related to him. Oh dear no ! he had quite expected it. " As for what 1 ihil, Mi: Aniseed " — said Capstick — '' 1 did it with my eyes open. I knew the httle vagabond was a lost wretch — I could read that in his face ; and then the mullius were somewhat stale muffins — ■ 80 dont think I was tricked. No : I looked upon it as some- thing le.SvS 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 ray thouglits on the business — she said I was a fool for what I ilid : 80 don't let her know what 's happened. When women find out they 're right, it makes 'em conceited. The little ruffian ! " crieil Capstick with bitterness — "to go stealing when the mullins might have made a man of liim." "Still, Mr. Capstick," urged Jem, "there's something to be said for the poor child. His mother and tlie bad uns in Hug Lane wouldn't let him have a chance. For when St. Giles ran home — wliat a place to call home ! — they seized upon the muffins?, and turning the bell and baaket into butter, swallowed 'em without so much as winking." "^Miserable little boy ! " exclaimed the softened Capstick, — and then he gi'oaned, " Wicked wTetches ! " " That 's true again," said Jem : "' and yet hunger hai'dly 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 1 " said Jem, " he 's but a chick, is he, to go to gaol ? " ST. GILES. AND ST. JAMES. 49 " It 's no use — it 's all no use, Mr. Aniseed ; we 're only throw- ing- away heaven's time vipon the matter ; for if the little rascal was hiinged at once — to be sure, he is a little young for that— »ie>'ertheless 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 lie thouglit in siich exercise to come plump again upon the escaped itlea — " I have it," at length he cried. " I was about to say, as I Ve an idle hour on hand, I '11 walk with you to Lord St. James, and we '11 talk to him about the matter." Now Bright Jem believed this of himself; that in a good cause he would not he&itAte — at lea.st not much — to speak to his Lin jesty, thouglj in his royal robes and with his royal crowTi upon Ills 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 tlie linkman. To be sui-e, as we have before indicated, there was something strange about Capstick. His neiglibours had clothed him \s'ith a sort of mystery ; hence, on second thouglits, Bright Jem believed it po.ssible that Lu happier days the muliiu-mau might have tidked to marques.«es. "Yes," said Capstick, taking off his apron, "we'll see what can be done with his lordship. I '11 just whip on my coat of iiuflience, and — hush ! — my wife," and Mi-s. Capstick stirred in the back pju'lour. " 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 wouldu 't own it. Never own a woman 's right ; do it once, and on the very conceit of it, she '11 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 ? ^Tiy, 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, drojjping at once to the cold, hard truth. " Well," and Mrs. Capstick giggled, as though communicating a great moral discover}', " well, there 's no accounting for taste, is there, jMr. 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 Vol. I. ' B £0 ST. GILES A^^) ST. JAMES. we like with ; but, Mrs. Capstick, now and then we do sartamly ill-use the privilege." " Lor, Mr. Capstick ! where are you going so fine ?" asked hia spouse of the muflin-uiaker, 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 wTetch, a perjurer, is to- day put in the pillory." " And what's that to you, Mr. Cap.>tiek ?" askerl his wife. " Wliy, Mary Anne, as a niurul man — and, tlierefore, 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 mutiin-maker take Ids way towards the mansion of Lord St. James. " It 's a hai'd thing," said Capstick on the road, " a hiad thing, that you can't always tell a wife the tnitli." " I iUways tell it to my old woman," observed bright Jom. " 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 ]>ers(>n — a treasure of a wife — never know wliat it is to want a button to my shirt, never — still, I am now and then obliged to sacrifice trath on the altar of conjugal peace. It makes my lieart bleed to do it, Mr. Aniseed : biit sometimes it is done." Bright Jem nodded as a man will nooor wretches who make idols of croco- diles and monkies, — but Lord bless us ! only to think in this famous city of Ixmdon of the thousands of Christians, as they call themselves, who after all are idolaters of gilt gingerbreaeak 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 liis castles, and his lu-ajis 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 ])hilosophical discoui-se brought the talkers to their desti- nation. Jem stoo])ed before the kitchen-windows, jjrying curiously through them. " What seek you there, Jem ? " 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, stiiick it with an asseiiion of awakened dignity. '• Through the hall, Mr. Aniseed ; through the hall ; no back-stairs inlluence for me." As he made this proud declaration, the door wa.s o])ened ; and to the a^stouishmcut of the porter, the muthn-raaker asked the porter, as coolly as though he was cheapening pippins at an apple-staU — " C;xn we see the ^Marquess ? " The porter had evidently a turn for humour : he was not one of those jauitoi'S who, seated in their leathern chaii'S, resent every knock at the door as a violation of their peace and com- ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 53 fort. Tlierefore, curling the comers of his mouth, he asked in u tone of comic remonstrance, — " Now what do you want with the iVf ai'tjuess ? " " That tlie Mjxrquess shall be benefited by knowing," answered C'ajistick. " Tliere is my name ; " and the muffin-maker, with increjising dignity, handed his shop-cvird to the porter. " It 's no use," sairter, sliakiug his liead at the card,— "not a bit of use. We dont eat muffins here." At this moment, Cesar Gum, the African footman, appeared in the hall, mid with gieatejit cordiality welcomed Briiiht Jeixi, " Come to see Kitty ? — she delight to see you — come do-wn tairs." " Will you t;ike this to the Marquess ? * and twitcliing Ids card from the porter's fingers, Cajjstick gave it to Ce.sar. The bhuk felt every disjxwitiou to oblige the friend of Kitty's brother, but raised his hamls and shook his licad with a hoixjless sliake. ** Stop," said Capstick. He took the card, and wrote some wurds on the back of it. He then returned it to the porter. "Oh!" cried the porter, when he liad read the mystic syllables. " Cesai-, I 'spose you must take it," and Cesar departed ou the errand. CHAPTER VI. Now, we hope that we have sufficiently interested the reader, to make him wish to know the magic woreLs which, operate ig on the quickened sense of a nobleman's porter, caused him suddenly to jjut a marquess and a muffin-maker in communicat'.oo. What Open St^ame could it be, that written by a St. Giles, should be worthy of the attention of St. James ] Great is the power of lettei"s ! WJnrl^\'inds have been let loose — fevers quenched, and Death himself made to cb-op his uplifted dart — by the subtle maciic of some brief lex scriyda, some abraaidabra that held m the fiuid some wondrous spirits, always to be found Uke motes in the sunlieams, in a magicians ink-bottle. !Mighty is the power of words ! Wondrous theii' 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 ? Wliat a great human grief it Ls that this secret should have been lost ! Otherwise what glorious means of pub- lication would the moon have otfered ! Let us imagine the news of the day for the whole world written by certain scribes on the 54 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAME3. next night's moon — when she shone ! What .1 blessed boon to the telescof>e-iuaker3 ! How we should at once jump at all foreign news I How would the big-hearted men of America thereuu publisli their price-current of slaves — the new rate of the pecunia viva, the living penny in God's likeness — as the market varied ! And Fnince, ton write glory there, obscui-iug fur a time the light of heaven, with the madness of man. And Poland, pale with agony, yet des])orat*ly calm, would write — " Patience, and wait the hour." And the scril»es of St. Petersburgh would j)laeard " God and the Emperor" — blasj»hemous conjunction I — And the old Pope Would have his scrawl — and Indian princes, and h.alf jilueked nalK>bs — .and Chinamen — and Laplanders — and the Great Turk — aneiied tliat, at the time when Cajwtick soufjht to ai>pfoach tlie Mai-quess, parliament was near its disso- lution. The wii.kcd old hag wils all but breathing her last, yet — case-hardened old sinner! — she expressed no contrition, showed no touch of conscience for her ]»a.st life of iniquity; for her wrongs she had committed ujxin the weak and poor ; for the nightly rob- beries upon tliem who toiled for the e-speei;U 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, te-arful, most orthodox bishojis, to assuage the agony of her remorse, and to cause her to make a clean breast of all her hidden iiiirpiity. No. Parliament was about to expire — ^about to follow Ik-r sinful i>redecessoi-s (what horrid epitaphs has history written upon some of them !) and she heard no voice of conscience ; all filie heard was the chink of guineas pui*sed by bribery for her successor. Even the Marquess's porter felt the coming of tlie new election. His fideUty to his master and his patriotism to merry England had l>eeu touched by a rejmrt that the Ivjrough of Liquorish was about to be invaded by some revolutionary spirit, resolved to snatch it ii-om the time-honoured grasp of the house o( St. James, a«d, at any cost, to wash it of the stain of bribery. Somebody luid dared to s;iy that he would sit for the independent borough of Liquorish though every voter should have a gold watch, and evej-y voter's wife a silver tea-pot and diamond ear-rings. This intelligence was enough to make all true lovera 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 pc«-ter, 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 mulfin-maJ-cer 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 ^oul. He had determined, according to his own theory, to extract ihe man from the Marquess — to come, as he would say, direct at humanity divested of all its worldly furniture. Bright Jem meekly followed the misanthi-ope, treading the floor with gentlest 55 ST. GILES AND SF. JAMES. 1re;»d ; and won(]ering at the freak of fortune that even foi a moment had enal>lem the ea.sy, half-:orilial miuiner of the illu.strious gentleimm in black. His words, too, were low and soft, as though breathed by a flute. He seemed the persouitication of gentleness and politeness. Nevertheless, reader, he waa not of the peerage ; being, indeeil, nothing mure than Mr. Jonathan Folder, librarian — and at times confidential agent — to the Maniuess of St. James. He had just received the orders of his lonl.-ihip to give audience on his Mialf, to wliat might be an im|x>rtant deputation from the borough of Liquorisli ; hence, Mr. Folder, alive to the patriotic interest of his employer and friend — as, occasionally, he would venture to call the Mai'quess. — was smiling and benignant. "Mr. Cajistick — I presume >/ou are Mr. Capfttick )" — and Mr. Folder with his usual s:igacity, bowed to the muttin-maker — " we are glad to see you. This house is always open to the exceUeut and patriotic voters of Liqiioiish. Thei-e never was a time, Mr. Capstick, when it more behoved the friends of the ConstitutioD to have their eyes about them. The British Con.stitution — " " There is noconstitutionlikeit,"oljservedtheumrtin-niakoc drily. " That 's an old truth, Mr. Capstick," siiid Mr. Folder, " and, like all old truths, all the better for its age." ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. -'7 "No constitution like it," repeated the muffiti-maker. "I don't know how many times it liasn't been destroyed since I fii-st 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 cliop it ^o bits ; yet for all that, the pieces will twist and wrigrrle agahi." " It is one of its proud attributes, Mr. Capstick," said Folder, — doubtless he had not heard himself addressed as my lord — " one of tlie (^lories 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 bog your pardon, this is my friend — Mr. James Aniseed, — better known as Eriglit Jem," and Capstick introduced the linkman. Mr. Folder slightly rose from his chair, and graciously bowed to Jem ; who, touched by the courtesy, mse bolt ujiright ; and then, after a moment "s hesitation, he took half-a-dozen strides towards Mr. Folder, and — ere that gentleman wjis aware of the de.'^ign — slinok him heartily by the hand. Then, Jem, smiling and a little llushed, returned to his chair. Again taking liis .seat, he looked aVxnit him with a brightened, happy face, for Mr. Folder — the })roV)able nobleman — had returned the Unkman's grasp with a most conlial pressure. " And, Mr. Aniseed," said Folder, " I presume you have also a voice in the constitution ; j'ou have a vote for — '' " Not a morsel, my lord," answered Jem. " I hav'u'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 — anil so, you see, my lord, I 've no right to nothing." Whil.st Jem pursued this declaration, Mr. Folder, doubtless all uncon- sciously, nibbed his right hand with his handkerchief. The member might, possibly, have caught some taiut 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 pronotin. " 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 lordshiij — " Capstick had become too emphatic. It was therefore necessary 58 ST. GILES AND ST. JAME3. tliat Folder should correct him. "I am not his lordship. No, I .•III! not," he reix?ated, not unobservant of the arched eyebrows of vIk; iimftiii-makcr : " I am de])uted by his lordship to receive you, prej>ari'il to listen to your wishes, or to the wishes of any of the respectable constituents of the borough of Liquorish. We are not un;iware, Mr. Capstick, of the movements of the enemy. But we nhall Ik; provided against them. They, doubtless, will be prepared to tamper with the independence of the electors, but a.s I have said," and Folder let his words fall slowly as thou;4h they were so r.iany ^jem.s, *' as I have said, there we can beat them on their own dirty grounds." " There is no doubt whatever of it," said Capstick, " none at all. And then in these mattei-s, there's nothing like-competition, — nothing whatever. Fur my jiart, I must say, 1 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 V)orn to sneer at the world. At such a time, I feel myself e.xalted." " No doubt — no doubt," said Mr. Folder. " Then I feel my worth, ever}' petmy of it, in what is called the social scale. For instance, now, I ojk'u the shop of my conscience, with the pri knows he "s got something in his window that people vutst buy. I liave a hiuidsome piece oi I>L'rjurv to dispose of " '• Mr. Capstick ! Perjury ! " cried Fohler, a little shocked. " "Why, you see, sir," said Capstick, " for most things, there 's two names — a holiy jmttinrr a plaster of bad words to it : never iflinil tliat ; but, ^ir. Capstiek," said Jem, eiu'uestly, " let 's mind somethhig else." "Then I am to undei-stand," said ^Fr. Ftdder, who, in his philosophy, had been somewhat entertained by the philippics of the muffin-maker, — " 1 am to understand, that your present business in no way relates to anj-thiug connected with the borouffh ? " " Not at present," said Capstiek, " only I hope that his lordship won't forget I have a voice. Because " At this moment, the door flew open, and a child — a beautiful creature — gaudioUed into the room. It w;»s yoimg St. James. The very cherub, as Kitty Muggs would have called him, robbed by the iiii(]uit(jus. the hopeless St. Giles. Truly he wa^j a lovely thing. His fair, fresh young face, informed with the innocence, pui-ity, and happiness of childhood, spoke at once to the heart of the beholder. AVhat guilelessness wa-s in liLs lai'ge blue eyes — what sweetness at his mouth — what a fjxir, white expanse of brow — adorned with clustering curls of palest gold ! His words and laughter came bubbling from the heail, making the sweetest mu.sic of the earth ; the voice of h;i]>j)y childhood ! A sound that sometimes calls us from the hard dealing, the tumult, and the weariness of the world, and touches us with tender tlioughts, allitd to tender teai-s. " What a beautiful cretvir ! " whispered Jem to the muffin- maker. " He 's been kept out of the mud of the world, hasn't he ? 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 cliild 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 Capstiek, " 3'ou won't have nothing to complain of." " Of com-se, the borough wUl 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 frightfid case of juvenile depravity ! Another proof that the world 's getting woi-se and worse." CO ST. GILES AND ST. J.\MES. " Xo doubt of it," said Capstick ; " worse and worse ; it 'a getting 80 bad, it must soon be time to bum 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 ? " asked Mr. FoMer. " Jist gone seven, sir, not more ;" answered Jem. " And here s this dear child not yet seven ! And do you mean to toll mc that ^« doesn't know better ? Do you nu-aii in your ignorance to insinuate that this young gentleman wouleen taught Wtter. Ever since lie could speak — and I dare say almost afore — every night and day he was taken ui)on somelKjdy's kuees, aud teached to say his ]>rayers — and what w;us good and wh;it was V>ad — and besides tliat, to have all that wjis quiet aud hapj)yauil comfurtable about liim — and kind words and kind looks that are almost better than bread aud meat to childreu — for th.-y 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 h.id heard the story of the wicked boy at the playhouse — " I don't want it — he luay have it if he likes — I told papa so." '' Bless you, for a sweet little dear," said Jem, brushing his eyes. " Tlie truth is, sir, I came here," said Cajwtick, " I came as a voter for the independent Iwrough of Liquorish — to intercede with the magnauiiiiity of the Marqui-ss for the poor little wretch — the unhappy baby, for he 's no more — now locked up for ftlony.*' •* What 's the use I " asked Mr. Folder, dancing the scion of St. J:uues upon his knee, — "what 's the use of doing anything for such creatures ? It 's only throwing pity aw.ny. The boy is sure to be hanged some time — depend u[)i>n it, wiieu boys begin to steal, they can't leave it ofF — it 's inipossibl'! — it 's against nature to expect it. I always give 'em up from the first — ansof acqu.-iintance, that they promise themselves to look in ujx)n some I lay." '' Well," said Jem, his eyes glistening, " I never see books all in this fashion, without thinkinc'that the man as has 'em is a kind of happy oonjunir, 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 hinj." Jem had scarcely uttered this hoj»eful sentence, when young St. James ran in, quickly followed by Mr. Folder. " Yes, yes," crieil the child, all happiness, " papa says I must forgive him, as we ought alwa>-s to forgive one another ; and you 're to tell him from me that he 's to be a good boy :uid never do so again." " Bless your sweet hcai-t ! " cried Bright Jem, and the tears sprang to his eyes. The muffin-maker siiid 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 '11 not let this little stoiy 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 visitoi-s from the room. Bright Jem paused at the door, and look- inq' back at the child, cinetl, " God bless you every day of your life." Jem and the mutfin-maker were about to quit the house, when they were accosted by Cesar Gum in the hall. In a confidential wliisper he said — ^ Come and take some turkey and Avine for lunch : pi-irae Madeary — den we can go to jail for tief: dreailful ting, taking oder people's goods — come and hab some wine." And then in a still lower tone — " Give you bottle for youselH" » ST. GILES" AND ST. JAMES. 63 To this invitation, Capstick made no answer ; but having looked up and down at the black, strode to the door. Bright Jem nodded, uttered a brief good morning, and followed his companion into the strc/tt, leaving Ces;ir CUim, who had wholly forgotten Jem's previous indignation at the peculated gunpowder, in asto- nishment at hi.s rejt'cted liosj Vitality. " We '11 now go to Bne«.-<. !Mrs. Sinmier. " My poor cliikl, I tliouglit you was lost," said the dame iu the kindest voice, " Wliat inakes you so late ? " " Why, do you know, mum, I can't tell what 's come to the chickwued : it doesn't f;row no how, now. If I wasn't at five in the morning iii Ilanipstead fiekls, a hunting iu 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 pet>ple 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 ^Ii-s. Sinuner's blessed little linnet, and her darliu' 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 bii-ds did seem to call to me fi\>m tlieir cages — I 'm blessed if they dithi't, mum, as I come along — but no, says I to 'em, it 's no use, my little coekies, no use to be gammouin' me — this here chickweed 's for Mi-s. Simmer's Bob and Tit, and for nobody else whatsomever." And after this fishion was the simplicity of two-score and ten talked to and ilupod by precocious fourteen. But dear Mrs. Simmer seemed to be one of those good old jioople who strangely enough carry their hearts in their heads. Slie i»ad not been above a fortnight in London at the time of this interview wiih 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 coultl read Saiiscrit. She only saw the bright, glittering eyes of St. Giles, and not the fox that looked from them ; she praised liis eyes ;uid face, as she might have praised a handsome hieroglyjjh, wholl}' unconscious of its subtle meaning. A great master has Riid, " there is something in true beauty that vulgiir souls cannot admire." And sure we are, there is something ui the tniest rascdity, that simple benevolent souls cannot detect. They have no eye for the worst counterfeit countenance ; have no eai' for a false voice, let it ring ever so brassily. Now, dear IMi-s. 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 kei)t 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 VOL. L i< 9 €9 ST. GILES AND ST. JA5IES. on the table, before her guest. " T.-vke as much as yon can, my vhiM. .-iinl tlieii you shall tell ine all yuur story as yuu pruuiiaed. Poor huub ! Blesa you, eat — it does my heart fforought up, mum ? Don't know, mum." " And where do you live, now, my poor boy ? " 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 rata, where we can. Then o' nights, rauni, 1 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 spe;ik with a lively recollection of such inci^e nobody : no, mum." " Tliat such a precious flower should be thrown away ! " crie^l 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, T should like it so ! " cried St. Giles : " but you see, mum, it 's not to be done.* ^ ST. GILES A^D ST. JAMES. 67 " How so, my boy ? " asked Mrs. Simmer. "Look here, iiiuiii," ami St. Gile,^, with the cooLiess ot a phi- losopher, drew his feet up ahiiost level with the table, and, with his forefinger, pointed to his ten niiiddy toes, that showed them- selves through the parted shoe-leather. " Parson wouldn't have 'eiii, by no means. I did once tiy to go to church ; I did begin to feel so wicked. "Well, mum, if the Ix'adle di'lu't come up, mum, anil nearly cut me Ln 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, muin. I don't think it's kind, mum ; do you, mum ? " And St. Giles tried to look at once ijiiured and innocent. Mi"s. Simmer wiped her eyes, making an effort to be calm. She then sjiid, " 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 hurnod knock at the street-door. Mi-s. Simmer, without a word, jumpeil to her feet, and ran to the window. " "\N'ell, I declare ! if it isn't that blessed cliild ! 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 Fee a real lord in such a place ? 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 ai>pe;irauce of the new-comor. 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, yoimg St. Giles felt himself overpowered, abashed by the magni- ficent outside of the little stranger. He sidled into a comer of the room, and looked at that scarlet coat 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 towai-ds St. Giles — " can't that boy hold Jessy, instead of the girl 1 " " To be sure, my lord — to be sure," cried Mrs. Simmer. » 2 6S ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. " Sartiiily, my lord— dii-ectly, my lord — I knt^ws Ijow tm's Bess," said Blast, looking critically, admiringly, at Jessy. " Get uj), 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 ? " s;iid the tempter suddenly, sjieaking from the whole breadth of the pavement, and eveiy other minute looking cautiously behind him the while he mendwl his pace, and St. Giles jerked the pony into a trot. " That '» something like li\'iug for, eh 1 and I should like to know why you shouldn't have it just a^ soon as any little lord whatsomever ? " " Ha ! wouldn't that be prime, Tom ?" cried St. Giles, his eyeo spai-kling, 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 boni 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. GUes," said he, "are you man enough to make your fortin ? " " I should think so," said Gi^es, 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 gi-avity. " 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 " — ci-ied 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 111 stand your friend, and get you the money for tli«j ST. GILES 'AND ST. JAMES. 71 bargain. Ha ! I see — you hav'n'fc no pluck in you — not a bit," said the taunting friend. " Ain't I, thougli 1 jist you see," cried young St. Giles, deter- mined to do afiytliing. " Well, then, as you 've got yourself into a bit of trouble, I '11 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 tne way — untU you drop down upon Smith field. Then make for Long Lane ; and then just afore you get to tlie 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 fortiu'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 boimded foith, young St. Giles witli difficulty keeping the saddle Aw'ay went the pony up the Long Fields and awa}' towards Islington ! The words " young Turpin " still rang in the eai-s of St. Giles, as lie cantered along. He felt that he had already done something worthy the exalted name bestowed upon him ; ajid 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 pettj' 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 ? And would he not go to the play everj'- night, and have his hot supper afterwards 1 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 ? Still young St. Giles ambled along, and still the world seemed changed to hinu All things about him bore a brighter hue ; all things sounded vnth a sweeter music ; his brain seemed on wings, and his lightened heart danced in his bosom. And — poor wretch — tliis ecstacy of ignorance arose from evil, from a crime whose fatal effects, certain as death, would follow him. StiU the very houses, to his fe,ncy, took a new and pleasant aspect ; wherever he looked he saw a new face of happiness — whatever he heard 72 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 'ame toned with a new note of harmony. He saw not the lilackeneil stones of Newgjite — h<-ard not the freezing accents of the death-tlooming judge. Miserable, foolish wretch ! Yet how often do men — in the ripeness of worldly wisdom — • iwitiite the folly, share the ignoi-anoe of young St. Giles ! Elated l>y the commission of some protitable wi-ong, 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 laah, or drugs the bitter bowl that slwill revenge the wickedness. For a brief time does successful evil put a new tint of outside beauty upon all the world ; and happy knavei-y rejoices in the cunning that makes the world to him so beautiful. What a plodding, leadcn-eyed Axil 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 gliastly — its beauty wiped away, even as a harlot's paint. Successful knavery, dizzied with its luck, sees suddenly delicious s<'enes — a jxiradise of worldly joy and life-long rest — then, waking to the truth, beholds around it burning, bai-ren sand. If the mature jxlgrinis of the worlil are sometimes so deceived, why not the boy St. Giles ? Still the young, yes, and happy, felon trotted on, until he entered Smithfield. He then walked the pony slowly uj) Ijong Lane, and soon as he espied the Blue Posts, faithful to his oi-ders, he dismounted, looking anxiously ai'ound him for his friend anAME3, 77 (listance, he beheld his former patroa, Capstick, the rauffiii-niaker, 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 «ii-cumstances, 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 scofl'a and loud laughter with which certain new-comers would listen to the descrijjtiun of the horror sought to be circulated, and then hurry off. " That cock won't fight now ! " cried one. " A httle late in the day for that. Get some- thing new," cried another. " Gammon ! " shouted a thu-d. Nevertheless, be of good heart, Tom Bla.st ; take consolation from this. You suffer in gi-eat society ; you smk in most worship- ful companionship. Very reverend, grave, authoritative persona — men of the bench, even of the jnilpit — who, for centuries, sold to their exceeduig pi-ofit, " Most True and Particular Accounts " of a horrid bear of some sort — whether of royal or feudal privi- lege — of witclicraft — of popery — of sham rebelhon — nay, fifty beais and bugbeai-s, 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 a^isured in the hke sense, although iu gentler phrjise, that such cock will by no means fight — that the ader of the cause that has brought the muflin-maker and the link-man to Smithtield. 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 uiM>n the strangest lumps of men — is oft a very Titania enanicjured with an a.ss"s healained the course of accidents tliat l)n>ught tlie mufti ii-niaker ami Jem to Porter Btrect. .ine recognised by hiiu, they employed a thinl jwirty to watch him to his haunt, whil»t they p.-<'urt'd thi' att< inlani'»j of otTiciTs. Hence, th< v saw not 8t. (jilcs, wild, as Wf have b< t"i>ro oliservol, kept him-^^lf close among the mob. They were the more astonished to fiutl the ill-used boy in the same room with his sohoolinaster. •'There, now — he's all right," ciieut him. However, no sooner w.-us he conscious of the presence of t 'apstick and his fjist friend Jem, than his face gloweeriug — no taught t-tfort of sorrow — but the boy's li«'art Sffmed toudud, mfltv«l, and he w»"j>t and writhef the giMMhu*ss — tbf dLsregiinlcl kind- nesM of the men before him — thrilled through his 8(^)ul, and though he knew it not, lie ftlt the yeaniings of a l>-tt»'r natun-. 'i'here was anguish — penitence — in the sobs that seeuK-d to tear his vitals. " Tliank Gixl for that ! " '»rie«l Jem ; and the poor fellow wept, too. '• I like to h.-ar that, — eh, ^! " ' ' t-^tick ? " Mr. Cajwtick f-lt an nu for the emU of ju.stice — a fact that, when otlierNvi.se puz/.led, he had more tlian once insisted ujKjn — he tun»e-ed with peculiar loftiness, '' You will be goohilosopher, Tom became suddenly reconciled to his lunnaclc-fl. We will not dwell upon the details of the examination of tlie ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 8S prisoners. It will be sufficient for the reader to know that, after certain preliminaries, a sitting :drlennan committed St. Giles ;uid Ilia tutor for hoi-se-stejding. liuth scholar and master awaited their trial iu ^J'ewgate. It w.'is not until after the culj)rit'8 first ex.imination, th.it Capstick felt the full annoyance of his position. When Jem Would sh;dce his head, and l(x»k *lum|iish on the matter, Capstick would t;dk loud, and beg him to think of the ends of justice ; but wiun the boy w.is committed on the capital charge, the mullin-iuaker's public spirit wliolly foi-sook him. Evidence had brought the accusation quite home to the boy ; liowever leg:d proof might fail to criminate his teiujiter. " TIk-v Ml never — never think of much hurting the boy — a child, you know — a mere child ? " said Capstick to Jem, aa they left Guildhall together. "Humph! I don't know what you c.nll hurting, Mr. Cai>- stick," siiid Jem, moodily. " But 1 shouldn't think hanging nothin'." Capstick tuminl j\ale as flour, and lie could Bcarcely articulate the words — " Imp<>.s.sible — 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 l)ed, with a broken limb, than had a finger in this matter. I sliall have that poor child always about me : 1 know I sluill. When he 's killed and gone, I shidl never take my pipe without seeing his face in the lire. And then my]>oor old wom;in ! She that still 's so fond of him — poor orphan thing ! for his mother's woi-se than lost to him — she '11 lead me a nice life — that is, though she wont 8;iy au)'thiiig outright, she '11 always be a crying about him. We 've done a nice thing, Mr. Capstick, to make our lives pleas;mt as long as they hist ! " •' Pooh, pooh — folly, Jem ; all folly. I suppose property muse 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 ! WTiy didnt he die in the frost and snow t Why did I warm him, when a babby, at my own fii-e, only to help to hang him aitenvanis i " "■ 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 woi-st of people about you — not but what folks at the verj' best are great rascals, every one of 'em — but here you have been up to your eai-s 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 i G 2 Si ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. wliat a lump of roguery it is ! How that the blessed sun should ever condesoeud to smile upon such a lot of wretches aa 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 'a a^s little as we can do to try to or St. (jiles. "VVtll, they're a bad lot, I dare say ; uut you should only know what some of the poor souls have done." "And what have they done ? " 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 jvawned one o' them. It would make you bless youi-scif, Mr. Capstick, to see besides what things they've made twojienccs and threepences of — kettles, sarcepans, an}-thing. It 's wonderful to see how they tlo stifk by one another." "Crime, Mr. Ani-seed, crime is a bnxzen cord — and ceilainly 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, ajid 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." " Verj' like ; veiy like," said Capstick. " And I am to under- stand, that the peojvle want to fee a Liw^-er ? " " That 's it." replied Jem. " Tliere "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. Weli, I 've been thinking — not that I can do much — btit I 've been tlunking, that as we helped to get the boy into ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. f>5 Newgate, if we was to give what money we could to help to get him out." "And so defeat the ends of justice?" cried Capstick, and ho frowned severely. " Oh, I dare Siiy it 's wrong," said Jem ; " nevertheless, if wa 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 Cap.stick, " you 've come to ask me to 8ubsoril>e to the fund for the lawyer ? " " Well, that 's jest it," assented Jem. " Forgetful of my .'^erious responsibility as a witness — forgetful of the ends of justice — forgetful of what I owe to society — forgetful—" " Fui-getful," cried Jem, with animation, " of everj-thing except of saving a child from the jnilluws." ■' Mr. Aniseed," said CajKtick very decidedly, " I am sorry to refu.se yim anything, but you must not let your feelings blind you : Vou mean well, but vou have vet to learn that the best meauiii" men are those who often do the most miscliief. 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 slioj>, when the muttiu-maker called to him. " I think you saiil this attorney's name was Wrangle i " •* Tangle," said Jem, shortly. "Tangle, Lyon's Inn?" s:ud Capstick, " Clifford's- Inn," cried Jem, a little sulkily, and then he darted from the sliop. It is most true that Mr. Tangle deserved the high reputation bestowed upon him by Jem. His office in Clifford's-Inn ^s•as considered a private outlet from Newgate. Many and many a time, when the fatal halter seemed inentable, had Tangle, by some deft de\iee, 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-spiiit of CUffoi-d's-Inn. It was the evening of the day on which Bright Jem solicited Capstick, and Mr. Tangle sat in the solitude of his chambers. He was sunk in profound study ; possibly, pondering how to tind or make a tlaw : 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 gieat-coat, a hat slouched over his face, tied by a handkerchief 86 ST. aiLRS AND ST. JAMES. that almost covered his features, stalked into the room. Mr, Tangle was not at all surprised : not at all. So n\anv oe ; that is, if there 's always " "Money" Mr. Tangle smih-d and no«Med. Mr. Capstick took a small leathoni l)ag fi^mi his jxuket, from whit-h he counted out ten guineas. " I am not a rich man, Mr. Tangle," said Cajistick. " I am sorry for it," said Tangle (and evidently with a feeling of sincerity) : "othenvise the ten might have been fifty." " But do what you can for that wretched boy^-only save him from hanging, and tlicrc 's twenty more." "Thirty jMjund.s," said Tangle; "it's doing it — if indeed it's to be done at all — verj- cheap ; too cheap. Nevertheless, as you're not a ri^uitted j and young St. Giles found " Guilty, — Death." ST. GILE3 AND ST. JAMES. 8? CHAPTEE IX * Guilty, — Death ! " What familiar syllables were these in the good old tiiaos — the time of our history ! In those hajjpier days, how many goods and chattels, live stock and dead, wi-re i»rotecte(.l, watched by Death ! Death was made by law the guardian of all thuigs. Prime agent, great cunsei-vatur of social right — grim keeper of the world's movea,bles. Death, a sh('i)herd, avenged the wrongs o^ stoleu mutton ; Death stood behind every counter, protector of chajjnian's stock; Death wa.s the iLiv and night guard of the highway traveller against the highway thief ; Death watched o.v ano a^-a ; the goose on the common, the hen on the roost. Even ;U the altar, Death took his cautious staiul, that Hymen might not be scoffed, defrauded by wicked bigamist. De minimit curabtit Mors. Tun» where he would, the rogue's j)ath was dug with graves. Nev^i- theless, the world grew no better ; made no visible return to that happy state, ere hemp w;us made a sovereign remedy for wrong. And so by degrees Death k»st 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, tradea- raeu's goods lifted, pockets picked, hen-roosts forced — and maids wickedly married by men already bound, — it was seen that these abominations continued and mcreiised, aye, in the very face of the great ghastly bugbear Death, and so his watch and wai-d were made a lighter task ; he was gi-adually 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, oti'ered to stolen colt, to the king's gracious face unlawfully stamped in counterfeit metal, to a hundred other sins all made moital 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 pai>t trans- gressions — past wrongs committed in her moral blindness ! The sword of Justice ! An awful weapon trul}' : a weapon, working out the will of highest Pro\idence ; a solemn instrument which man solemnly acknowledges. This has been, and may be. Yet, thinking of the world's mistakes ; of the cniel blunders worked by law on man, the sword of justice — of so-called Christian justice lobed axid emiined— may sometimes seem to the eye of grieved 8S ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. humanity as terrible as the blood-dripping tomabawk of the wild yevengeful savage. The sword of justice ! May not the time come — it will come, as surely as the sun of for-off years — when justice shall lay clown her swonl ? when with Ix-ttcr wisdom, she slijill vindicate her aM-ful mission to mankind, yet shed no drop of blood? Let us return to St. Giles ; to the boy in his fifteenth year, s])awned 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 utfering to the majesty of offended law. (irim majesty — ghastly [Nfoloch ! ^^tatcly wickedness, with robes •lyed in the blood of .'^inning ignorance ! A majesty, that the pnncii)Io of all erll nuiy too often smile uixtn as its working genius here on earth. A majesty as cold and pulseless as the idol whose wooden nostiils know not the s;K*rific»^8 its dnrkened woi-shippcrs prepaj'e it. Hut St. Giles wiH m>w know there is a government — a knot of the wise awl goo(>, whase hai-monious souls comliine<) make up the music of the .^ate ; the moral meloilv tlvkt softenii and ret^-nes the nigged, dull-earetl ma.ss. He will iy)w know this; the hangman will teach it him. A sharp, short lesson ; the first and last pi-cpared him by a paternal state. " Guilty— death ! " Such was the verdict. Tora Blast breathe«l heavily, and a faint smile flickered at his lips ;is he felt assured of his escape. Still he durst not turn his eye towards his boy-victim in the dock. GV>nscience was at the felon's heart; and seared, withered as it Mas, it felt the sudden horn»r t>f renaorse-. His features grew pale, then dai-k ; were ior a moment convulsed'; then instantly — elaring no lonk at St. Giles — ^he disaj>p«^aix'd from the dock. The boy stared about him with a fooli.sh gaze ; and then began to sdb. There was no terror — uo anguish in bis face. It was the grief of a boy doomed to a whipping, not the gibbet : ajid it was such sorrow — such seeming childish ignorance of the impending horror — that to those who looked upon him made his condition more temUe. And then again it seen>etl in>possible that the sentence so sonorously uttercxl, should be carried out. Could it be that such an array of judges, sut~h wisdoui, such learning, such grave and reverend experience, should be oj>jx>sed to a niiserable child, of no more self-account ability than a dog ] Appalling odd.s ! Could it be thought that the scene w;is a fright- ful reality of daily, breathing life ? Was it not a grim faix-e — a hideous, foolish mockery ? Could the wise hearts of men, fathers of well-taught, well-tendeil, happy children, doom that child to death ? That miserable item of human ignorance, that awfui reproach to those who made laws to protect property, but left thfe ST. GILES -AND ST. JAMES. 89 outcast poor a heedless prey to their own unbridled instincts ? Nevei'thelesa, the law would hang St. Giles ; and grave, respect- !il)le church-^'oiug men, in the very cosiness of their ignorance, wuuld clasp tkeir hands, iiud 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 giief. "Silence in the court ! " exclaimed the crier ; and immediately another \\Tetch took his place at the bar, and tlie terrible course of law continued. It was Capstick, who.se exclamation had called doNvu the otSci;U rebuke ; it was really Capstick, although even the wife of his bosom might have paused ore she acknowledged him ; so suddenly and frigiitfully had tlie brief business of the trial wruught a ciiange in liim. His llesh seemed jaundiced, and his black eyes, violently dilated, rolled restlessly about. His face aj)peared of a sudden sliai-pened like tlie 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 Caj^stick, staring stupidly about him, suH'ered himself to be led from the court. In a few moments they stood in the Old Bailey. It was a lovely spruig night. The breath of ^ii\.y, even in the Old Bailey, came sweet and odorous, carrj^ing freshness to the heart and brain. The moon shone with brightest, pm-est lustre : all the stars of heaven seemed \'isible ; all lookuig down in theu" bright tender- ness, as though they looked upon a kindred sphere of purity and light, and loved it. Capstick gazed at the maguiticence, and the tears thick and fast fell from him. Then in a subdued, a com- forting voice, he siud, " 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. "He's a scoundrel ; but then he 's titter for the world. For the truth is, Jem, we'i'e all scoundrels." Jem made no answer to this charitable creed. " All scovmdrels : and I 'm about the poorest, mecUiest, shabbiest villain of the lot. And yet you '11 see how I shall carry it olF. They '11 hang this wretched boy — oh, never doubt it, Jem ! they're bad enough for anji^hing — they '11 hang him. And I shall still go on sleek and smooth in the world ; making muffins and laying by the pennies ; pa}'ing rent and taxes ; owing no man a shilling, and so easily and pleasantly earning a good name, and being mightily triunped up for doing it. »0 ST. niLES AND ST. JAMES. I shaJI j[»o on beinp calloetter, Jem ; eh T lie knows better," crie«l the muftin-maker with iiifreasin!:; bitterness. " Well," said .Tein, " I can't 8.iy ; w-ho can ? But I should hope the devil knows nothinp at all about the matter. Howsomever, l>e thnt as it may, he his nothing to do with the business that 's broui,'ht u.s out to-night." " I wish he hadn't, Jem, — I wLsh he hadn't," cried Capstick, with 6tifle«l emotion. " liut here, walking as we are, down thi.s blesst'd Fleet -street —oh, lonl ! doesn't it seem strajijje after what we 've just left, to see the sight abotit us ? — walking here, do you think the denl isn't {x>inting his finger at me, and saying with a grin to oni> of ) ■ i, 'There goes the respectable muffin-maker that '9 Hold a i ixl for ten jwimds.' " " How can you talk in that way ? " said Jem : " the devil '9 the father of lies, and only koops tip his chara^'ter if he says so." "Not a bit ; it's the ilevil that .speaks tnith of our lies ; that turns us inside out, and shames »anctifieunctious grief, had given no ear to the reflections of Jem. "Good night; early to-morrow." And the mufKn-maker suddenly broke from his companion, and strided home — a misenible home to him, whose acute senbibilily re- proaiched him as imworthy of the household comforts about him. He lookeour8. Antl yet, it would liave made Cai*stirk most volulily and vehemently K'ggetl to as-sure her mighlxiurs, "that there w;ws not a man in the )>an.sh tit to wipe her husband's shoes," — " that he wa« only wrung in being too honest," — " that a better soul, or kinder-hearted creature, never walkeiand : the neighbourh\\»i, hia wife thus declared hei-si>lf : — "Well, Mr. Capstick, now I hope you're satisfied? I hope you 've made a nice day's work of it ! A pretty iiamo yt)U ve got in the parish ! There '11 be no living here — J '11 not live here, I can tell you. All the world will p<3int at you, and say, ' There goes the man that hanged that wretched little child ! '" Capstick suddenly took the jiij* from his mouth, and 8tareouse ; and yet el(X]Uently replying to her philii)pics by ]x>oh-]Kjohuig the smoke from him, now in short, hasty, irascible pulls, and now in a hea\'y volume of vapour. Tliere was a maiesty in hLs 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 Uke to know what your satisfaction will be for what you 've done ! Why, you '11 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 '11 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 Cap.stick.) " Everjbxly will go to them : I "m sure I don't think ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 93 'twill be any use our opening the shop on Monday. And all about ten guineas ! Ha, they '11 be a dear ten guineas to you — better liave lost 'em ten tiine.s ov*m-. And so younir a cliild — only four- teen ! To hmig him ! Don't you think, Mr. Cai)stick, his ghost will follow you 1 " Caj)sti(.k niavith his wife, decoi-ously garnished with half-a-dozen children, sons and daughtei-s, patterns of Sabbath piety ; of seventh-day Christi;mity. " Alter 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 thi'ew about him ; he enjoyed his worldly ease and supeiiority, as manifested in his ovm cosily- fui'nished pew. Looking upon the pauper worshippei-s on the benches, and then contemplating the comforts of his own nook, he felt veiy pi-oud of his Chiistiauity. And in this way did Mr. dt ST. OILKS AND ST. JAMES. Titnifle attond church. It was a decent form due to society, and especially to hiuiaelf. lie went to church a>! he went to liis office — as a mat tor of buidncss ; though lie would have Wen uiightily sliocked had such a motive been attributed to hiui. " I '11 conje at half-i)ast ten," s;iiil Capstick, " for I must see him." The 8er\'ant looked stolidly at the muffin-maker, ann the world with kind, forgiving eyes ; that sliould make the earth itself seem to him, at leaat for a time, a holy place. Yes, Jem ; there 's a whole sennou in the very sound of the church- bells, if we have only the ears to rightly understand it. There 6 a preacher iu every belfry, Jem. that cries, * Poor, wear)', stru^;- glLng, fighting creatures — jxior liuman things ! take rest, be quiet. Forget your vanities, your follies ; your week-day craft, your lieart-buniings ! And you, ye human vessels, gilt and painted ; believe the iron tongue that t^^'lls ye, that, for all your gilding, all your coloui"s, ye are of tlie same Adam's earth with the beggar at your gates. Come away, come, cries tlie cluirch-bell, and learn to be humble ; leai-nuig that, however daubed and stained, and stuck about with jewels, you are but grave clay I Come, Dives, come ; and be taught that all your glory, as you wear it, is not li.Uf so beautiful in the eye of Heaven as the sores of uncomi)lain ii;g Lazai-us! And ye p8 so, only let me do it after my o-vru fiishion." Cap- stick nodded asmiit. " Bless you ! I 've thoiiLjht of it many a time when 1 've seen a church emptying itself into the street. Look here, now. I '11 suppose there's a crowtl of people — a whole mob of 'em goinj,' down the church-steps. And at the church-iloor, there is I don't know how many rowls of Chribtian cairiages, with priffins painted on the i>anels, and swords, and daggei-s, 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 f(.KJtnjen following some ju id ciurying the Holy Bible after their misusses, just as to-morrow they'll cju-iy a s]iani'l, — and th.it 's what they call t/ieir huniility. Well, that's a pleasant sight, isn't it I And then for them who're not ash.imed to carry their own big prayer-books, with the gold leaves twinkling ill the sun, as if they took jiains to tell the world they 'd been to cliurch, — 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 jnit on what tliey think religion that day, just as I put on a cle;ui shirt. Bless y.u ! soinetinies I 've stood and watched the crowd, smd I've said to myself, ' Well, I should like to know how many of you will I' member you 're Christians till next week ? How many of you g" to-morrow morning to your offict.«, and counting-houses, and stand behind your counters, and, all in the way of business, — all lo 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 woi-ship, — why, then I must say it, Master Capstick, to stand inside a church and watch a congregation coming out, however you may stai-e, may lie — I can't help, after my fashion, thinking so — a melancholy sight indeed. Lord love you, when we see what f 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 veiT well between you and me to say this ; but don't say it to the world ; don't, Jem, if you wouldn't be himted, harried, stoned to death, like a mad do^. Folks won't be 1 urned inside 96 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 pajnng back hai'd abuse for the impertinence. Jem, whatever coat a man may wear, never see a hole in it. Though it may be full of holes as a net, never see 'em ; but take your hat oft" 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 tliis worM, Jem, woe to the man with an eye for holes! He's a beast, n wretch, au evil-speidcer, an uuchaiitable thinker, a pest to be jiut do\vn. And Jem, when the respectable In^pocrites make common cause with one another, the Lord help the poor devil they give chase to ! " " I always speak my mind," said Jem. " It 's an extravagance that has ruined many a man," said the muffin-maker. " But enough of tliis, Jem ; it 's just the time to catch Tangle before he goes out." A few moments brought thenj to the lawyer's door. Ere, however, the muftin-maker could touch the knocker, the door opened, and Mr. Tangle, his wife, his two sons and two daughtei-s presented themselves, all, the females especially, bemg dressed for cliurch. Yes ; dressed for church ; cai'efully, elaborately arrayed and ornamented, to sustain the severest criticism that, diunng 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 " " 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. " AMiat '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 muflin-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 1 " cried Capstick. — " Your religion doesn't forbid that, I suppose ? " " My good man, let me have none of your free-thinking libaldry here. This is my door-step, and don't defile my threshold -nith your profanity. I have given you my answer. Nothing secular to-day." Saying this with increased vehemence, Mr. Tangle wiia ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES. 97 bustling from the door after his family — who, looking woncieritig looks at Oapstick 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 cai'riage- wiudows. In an instant, young Lord St. James alighted, and waa followed by his tutor — worn somewhat since we hist met him — ]\Ir. 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, sii", cau we consult you upon a business that is some- what urgent ? " said Folder to the attorney. " Certainly, sir ; an}'thing for his lordship. Excuse me one moment ; " and Tangle, with imwonted 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-colhu* — and, the business was immi- nent. 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 churcli, whilst Tangle — the groaning victim to secular aft'airs — ushered young St. James and Mr. Folder into his mansion. " We can do nothing Avithout 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 ? " asked Ml". 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 " " Don't name it, my deal* young lord ! " exclaimed Tangle. "Only," chimed in Mr. Folder, "they talk about hangdng on Wednesday'." " Very true," said Tangle ; " I believe the affair comes off on Wednesday. A great pity, sir I 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 " " 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 wei-e to hang tor ever-vtliing, there 'd be an end of crime altogether. It 's because o VOL. I. 98 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. we oiily punish by halves — now hanging one, and now another — tliat we have such a continual growth of vice. We ought to pull up crime by tlie roots ; now our present pruning system raakea it flourish the stronger. However, his young lordship doesn't think 80. He has all the generosity of youth, and insists that St. Giles shall not l>e hangeil." " God ble.<;3 him ! " cried Capstick. " Amen ! " said Bright Jem. " I must reqiiest tliat we have no interruption," said Tangle, looking loftily at the two offenders. " Perhaps, sir," and the lawyer tamed to Folder, " perhaps, you will state your case." " Just a word in private," said Folder ; and Tangle immediately led him int(^ 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 s}>oilt children will have their way. In one word, his lordship must Ix* humouretl, and therefore St. Giles — though it v.-ould be much better for him to be put at once quietly out of further mischief — must not be hanged. The Marquess has iiis own notions on the matter ; pmiKT notions, too, tliey are, Mr. TangU- ; notions that do honour to him as a legislator, and would, 1 verily believe, let the law take its course. But, poor man ! what can he do?" " Do what he likes, can't he ? " asked Tangle. " By no means. You see, it is with the boy as it was with the boy Themistocles," said Mr. Folder, " Kcally ] " oliscrved Tangle. "One of Plutarch's own parallels. The boy niles the Mar- chioness, and tlie Marchioness niles " " I undei-stand," said Tangle : " rules the Mai-quess. It will hapj>en so." " And tlierefore, the sum and end of it all is, the horse-stealer must be saved. Bless you ! his young lordship has tlireatened to foil 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 flidn't know all this before, llie case, my dear sir, was a nothing — a veiy 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-raif ! " 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 haa ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. P9 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 — yrfli understand ? " "Perfectly," replied Tangle : what would he not understand in such a case ? " There is notliing more easy than a petition. How many signatures \v'ould you like to it ? Any number — though fifty will be as good as five hundred." " Do you think the jury would sign ? " 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, " He 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 '11 make his fortune at Botany Bay." " And now, Mr. Tangle, that we understand one another, we 'U join, if you please, his lordsliip. — Well, my lord," said Folder, returnmg, " I have talked the matter over \s-ith Mi\ Tangle, and, though he gives very little hope " " There 's all the hope in the world," said Capstick, " for his lordship says he '11 take the petition hunself to the Minister, who's his father's friend, and, if I may advise the Mai-chiouess, his mother " " My good man," obsei'ved Mr. Folder, " we in no way need your ad\4ee in the matter. Hold your tongue." " Shouldn't mind at all obliging you, sir, in any other way," ' said the uuniffled Capstick ; " but, as his young lordship here, as he t€lls 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 nevei 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 " " 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 secidar. Nevertheless, to oblige your lord- ship " " Your 're a good feUow," said young St, James, patronising the lawyer ; and, all preliminaries being settled, the conference concluded. fi 2 100 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. CHAPTER X. AwD young St. Giles lay in Newgate, sinking, withering under sentence of death. After a time, he never cried, or chiiuoured ; he shed no tear, breathed no syllable ofde.spair; but, stunned, stupitied, 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 h;is it, to a sense of his condition. Never had St. <.Jile.s received such teaching ! Con- demned to die, he for the tirst time lieard of the aboundinjr love of Christianity — of the goodness and alVection due from man to ni.an. The storj' seemed odd tu him ; strange, very strange ; yet he supix)sed it was all tiTie. Nevertheless — he could not dismLss the thought, it jiuzzled him. Why had he never been taught all this before ? And why sliuuld he be puuislied, hanged for doing WTong ; when the godd, rich, fine people, who all of them loved their neighboui-a like themselves, had never taught him what wa.9 right 1 Was it possible that Christianity was such a beautiful thing — and being so, was it ])ossible that good, earnest, kind- h'-'aited Christians would kill him ? St. Giles had scarcely eight-and-forty hours to live. It was almost Monday noon, when the ordinarj' — having attended the other prisouei-s — entered the cell of the boy thief. He had been separated, by the desire of the minister, from his miserable com- ]);mioas, that their evil example of hardihood — their reckless bravado — might not wholly destroy the hope of growng truth withm liim. A turnkey attended St. Giles, readuig 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, unbehe\ing smile would play about his mouth — and he would laugh with defying bitteniess. And then he would leer in the face of the reader, as though he read some fairy tale, some pretty stor\-, to amuse and gull him. Poor wretch I 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-men — let them look into this Newgate dungeon ; let them contemplate this blighted human bud ; this child felon, never iaught the path of right, and now to be hanged for his most ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Ifl sinful icrnorance. What a wretched, sulleu outcast ! What a darkened, loathsome thing ! And now comes the clergjinan — the otate on him — and what greater glory would it be for him if he could escaiie ! 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 — l>;LSsed for ever from the world ? The proud thought glowed within iiini, made his heart heave, and his eyes sparkle. And then he looked about his cell, and the utter hopelc.s.sne.ss of the thought fell upon him, withering hLs 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 pa.«;sed ; and thus, in the visions of the night, Ids spii-it busied itself ui hopeful viuiity. The Tuesday raoming came, and again the clergyman visited the prisonei-. The boy looked paler, thinner — no more. There was no softness in his eyes, no appealing glance of hope : but a tixed and stubborn look of inquiiy. " He didn't know nothing of what the pareon 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 d*!ar boy, — my poor child — miserable, helpless creature ! — the grave is open before you — ^the sky is opening above you ! — Die without repentance, and you wUl pass into the gi"ave, and never ST. GILES AND iT. JAMES. 105 —never know immoi-tal blessings ! Your soul will perish — perish as I have told you — in fire, in tii-e eternal ! " St. Giles swayed his head to and iVo, and with a sueer asked, " AV'hat 's the tjood o" all this ] Haven't yuu told me so, Mister, agin and agin f" The ordinary groaned almost in despair, yet still renewed his t;isk. " The heavens, I tell you, are oponing for you ; repent, my cliild ; repent, poor boy, and you will be an immoital spii'it, wel- comed by milUous of angels." St. Giles looked with bitter inoreiluUty 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," sjiid the ordinary, " you will not, cannot, uiidei-stand 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 phuited 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 stone into flesh, and become a grateful sacrifice to the tlirone of God. And whilst this prayer, in deep and solemn tones, rose from the prison-cell, he for whom the jn-ayer 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 increduhty, defiance, and contempt. '• God help you, poor lost lamb ! " cried the ordinary, as he rose. " 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 heat! 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 jou to witness." The ordin;uy glanced at a paper held by the governor ; his eyes brightcLed ; and clasping his hands, he fervently uttered — • " Thank God ! " The governor then tm'ned to St. Giles, who suddenly looked anxious and restle.ss. " Prisoner," he said, " it is my happiness to inform you, that his gi-acious Majesty has been mercifully pleased to spare your life. You wUl not sufler with the uufoitunato men to-morrow. You understand me, boy " — for St. Giles looked suddenly stupified — " you understand me, that the good king, 106 ST. GILES A^'D ST. JAMES. whom you should ever pray for, has, in the hope that you will turn from the Mdckedneas 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 fingere. " 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 weepmg; 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 XL 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 feUow, 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 off'ender 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 Tt matters little to the guardian of the laws, to the maker of statutes for tlie protection of property, what aggravated demon, what pining, penitent spirit, yearning for better thoughts, may dwell %\'ithin 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. 107 good people of this world did not consider a part of their veiy goodness to be in their belief of the incorrigibility of tlie felon ! It was to make too familiar an approach to their respectability to suggest the probabihty of amendment in the doomed thief. It was, in a maimer, 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 o\vu 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 thi'ow it out ; just as the lights of Rembrandt owe their lustre to the shadows about them. Con- sidered after this hard fashion — and fuU well we know the sort of worthy people who will shake their heads at our miserable bittei'ness — 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 ; lea\ang fur 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 aU its green." The peace of heaven seemed upon the earth. An houi* 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 beheve that tp-anny, and woe, and wickedness exist within it. One of the happy hours that, sweet in the present, ai'e yet more deUcious in the past ; treasui-ed 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 smUmg in the sim ; the trim hedges, clothed in tender green ; tlie budding oaks, the guardian giants of the soil ; the wayside cottage, with garden-strip brimming wth flowers ; aU 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 jjlain, 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 loosened rein lay on his hoi-se'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 shai'p trot, overtook the idle rider, 208 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 peeidiarly soft and gentle voice, " why, sir, for a lazy man ? " "Oh ! I mean there 's a sort of dreaminess in the air — a kind of sleepuiess, 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 <|uit himself of his new companion. The sti-ans^fer, however, was not a man to be bowed or looked away. A fleeting not to perceive the intention of the youth, he mended kis pace, and, quite at his ease, resiuned the conversation. " You are well moimted, 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 /leeded not the rebuff. " Oh, yes ! " he cried ; " I would I might have the richest heiress for the carrj'ing 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 pming things, sir, if a time knight knew where to find 'em : there are distressed ladies, who, I doubt it not, would trust themselves to the back of your m:u'e, even though, like the flj'ing horse I 've read of, she took 'em to the moon. To be sure," said the elranger, 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 liigh 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, sajing the meanwhile, "Indeed 1 — and what is known of the master ? " " Why, there ai'e twenty stories about him ; but of coui-se some of 'em can't be time. However, what 's known for fact ia, lie 's rich as the Indies, and, moreover, he 's got a young wife." ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 109 " Is that all ? " asked the young man, with affected carelessness. *' Is it so rvtre a matter that a rich old man should buy himself a young helpmate ? " " Ilumph ! Helpmate 's a pretty word, sir ; a mighty pretty word ; but the help that three -score gets from three-and-twenty, eh ? 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 cmi 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, sii-," answered the stranger, " I 'ra of London training, Jjondon habits ; have, in my day — indeed who has not 1 — 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 an}'thing above sixty pur cent, i 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 yoimg man, a little haughtily. " Why, you hve a London life — oh, yes, sir, there 's no country, ha-n-thorn-look about you — you have London wants, and such things will happen to the richest, the lordliest of us ; at times the dice u-iU go wrong — the devil wi^ shufiiethe 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. Wliy, he 's as well kno^wTi 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 vou know the victim — I mean, the usurer's wife I " " 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, teU me, sir." " You see, her father was a worn-out, broken merchant. His wife, as I have lieai'd, went wTong, and from that time his head failed him — he arrew wild and reckless — losses came thick as hail upon him, and then SniiTetou came to his assistance — jes, assist- ance is what he called it — and bound him roimd and round with no ST. GILES AN'D ST. JAME.S. bills and bonds, and I know not what, and made hira all hia own. Well, in good time, old Snii)eton l(toke sjurit of wjuit in liis features, that told a tale of many .sufferings. Ue sj)oke nut — mmle no gesture of supjilication — but looked with idle, glazing eye upon the earth. This object of ilesolation — this jKjor tatterdemalion v^Tetch — suddenly smote our traveller into consciousness ; and with a kind compassionate voice, he accosted him. " My poor fellow, you seem in no pUght for travel." " B;ul enough, sir," said the man, " bad enough ; yet hardly as bad as I wish it was." " Indeed ! A strange wish ! ^Vliy, I take it, human strength could scarcely l>ear a heavier load of wretchedness." " I wish it couldn't bear it," 8;iid the man ; " I 'm tired of i^— heart -tu*ed, and could lay down my life as willingly aa 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. " Grod 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 uidcnown 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 whos*; abounding wealth he had not the ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Ill jnterest of a fartliing ; he had dared death and peril in many shapes, and hunger and all variety of misery, to stand once more \i\K>n his native soil. He knew that, if discovered, the hangman would claim hioa 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 shpped his chains, had suffered the misery of a thousand deaths, that he might once again behold an English sky, once airain tread Eu'dish earth ! Poor wretch ! how soon did hai-d reality disenchant him. How few the days he had pjisseil 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 visi(-)n3 had pi'omised gentleness and protection ; all w;is changeii St. Giles with a sen;5e of evil done. For a time he paused, a-sking counsel of himself; and then liis sinking vitals, his wDrn and wearied budy, elainied his inst.ant exertion, and agiiin he pressed onward. In halt-an-hour he arrivetl at the wished- fi>r house. Lights shone in the windows ; there was dancing, and the voice of village harmony was loud within. Wher.-fore, then, did St. Giles pau.se at the very threshold ? Wherefore, then, did his knees feel weak, and his very heart sink numbed and deat join the nien-y -makers { Alas! was there not convict written in liis haggard cheeks — felon branded on his brow? Would lie not, with a Imwl of triumph, be set u|)uu by liis fellow-men, and, like a wild be:Lst e.s<.-aped from a cage, be carried back to jail 1 His brain swam with the thought, and lie almost fell to the earth. '* Wliy, wliat 's the matter, mate ?" said a countryman, noting St. Giles's hesitation. "' Why don't thee step in ? There be plenty of room, if thee have the cash, tliough it be crowded a i)lenty." "Tiiank'ee; I was a going in," said St. Giles; ami with sudden resolution he entt-red 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 ueigldtourhood, 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 bjirber of the hamlet, who, with \igour and taste hajipily mingled, celebrated in good strong, homely verse the magnanimity, courage, and glory of the Briti.sh Lion ; an animal that has, in its day, had as many fine things written of it as an opera-singer. And as the bai-ber sang, fifty throats joined in chorus, declarator)' of the might of the aforesaid British Lion, and evidently claiming a sort of pai-tnership in its greatness. For 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 wanu, had cast away all cowai'd thought, and in the fulness of its gratitude, in tlie very ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 113 RniTirise of its happiness, had chirped aloud to the honour of the iiritish Lion ; albeit the said Lion, ;is a very prominent actor in the amis of England — as the tj'jncal defender of our heai'ths anil homes, our dearest morals, and sometimes our dearer property — might very justifiably have re(|uired the returned convict for its dinner. In very truth, St. Giles was the lawfiU prey of the defrauded, cheated British Lion ; aud yet St. Giles, in the igno- rance of his hapi)ines3, sang to the praises of the Lion as though tlie royal be;ist had beeu to him his best friend. But then St. Giles sang tus a patriot, though in his heai-t and soul he might feel no bettor than a felon. Wicked, h\i)ocritic St. Giles ! In all hi.story, did ever man, in higher places, too, do the like ? It was well for St. Giles that he had fortified himself with a cnp of ale, with a few mouthfuls of food, ere the maiden who attended to tlie wants of the visitors, asked him for the requiting coin. Otherwise St. Giles had felt somewhat abashed to display liis wealth ; the furniture of his pocket, and his outside ch.attels 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 ^^9ion I — he felt that he in no way looked hke a man to be honestly ix)sses.sed of sf the wonien ; besides, he nirely failed, on occasions such !is the present, to play the patron. Hence, after a few moments, in which his hand was gnisj)ed by at lea.st twenty humble acquaint- ances, he gave an onler that " ale was to be sei-ved all round." This largess was greeted with new acclamation. When it ha«l Kubsidec ha|i]>y together ; but that for himself, why he must join the girls, ainl have a dance uj)-slairs. This gallantry was met with another burst of ai>plau3e. In the midst of which Master Willis, all smilfs and happiness, di.sappeared. "And who is that gentleman ?" St. Giles ventured to ask of the barber, at the time his nearest neighbour. *' Who M he ? Well, where did yom ?" cried the barl)or. " I 'm — I 'm a stmnger hereabouts," answered St. Giles, a little vexed with himself for his untimely curiosity. " So I should think, not to know M;uster 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 ami single-stick — the best hunter — the best shot — the best everything. Well, you do look like a foreigner," mud the barber, glancing at St. Giles in a way that made him hejirt-sick. " I 'm a true Englishman," said St. Giles, " though T 've been some yeai-s out of the country." " Ha ! serving your king, and all that ? " said the barber. St, Giles nodded. "Well, like a good many of the f^ji-t, you don't *>cem to have made your foilin by it. but then, I supi>ose, you've ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 115 got a lot of gloiy ? Now, within a di )Zt'n or two, can you tell ua how many Frencluncn you've killed?" St. Giles winced from tlie small grey eyes of the barber, who, as though conscious of the Confusion he created, pursued his queries with growing self- sat isf;iction. *'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 gunjiowder ! " .and the barber aifectedly held his nostrils, to give, as he conceived, point tenele, kindly heart was nielte«l by the poor fellow's wretchedness, aneedily bore out the chanicter given him ; for though with grinning teeth, and a low, snutlling howl, he walked n>und and round St. Giles, Becky — even as Una dominated the lion — held Dragon in complete-t subjection. Although she ciilleatlues. As for me, I minds rats no more than rabbits. There, now, up in that comer ; and if there isn't a sack and all to cover you ! NMiy, 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 'ra 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 ha^'ing a clear conscience, and doing no hann to uoIkkIv. There, good night — poor soul ! God be with you ! " And with this simple, e;imest wish — this Uttle wish that like the circle of the univei-se holds within it all things — did the kind, the gentle drudge of a way-side pot-house send the convict to his bed. No king was ever shown to tapestried ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 117 cli.imher with truer wishes for his rest, tlian went with St. Giles Ut his straw. " Goeful tone that breathed in them, fell l«ko balm upim the felon's heart; and in a few nionionts he was bunk in the ♦lei.-jj happiness of sleep ; he wa^j f;a" away iu that neutral region of life, where emperors put off their crowns — where the arrogance of earth is calm ami harmless — where pride and tjcstentatiou have not their blat^uit trumjHits blown before them — where the purple of Dives is cast asiile on the same heap with the rags of L;u:aru8 — where the etjuality to all, that death shall everljistingly l>iing, is once a day rehe;irsed by all men— wlu're life is simple breatliing, and the slave loses the master. For mruiy nights hail St. Giles slept iu the open tieliU. Ragged, and worn, and liunger-stricken, he had nevertheless slept ; juid ^•nly when the ilaylight came felt for a time his sinews cramped and stiffened with the dews of night. Still with the sky above him, no uiore sheltered th:ui his neighbour ox or sheep, he had sli'pt ; he had, despite of fortune, cheated misery with forget- t'ulness. Nature for a time luul blessed him as she had blessed ( lie h.ippiest man. Yet sleep luul come to him slowly, reluctantly ; Viuilily want ;uid sulfcring would for a time refuse the sweet oblivion. But here iu a barn — with frei.h, delicious, odorous straw ; with roof .-uid wjills to hold out wind and rain^-St. Gileti composeJ himself to sleep ;i.s almost to eternal rest. He wa.s Iiajjpy, profoundly happy tliiit he was lodged, comfoi-tably, an any be;i2»t. F(->r an hour — yes, an hour at least — hiul St Giles enjoyed the happiness of rest, wlieu he was loudly, roughly awukeiietL '• Hallo ! you vagabond — get up, and answer for a murder," bawleil a voice ; and St. Giles, leaping to his feet, saw the bai-n h;dl-lilled with people, armed with sticks and weapons as for some sudden £iay. CHAPTER Xri. "What's the matter now?" cried St. Giles, pale and aghast; for instantly he believed himself detected ; instantly saw the gaol, the gallows, and the hangmam " "^iSTiat 's the matter ? " he cried, trembling from head to foot. " What 's the matter 1 " 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 113 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Bomewhat relieved : he Mas not, he fouml, apprehenrled a.s the escaped convict ; that wjisyet unknown; and, ckMIv enouu'h, with the accusation of blooean-tield, ami yet talks like one of us ! I should like to know wliere .sut-h as you get crown pieces ? " "Nevermind — never mint!," sjiiats ? But it 'a that hussy, Becky ; it's she that hi>l the murdiMvr hi-re ; it's she, I'll l>e sworn it, knows all alx>ut the murder, fur tlure 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 loi,Me — not altogether uncommon to the sex — saw in liecky, the reckless di-stroyer of plice in human destruction. The reasoning, it must be coufesseil, wjis of the most violent, the most tvranuie kind ; on which account, it was somewhat more attractive to Mi-s. lilink ; guileless, ingt-nuous soul I who, in her inuoceucy, rateil her hand- maiden for bestowing a homicide in the bam of the Lamb and Star ; when, ha*l the matron known au<,dit of the moral machinery of life, she ought iiLstantly to have doubled IV^ky's wages for such ijiesti- mable service. Mrs. Bliidc ought to have known that to a public- house a nninlerer was far more ]>roJitable, to both tap ann l\v !Mitlas : to be split and worked into bonnets it was worth — what Ijrain shall say how much a tniss ? But Mi-s. Blink thought not after this fashion. She looked upon St. Giles as though he had brought so much blood npon the house — so many inert'aceable 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. 11 J " And pray who is murdered ? " again a.sked St. Giles, wiOi ai) effrontery that again called up all the \nrtuous astonishnient of the host and hoste&s. " If I 've killeil any body, can't you let me know who it is ? " "Yes, yes,** cried the landlord, "you're just the felhnv to hnizen it out ; but it won't do this time ;" and he then looked knowingly at his wife, who was al)out to express herself ou the cfHriinty of St. Giles's fate, when she luludd IVcky peepii\g anxiously from the crowd, mo.st shamefully interested, as Mrs. }5link conceived, in the prisoner's condition. " Why, you wicked luissy ! if you oughtn't to Ih? hanged with him," cried the hostess: whereu])on Becky immediately took to her heels, and was imme- diattdy followed by her mistress, whose loud indignation at length died a muttering death in the distance. Mre. Blink being gone, there was dead silence for a moment ; and then tlie landlord, with a puzzled look, jerking his lu'a look acute, sharp. '' What 's to be done wi 'un ?" iu>ked two or three musingly ; and then lofiked in each t)ther's faces, as though they looked at a dead wall. At length, wisdom descended upon the bi-ain of the barber. '' I '11 tell you what we '11 do with him," said the small oracle of the Lamb and SUvr, and smMenly all looked satisfied, as though the mystery was at length discovered, — " I'll tell you what we'll do with him : we '11 leave him where he is." Eveiybody nodded assent to the happy thought. " He '11 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 wai-rant he doesn't slip through our lingere — I warrant me, varmuit as he is, 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, Uke 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, Ufe or death was, he thought, to him alike. On all hands he was a hunted, pei-secut«d wTetch ; 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 baaber, motioning silence, and then having stood a few 120 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMHS. iiiKinent.i, lis(eninj», with upraised finger, he cried — "it's my * belief the ro<.pie '.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." Tlie truth is, the barber had been visited by a second thought that suggested to him the probability of rough u.sage at the Iiands of the prisoner, should there be an attempt to put hin: in Uinds, and he therefure, with a ])ardonable regard for hin own features, projto.sed to waive the ceremony of tying the culprit. " He'll have his share of rojie in time," said the barber, nnich sati.xfied with the suiallness of the jest. Ami thereupon, he beckoned his companions fmrn the bam ; and had alreae of a sw(mi constable. " Where 's this murdering chap ]" asked the functionary. " All right, Master Tipps," said the barber, " all snug ; we 've got him." "There's nothing right, nothing snug, without the cutTs," said the constable, displaying the irons with nmch official pride. — " He 's in the bani, there, eh, M:u»ter lUink ? " Then I charge you all ill the kings name — and this is his staff — to help me." The landlon.1, touchee cast upon him in the light of day there may be somebody, as it would seem esi>ecially appointed, to chastise the evil-iloer ; and that, too, " in the dead waste and niiildle of the night ;" to drive sleep from his eyeballs ; to make him feel a coward, a nobody, a ninconnxjop, in his own holland. Pleasant is it for the sour-thinkinj' man whu sees a blusterinfj authority — whether gra-sping a beadle's staff or holding the scales of justice — sometimes to know that there is a louder anthority at hom«», a greater vehemence of reproof, that may make the bully of the day the sleepless culjtrit of the night. Was there not Whitlow, beadle of the p.irish 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 ane otherwise. It was provideil by fate that there should l>e half-a-dozen sniuggh-rs, bound on an uuhallowKl mission to the coa.st ; who, fii-st oV«*erving St. James's /tense, ma^terless and quietly grazing at the road's side, made closer search and thence discoveit-d young St. James, as they at firet believed, killed, and lying half-way down the hollow. " Uere's l»een rough work," cried one of the men ; " see, the old, wicked story — blo«xi flowing, and pockets inside out. He 's a fine lad ; too fine for s>ich a death." " All 's one for that," said a second ; '' we can't biing him to life by staring at liiin : we 've queer work '"Bough of our owni on hand — every one for his own business. Come along." '' He 's alive ! " exolainied a third, with an oath ; and as he spoke, St. James drew a long, deej) sigh. " All the better for him," cried the second, " then he can take care of him- self." "%\niy, Jack Bi]s<^>n, you'd never be such a hard-hearted chap as to leave anything with life in it, in this fa.>>hion 1 " was the remonstrance of the first discctverer of St. James ; whereupon Mr. Bilson, with a worldliness of prudence, sometimes worth uncounted gold to the possessor, remarked that humanity was ver)' well — but that evei;) body was made for everA'body's self — and that while they were palaveiing there over nobody knew who, they might lose the running of the tubs. Humanity, as Mr. Bilson ijaiil, was veiy well ; but then there was a breeches pocket virtue ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 1'23 ill sraupgled Scbcidara. " Well, if T w:is to leave a fellow-cretiir in tlii-s plight, I shouKl never have the inipiulence to hope to have a bit of luck again," saitl the more com passionate contrabandist, whose nice superstition canie in aid of his benevolence ; " and so I say, mates, K^t us carry him to that house yonder, make 'em take him in, and then go with light hearts ;md clean consciences upon our business." " Yes ; if we ain't all taken up for robbers and murderers for our pains : but, V>en Magsby, you always was a obstinate grami)us." And Ben Magsby canned out his humane purpose ; for St. James was immeo.m^ ; hut, soiiic-liiiH-s, great in tlie niVHtcTV i>f little old women. " Nothing at all, nin'ani — that is, don't be frightened • — that [ft, they ^1y, ma'am, murder and roMx-r)*." " Heavens ! "Where — where ? " exclaimed the young lady. " It isn't yotir dear husband, ma'am — i>h no, it isn't master, so don't l>e frighteneil," said the tranquil Dorothy. " But, if you please, uia'am, it's in that room — I mean the bo«ly, ma'am." The young lady, for a moment, shrank bark in tomir ; and then, as though reprr)viiii; herself for the weakness, she rapidly j'.'iitfwtl into the room, followed by her elder conip.ininn. At the same inotant, thewoundeking wanderingly arouml him — " Clarissa ! Can it be ?" he crit^l, and again swooning, fell Iwiek. Instantly, the girl waa on her knees at his sitle ; unconscious of the reproving, the a.>wureoke Mrs. Wilton, in wonls of coldest comfort, anis, whilst I 8<'n«." And St. James, unconscious of the hospitality, was the guest of Mr. Ebenezer Snipeton ; whose character, the reader may rem»inl>er, was somewhat abnij>tly discusaetl by the stranger liorseman in the ]»ast chapter. It was here, at Dovesnest, that the thrifty money-seller kejtt his young wife close ; far away, and safe, as he thought, from the l>old compliments, the reckless pullantrk' of the rich young men who, in their frequent time of need, jKiid vi.sits to the frientl who. the security certain as the hour, never failed to assist them. Mr. Snipeton was not, in the onliiiaiy matters of life, a man who un^ore uixm his luuids — no danming sj>otjj **een by the world's nakeectable ohl gentleman ; a man who has a file of ren-ipts to show for everything ; a nuai wiio never did owe a shilling ; juid alxive all, a man who takes all the gotxl ho gets as nothing more than u projK-r payment for his exceem the opening to the closing of the m.irket, and not a soul shall carry away his little |H.iiiiywi»rth ; now the large holder is certain of a quick denniud for all his stock. Men are taken by its extent, and close with him innue- diately. If, reailer, you wiuited to buy one single egg, wouKl you jmrcluuse that one egg of the jjoor, rasc:d dealer, who hud only one egg to sell ? Answer us, truly. Behold the mo«lest trades- man. He stands shrinkingly, with one leg drawn up, and his ten tingt-rs interlaced lackadiiisically, the while his soul, in its more than luaiilen b;ishfulncss, would retreat, get away, e-scajx' 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 triie 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 hea.t of your heart 's-blood, you most manfully Jespise. 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 wretcheught of the wart, as by some avenging imp. He seemed to have become all wart : to be one unsightly e.xcrescence. 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 vdfe as young, and fresh, and beautiful as spring. And therefore, after a short season, was Ebeuezer in misery. He looked at his wife's beimty, and then he thought of his withered face — that felon wart ! In her veiy loveliness — like a satyr drinking at a crystal fount — he saw liis own deformity. Was it possible she could love him ? Tlie 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 ? And his heai-t — 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. 127 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 \iglines3 became to him a daily spectre — resolved to hide this hum!\ji ware, this pretty chattel of flesh and blood, far away iu rustic scenes. And therefore bought he a secluded house, half-buried amid gloomy trees — cypress and dead man's yew — and this house, in the imp-like playfulness of his soul, he called Dovesnest. Tliat 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 couti-ast ; a grim humom- 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 hia married modesty ; to sjieak of his love, and of the demon ugliness — the wrinkles and the ever-burning wart — that perplexetl 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 heiu-t and imderstanding 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, V>egin balancing some peacock's feather on his nose ; talking the while of the deep Argus' eye — pm-ple 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 ? Wliy, 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 taJce to be the meaning of— but we are bahmcing 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. Mi-s. 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. Snijieton — no ; it will not do. We will not meddle with the ugly gift of her husband : we will rather owe an obligation to her godfathei-s and godmothers. & 128 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Clarissa still knelt at the side of St. J:imes ; and even Mrs. Dorothy Vale mar\'clled at the whiteness of her mistress's cheeks — at the big tears that rolled from her iijiraiseil eyes — whilst her lips moved as though in j«usMioiiate jirayer. " tJod blcsa me!" fiuid Mrs. Vale, "f dou't think the young man's dead, but — oh, the goodness ! what a pretty couch his wound will make ! Ha ! jx->»ple have no thought, or they 'd have taken him into the kil< lien. He'll be woi-ae than five i)ouiul to th.it cxuoli if a groat. You can get out anything but blood," said Mrs. Vale. '* If it had been wine, I shouldn't have mimknl it." " He 's dying ! Ho 's nmrdered — his blood is on my head ! " cried Clarissa, as Mi-s. Wilton returned to the room. " I5e tranquil ; pray be calm," s;usent, it is my duty — yes, my duty " — repo.iti'd Clariiwa, "to att«nnl to the hospitality of his house." " Hospitality," i-ej>eatod Mrs. Wilton ; and her cold, yet anxious eye glanced at Clarissa, who, slightly frowning, reix-Ued the look. ** Ai> you will, Mi-s. Sni{)eton — as you will, Mrs. Snijxjton," and the housekeej>cr gave an emphasis to the conjugjil name that made its bearer wince as at a sudden pain. " Tliere is no danger now, I am sure," she continued ; washing the wound, whilst the sutferer every moment breathed more freely. At length, con- sciousness retunieil. 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 siike, yovi must be silent." " All will be well, sir," said Clarissa ; " trust me, you are in carehil hands. The doctor will be here, and — " ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES. 129 "N:iy, I need none, fair lady," answered St. James; "for I ain already in wu^eful tiauds. Indeed, I know it — feel it." "Oh, yi>u must be siU-nt — indited vuu must," ur<;;ed Mra. Wilton inijH-'nitiwly ; ami then she added in a voice of sorrow, and witli a uifist troubled look, — "otherwise you know not the danger, the misery that may In-fal you. Mrs. Snipeton," and a^jain slio turned with anxious facv towards Clarissa, " Dorothy and I i5in watch. " Clarissa made no answer ; but gravely bowed her head. Mrs. Wiltipii, sn])])n's.> further ; but busied herself with her patient's wound, whiLst Clarissa and St. James mutely interclianged looks that went to the heart of the saddened, the unheeded housekeeper. CHAPTER XIII. Thk hall clock had stniok five. The beauty of a .«?pring mom ing w;ls uj>on the earth. The sun shone ijito the sick man".* room ; green leaves mstUil at his window ; and a robin, {)ercheut a jiainted scene ; an unreal thing that with its mockery pained her wearied heart ; yearning as it did for what lay beyond. Wlio could have thought — who had seen that beautiful creature — that she walkfd 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 thougli 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 S(X)the its misery ; and now she would look clouded and perplexed ; and now, so sweet a smile of patience would bi eak into her face, that it was to wrong her nobleness to pity her. And still — as we have saiut aii.Men step, a man cnUre.irtnient. It w.is KUiiezf-r Siiii>.ton. H« ha«l sl.'pt half-way on his jouniey from [.oii.h.n ; an, he had ridden, for him, ver>- gaily al.ai;,'. Yes ; he was touchetl by the season. He felt — or thoupht he felt — that there was •ometliing under the blue »ky, jMimethin^j almortt, a« goo«l as reatly gold. He looked with a fuvouj-able » ye ujxin th,' j>rimn>!j«'s that lighted up the heilge-sides, and thought thera really pretty : thought that, when all was s;ud, th.n- might really 1r' *.iue use In tlowers. Onee, Uk), he che<-ked his hi>rse into a slow widk, that he might listen U^) a lark that King above him, and with its gxishing melotly made tlie sweet air thrvib. He smile*! too, grimly smiletl, at the cunning of two mag])ios th»t, alighte«l fi-om a tall elm, walki'd In the tvkkI, talking — though with unslit tongue** — of their family's atTrum ; of where best to provide worms for their little ones ; of tln-ir plum.age, sprouting daily ; of the time when they would fly alone; and of other m.itters, j>erhai»*, too familiar to the reader, if he be }>areutal. And £Il»ene7.er thought nothing was so Ix-autiful as the country* ; as, in truth, other men like Ebenezer might have th.ought at four or five in the moniing : but then as 'Cliange hours approach, the romance failes with the early mist ; and at 10, A.JI., the Arcatlian somehow finds himself the scrivener. Tl«u.«. * *' - man of law — KubnrUm lo»lged — may Infore )i .li leap with the lambkins in the mead ; but, breakfa.st swallowed, he journeys with unaUiteil zeal, inexorable to the |>arohment. And EWuezer, as he riKlc, detennined henceforth to look on everytliing with smiling eyes. Yes ; he had before always «tareestrk-. He wo«ild henceforth amend such unprofitable fxdishness. He ha, mt*8t vehenn-ntly. And ») Elx-nczer forgot his wrinkled face ; almost forgot the wart upon his nose. And Clarissa loved him ? Of coui-se. It was not her nature to W impetuous : no, she was mild and nun-like ; he had chosen her for those rare qualities, but she lovetl him as a meek and modest gentlewoman ought to love her hush>and. This sweet eimviction brought Ebenezer to his court-yard door. It wjw oj>en. Well, there was nothing strange in that. Xichola.s, of ec'Urse, was up ; and yet — where was he ? Ebenezer's heart ST. GILES AND .ST. JAMES. l?.l sermcrt to fjill fatlioius ; to drnp in liis hody, like a plummet. In a muiueiit, the e^irth was tli.-.i-ucli.iuti"(l. Tliej-e, Wtoie tlie eyes of Elx-nezer, stood Ebenozer withered, with the bri&tlcd Wiirt bij;>,'iT tlian ever ii|Min hin iiosu- ; in his sudilon despair, he saw Lis bad giftiJ ma>j^nilie;i.>wed intk like a reed. Still he \*7u< silent ; silent and struggling to master the fury that jK>8se»!*ed him. He breathed heavily ; anti then seatitl himself in a chair, and still with the eyea of u ghost looked on the sleejjer. Devilish thoughts passed through the old man's brain: nmnler wliL-jKrcd in hi.s ear, and still he fiercely smiled :uul listeimi. With his live fingers he could do it — strangle the disturLter in his sleep. And the old man luoked at his hands and chuckleii. And u<'W there is a quick sleji in the pas.s;ige ; and iiuw, L'lari.'«a eiitere the apartment. " Dear sir ! busliaud," at length she uttereoot8. Under one arm he carried a thick-thonged whip ; and in his right hand, [)rumiuently held forth, as challenging the eyes of all men, a rusty beaver. " Couldn't come before — very surr\', 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, lanets Tnu.st think of this our reckless, disreputable mother earth — this •wiirkhou.se planet, the shame and reproach of all better systems — it is not for a son of earth to say. But, surely, if Mercury, Venus, ami others km.w anjlhing of our goings on, they mu.st now and then look down uj>on us with inetfable scorn : at least, they ought. And yet, they do not ; but with all our sins and all our foolish- no4turb a shimWrer. St. James, oK'-.trvinj; Sni|ieton, rose up hastily, and with his blood burning in his face, w.xs about to speak. ** You must be quiet, 8U\ 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 Croa.sbune shook liLs hrad, and heaved a laborious sigh — " 1 'm sorry to say it, you must be very quiet." "But, Mr. Snii)etou," cried St. James, "|>ermit 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 Snijietoii, looking command at his wife, (juitted the room, followed Viy his obetlient, trembling helpmate. " Phwegh ! " cried Cro.s.sbone, }X)sst8.sing liimself of liLs p.itient'a wrist, '■ a nice-hoi-se pulse ; a mile a miimte. Fever, very high. I.(et me look at your tongue, sir : don't laugh, sir — pray don't laugh " — for St. .Tames w;us 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 liis hands into his jwckets, '• this will be a long bout, sir — a very long bout." " I thuik not — I feel not," said St. James, smiling. " Tis nothing — a mere nothing." " Ha, sir 1 " cried Crossbone. " 'Tis pleasant — droll, some- times — to hear what people caXL nothing ; and in a few days, they're gone, sir; entirely gone. But I'll not alarm you — I liave had woi-se cases — uevertlieless, sii", a man with a hole in hi» akull, 6uch a hole as that " — and here Crossbone tightly closed ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 133 lis eyeliils, and yave a shaiT), short sluike of the head — "but I '11 cot al.ina you. Still, sir, if you 've auy little affairs to make stniight — there's a jewel of a law'j'er only five miles off, the prettiast Land at a will — " " I '11 not trouble him this bout, doctor," said St. James, who saw as clearly into Crossbone, as thuuj^h, 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 clieat the worms. Nevertheless, it 's an ugly blow — the eighth of an inch more to the right or loft, and — " " I know what you would say," cried St. James. " Blows are generally dealt after that Cushion ; there 'a great good luck iu *em. The faculty are often much iudebtod to the eighth of an inch, more or less." " You muiit not talk, sir : indeed, you must not, delighted as otherwise I should be to hear you. — Yes : now I see the whole of the niiscliief : now I am thoroughly possessed of the matter," ajul Crossbone lookeil 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 jxjur assistiuice " — 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 ftay," answered St. James, carelessly. " When you see him, no doubt ? And I am delighted to inform you the villain is secured. With the blessing of justice he '11 be hanged ; which will be a gi-eat consolation to all the neighbour- hood. Yes ; I heaixl it till, as I came along. The ruffian, Avith 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 ? " cried St. James, with a vexed look. " I 'm sorry fur 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 I Well, sir, we '11 talk about it ; we '11 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 di-ess your wound, and then take a little potion that I '11 make up for you, and then — we shall see." Hereupon, St. James placidly resigned himself to the hands of Ci'ossboue, who very leisurely 131 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. ilrcst the wouiul, ugain aiul again ileclaiuig ihat the patient Wiia only on tliis aide vf the grave by the eighth of an ineh. There nevt-r hail been a skull so curiously brokcu. At length, Crasa- boue took his leave of the sufferer, with the benevolent juwurance that he woiilil nmkc up something nice f(»r him ; of which the p.iticnt rillt'ntly ilL-termintil not to swallow a drop. " Well, doctor ? " asked Snipcton, with a savage leer, as Crosa- bone p;uvsi-d into the h;dl, — '* how is his loixlship now ? " " lA>rdship I " exchumet<)n into an adjoining aj»;u-tment, where s;it Clari.-u exjHX'tcd an answer to his question ; but Crt>sslH>n<-, raLsing his evi-s juid his clu.sed h.uids — M favoiuite gesture with him when deeply move*l — only said, " and lie is a lord ! " " Well, lonls die, don't they ? " aske«;d her chair. " indeed ] " repeated the old man very blithely. " Your imrdou, for a minute, my good sir," said the ap*^)thecar}*. " I '11 just send thus to my assistant — your man Nicholas must mount and gallop— for there's a life, a verj- deiir life to the country no doubt, dejiendiug on it." And Crossbone proceeded to write his sentence in his best bad Latin. Chu-issa felt that her husband's eye w.is upon her ; yet sat she statue-like, with a terrible calmness in hei* pale face. The old man, his heart stung by scoi-pion jealousy, gazed on her with Biivage satisfaction. And she knew this : and still was calm, tr;aniuil as stone. She felt the hate that fed upon her misery, yet slirauk not from its tooth. " Mi-s. Wilton," said Crossbone, as the housekeeper timidly entered the room, " you '11 give this to Nicholas — tell him to gallop with it to my assistant, Mr. Sims ; and, above all, let him take owe of the medicine, for there 's life and death — a lord's life and ♦ ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, ISS death in it," said the doctor, uucouacious of the probable truth he Utter tnl. " Ami his Ictnlshiji," said old Siiipeton, gently rubbing his hands, " his lordship is in very jrrvat daiii,'er ? " " Tlie fact iw, ^f r. Snipetou, there are men — I blush to say it, who belong to our glorious jirofeswion — there are men who always magnify a c;ise that they may mai^'nify their own small abilities, their next-to-uolhing talent, in the treatment of it. I need not say that Peter Crossbone is not such a man. Rut this, sir, I will say; tliat every week of my life I do such thini.'s here in the couiilry — hedge-side practice, sir, nothing niojv ; hedge-side practice ; — sueh things that if any one of 'em was done in Ijondon, tliat one would lift me into my carriage, and give me a ame with ten pound.s' worth of virgin g"ld u]>on it. But, sir, uo man cjvu culiiv,'\U' a reputation among pau|»er9. It's uo matter what cure you make ; they 're thought thiugs of course ; paupers are ktiuwni to stand anything. Why there was a cxse of hip-joint I had — there never w;»s so sweet a ciuse. If that hipjoint had been a lord's, aa I say, I ought to have stepix'd from it iutu my carriage. iJut it was a cow-boy's, sir ; a wretched cow-boy's ; a lad very evilly-;irish man-midwife do, sir ? W'hy, he brings paupers upon the earth : he does nothing but cultivate wee*ls, sir — weeds : and if he is a man of any feeling, sir, he can't but feel it as a thing beneaXh him. Mr. Snipetou, I 'm almost ashamed of myself to declare, that within these eight-aud-furty hours I 've brought three more weeds into the world.'' " Humjih :" said Snipeton. " And, a^ a man who wishes well to his countrj', you may guess my feeliiigs. 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 ISC ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. •♦ HouBe of I>^nla. In its little )itaui liaTuent ; for he 's a boni lawmaker. Ahout its little, kiokin;,', rul leg, he already beholil.i the nmst noble Onler of the CJarttT. Nl»w, sir, this is > he li«>ks xjjmn a Imhy — if he'.s any fei-liti'j^ worthy of a man — he must feel \.h?.i he's lin)nghl «/ nindj oiVnl into the world. He Kx'ks \ijnm a head which is to hare nothing put into it ; nothinij, p»Tha|>s, Itut H<'«iition and n'T>rHijm — ye.s, sir, Ujiti — to .<»«'t wires for hares ; and the fact is, if, as I say, the man has feelinfjs, he fei-ls that he's an abott4:>r of punching, and all soi-ts of wickwhiess ; — of wirk'-^lncns that at hust — and it '3"^ery ri;,dit rt shonid l»e so — at hust takes the rreatnn- to the fjallows. Now, sir, isn't it a dn-adfnl thinp for a n»an— for a pn>f«'H.'«iit nfx>n his e«liH"at ion— isn't it a dreadful tliinj; for liini to know fli;»t he may }yv only a sort <4 pur%-eyor to tho fallows ? I feel the wrong, sir ; feel it, acutely, here ;" and f'n>ssI>one taj'jH-d his left side with }/is f »re-fiiiw t:< thU, the wet^ls will cwt^iiinly over- grow the Hliea." " And your patient, his j^dlant and .■vmiable loniship," saiil SnijKJton, still eyein-,' his wife, "is in danger ?" " Great danger," answered CVussbone. " Nevertheless, with a blessing— understand me. Mr. Srirp<.-ton, with a blessing, for how- ever wontlrons mycnn', I hoj>e I hare n^rt the p^e^^^mf- day. 'Twould be death, air ; certain death."' And Crossl»one blew his nose. " Indeed ! Certain death ? " repeated Snii)eton, smiling grimly ; and still watching the face of his wife. " I fear — I me;in I hope — Mr. Crossbone, that your anxiety for so ffiod, so haiKlsome a young man — a nobleman too — may, without any real cause, increase your fears. For, as yon aay, 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. J.\MES. 137 I have been here before. Two or three hours earlier might have luaile all the lUtTereiice ; f<>r his lor.lship h:i8 great nervous irrita- bility ; is most wuiuierfully ami delicately strung. But I was away, aa I say, producing the weeds, sir. Yes, I 've ridden I' ni ashamed to own liow m.'iny miles since ten o'clock la.st night ; and what 's my reward, sir ] What, aa pai-isli doctor and midwite, is my consolation ? Why this, sir ; that I 've helped to bring misery iunl w!uit, and I don't know how m:uiy other sorts of vices into the world, when I might — fetou, liappy is the professional man who hiboui-fi among the lilies ! Sweet is his satisfaction ! Now, sir, when 1 ride home early in the nioniing — for the jiarish jx'Ojile, aa I say, always make a |xjiut of knocking a man up at the most ud- Bejisonable hour ; they ilo it on pur]K(se, sir, to show the ]>ower they Lave over you — now, sir, when 1 "m riding home, m hat s my feel- ings t Why, sir, as a lover of my country, there 's s^imething in my brejist that won't let me feel liappy and comfortable. There 's something that continu.ally reproaches me with liaving heljH'd to aild to the incumbr.uice of the nation : as I sjiy, that distre.s.ses me with the thought that I've been cultivating weeds, sir, nothing but weeds. Now a job like the present I look ujx)n aa a reward for my j>ast misfortunes. It is a beautiful case !" " Because so full of djiuger ] " said Suipetou, still looking at liis p'lle and silent wife. " It is imjx)ssible that a blow could have been stnick 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 corjise." Suipoton made no answer ; but with clenched teeth, and sup- pressed breatli, still glared at his wife. Passion shon, she athliil, " lielp rne to my room." Site iIr-u rose with an ell'ort, ami sn|»jK)rte(l by the housekeeper, quittetl the apartment. And still her husband fol- loweothecary. " In the name of the liends," crietl Snij>eton, fiercely, " where- fore, with that nionkt-y face, do yr»u grin at me ?" " My dear sir," said (."rosslwrie, smiling still more Ixiboriously, " my dear sir, you 're a happy man ! " " Happy !" cried Snipeton, io a hoarae voice, and with a look of doopost misery — " Happy ! " " Of course. You ought to be. What more delightful thaii the hope of — eh ? — a growing comfort to your declining years — a staff, as the snyini: i.s, to your old age ? " The mystic meaning of the aiH)thi'cary fla-sheil ujxm the hus- Imnd ; the old man shook, as though ague-stricken, and covering hi.s fare with his hand.s, lie fell heavily as leail into a chair. Mr. Cro»slH>ne was silent in hi^t astonishment. He looked won- deringly alx)Ut him. Waa his practice to be bo greatly enlargeetou, a man who wore like oak, cmld be ill ? .Siii|>eton, to be sure, was not, to Cro8»- boiie's thought, a lily jvitient ; but then, how very far was he aliove the weetls ! The ajwthecary was al>out io feel Snij>eton's pul.se ; had the professional fingers on the wrist, when the old man snatched his anu away, and that with a vigour that well nigh CArrieil Croasboue off his legs. The apothecary was about to pay some equivocal compliment to the old gentleman's strength, wlien Nicholas, flustere«l, with a startling piece of news, ran iu with the meilicine duly comjxiunded by Mr. Sims. " They was bringing the munlerer to the house, tliat the gen- tleman " — for Nicholas knew not the sufferer was a lord — " miglit Mentify the bloodspiller af«>re he dietl." And Nichohus repeated truly what he had heard. Rumour had travelled — and she rarel}' goes so fast as when dniwn by lies — to the Lamb and SUar. 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 la-st night, lay at Dovesnest ; that his wound was mortal ; that he was dying fiust ; that he had already made his \n\l, Dorothy Vale and Ebenezer Snipetou having duly witnessed it. Tliis new.s, sooner than smoke, tilled every comer of the house. Great was the stir throughout the Lamb and Star. Tipjjs, the constable, on the instant, wore a more solemn look of authority ; on the instant, Bummoned St, Giles to prepare for his removal, at the sams time ST. GILE3 AND ST. JAMES. 139 cautiously feeling the liandcutra to learu if they still remained true to their tioist. The Icirher left a pedlar half-shaved to afconqtaiiy llie i)arty ; and m a few luiuutes the horse \v:us put to the cart ; and^St. Giles, who sjxike not a syllable, was seated in it hetween Tip]>s and tlie landlord, Mr Blink having donned his Sunday coat and waisteoat, that he might jjay j)roper respect to the solemnity ; whilst the barber, gi-.wping a cuilgel, guarded the culprit from behind. "Stop! hhall I take the blunderbuss, for fear ! " lusked the huuUord of Tijjps, and eyeing St. Giles. " No," answered the constable, smiling coiilidently and looking atfec- tiouately at the ununiole, " no ; them dear cutis never deceived lue yet." Crack went the whip — away started the horse ; and Tipp.s, the landlord, and the bjul>er, looked about tluMU freshly, happily ; smiling gaily in the moniing suu — g:uly as though they were carrying a sheep to market — ay, a sheep with a golden fleece. And the huidUidy watcluHl the whirling wheels, and with heart- warm wish (jKx>r soul !) wi.-^heil that the wretch miglit V>e hanged, ye.s, fifty feet high. And Ix-cky, the maid, in lier deep ])ity, braving the tongue of her mistres.^, stood sobbing in the road, and tiien, a.s suddenly insj)ired, plucked otf one of her old shoes, anil tiling it after St. Giles, with kindly su]>erstition as she sjiid fur luck. '• For she kuow'd it, and could swear it ; the jx>or ci-etur's hands wjis as iimocent of blood as any babby's." Foolish Bw.'ky ! By such presvunptuoiis i>ity — a pity, :i3 Mrs. Blink tliought, flying in the face of all respectability, did you fearfully risk the place of maid-of-ali-work at a hedge-side hotel ; a place worth a certain forty shillings a year, besides the complimentary half-pence. Keturn we to Nicholas. Ere Snipeton and Crossbone were well jx^ssessed of the news, the cart drove up before the window. " And there is the murderer ! " cried Crossbone. " Bless me ! there 'a no need at sJl to try that man — there 's every letter of Ciiiu all over the villain's face. A child at the hom-bell it. And now they 're going to bring him in. Ha ! my tine fellow," added the apothecary, as St. Giles alighted ; " there 's a ciut you won't get into so quickly, I can tell you. What a bold looking villain ! "With so much blood upx)n him, too ! A lord's blood, and to look so brazenly ! What do you think, 3[r. Snipeton ? " Now, Snipeton was not a man of overflowing chainty, 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 14C ST. GILES AND ST. JAME3. 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 Lira all about it, and in a jiffy Mr. Wattles wouUl 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 ? " asked Snipeton of the constable. " Never made a blunder in all my life, sir," answered Tipps, 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 sto|)ped by the doctor. Crossbone rushed in, slightly pale and much agitated, exclaiming, " The patient 's gone ! " " Not dead ! " cried Snipeton, erultingly, and nibbing his hands. " Dead 1 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 I All were astonished. So great was the surjjrise, not a word was spoken ; until Dorothy Vale, who had crept into the room, with her cold, calm voice, addressed the apothecaiy. Pointing to the stains in the couch, she sjiid, " If you please, sir can you give me nothing to take out that blood ? " CHAPTER XIV. u And now," thinks the reader, " St. Giles is free. Tliere is no charge against him ; lie is not the murderer men, in hie 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. Tliere 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 h;is strayed into the pai'adise of the well-to-do, and must le sharply reproved for his ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. lit whereabout. Aud 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 peoi^le have goose-beds and weather-proof chambers, he, at the best, has straw and a barn. It is, too, made a misdemeanor against mother eai-th to sleep upon her naked breast, with only the heavens above the sleeper ; and as St. Giles had often so oifended — 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 tiattering homage to cloth of gold. Nothing was proved agauist St, Giles but want ; which, being high treason against the majesty of property, that large oflence 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 Tii)ps, the constable, led away his prisoner, preceded by the host of the L;uiib aud 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, aud you 'd never have had my cart," said the landlord to Tipps. " I thought the fellow would turn out somebody ; and he 'a nothing but a vagrom. Come up ! " cried the Lamb and Star ; and sharply whipping his horse to ease his own bad temper, he di'ove oft", the bai'ber vainly hallooing for a seat in the vehicle. AV^hereupon, Constable Tipps, casting a savagely inquiring look at St. Giles's handcutfs, 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 lovelil}^ the sun shone ; how beautiful all things looked and beamed in ita light ; the lark sang, like a freed spirit, in the dome of heaven : and yet, beneath it, lay a teriible witness of the guilt of man ; a mute and bloody evidence of another Cain ! St. Giles, however, was on his way to the coimty gaol, ere the deed was discovered. Not willing to give an account of himself, he was committed to imprisonment and hai'd labour in jjunishment of his destitution. That he was not in addition wliipped for his poverty, testified strongly to the injudicious clemency of Justice Wattles. Such mercy went far to encourage rags and tatters. 142 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 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 Ijarab and Star was a scene of tumult. And this time, there was no d(Hibt of the atrocity. It was now impo.saible that the worthy folks, assembled iu the hostelry, could be tricked into useless .symjiathy. There wjia now no doubt th.it a man was killed ; and if St. Giles had escaj>ed the charge of former homicide, why such escape only the more strongly proved his guilt of the new wickedness. " He '11 be hanged, after all!" cried the landlord, with the air of a man foretasting an enjoyment. " The villain I Ke was born for the gibbet," said the barber ; " if I wouldn't walk over glass bottles to sec him hanged, I 'm not a Christi.on." Whilst the barber and others were thus vehemently declaiming their Christi;uiity, there arrived at the Lamb and Stjir a most important j>crson. Up to that hour, he had been a nislic of average insigniticance ; but he suddenly ftiund himself a creature of considerable interest — a man, heartily welcomed, as a boon and a trwisure. Tliis happy man was one Pye6nch ; and was known to the surrounding country as a mole-catcher of tolerable p;irts. It was he who had . Blink, and it was hard to deny such a woman anjihing. 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 Pj-efinch. " I was a goin' along by Cow Meadow, 'bout four in the momin' wi' my dog Tliistle, 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." '• A.x your pardon, missus. I shall have to tell all this story at 'sizes ; I know what theoi chaps, the lawyers be, to bother a poor ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Ui man who 's no scholaa-d ; 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 hia 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 sjiying," continued the mole-catcher, " Tliistle was a niiining 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 notions of spring just as well as we — well, where w;w I ? " " Thistle was b;u-king," prompted the landlady, fidgetting and castuig about impatient looks. " To be sure he was. "Well, all on a sudden he hold his tongue : he was then a gooitch o' the field. I thought nothing o' that ; when on a sudden he give cry agin, but quite a different bark to t'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 ; ha ! woi-se 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 ! if they didn't bum 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 ujwn 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 ? ' " " Bless us, and save us ! " cried the landlady, wondering at the discrimination of the doe. " I ditln'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 T come to the pitch o' the field ; and there — oh. Lord ! " Here Pj'efinch seized the mug, and, emptjTng 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 gr;iss, and sets up sich a howl, and then I sees a pool of blood, and then I run away as fast as legs 'ud carr\' 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 144 ST. GIL!^S AND ST. JAME=^. sheep in his o-^Ti field. Terrible, i.sn'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 Lid corn ; it 's the smugglers, as I 'm a sinner." " The smugglers ! — poor souls ! " — said Mrs. Blink, who, though a licensed dealer in spirits, had, strangely enough, a large sym- pathy for contraband tradei-s ; '" they wouldn't hurt a lamb. It "s that villain that slept in the bam ; and I 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 Aolubility 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. '* -A nd how does Master Robert take it ? " cried the landlord. " Why, wondei-ful, 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 '11 have the old man's land o' course ? Poor soul ! He '11 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 night we shall have at the Lamb and Star," " I wonder who he '11 marry ? " 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 BobVillis." 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. 145 seemed, above all creatures, tlie very creature whom such ari atrocity would fit ; and yet the failure of all cAadenee was a*. C(.>raplete as to certain folks it was distressing. However, there was one comfort. St. Giles was fast in prison as a rogue aiid vagabond ; afld, in good time, sufficient facts might rise up agamst him. He had been set down to be hanged ; aud in the cheerful faith of those who had judged him, it was impossible he should escape a doom so jieculiarly fitted to him. Hence, St. Giles remained iu gaol, like a fine haunch m a lai-der, to be some day feasted ou. A week had jia-ssed, and still justice was baffled. Tlie murderet. man slept in his grave, aud still his murderer walked the free earth. Justice Wattles had a double motive for the lestless zeal which animated him in his search for the culprit : tliere was his chai'acter as a magistrate ; aud, more ; there was his feeling of kinship towai'ds the victim, Farmer Willis being his brother-in- law. Hence, Justice AVattles, indefatigable in his purpose, called at Uovesnest. A most unwelcome visitor was his worship to Ebenczer Smpeton, then preparing to depart from his hermitage for the din of London ; and at the very moment the magistrate was announced, reheai'sing 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 fi-om the temptations of evil spirits. Snipeton had compelled himself to beheve the story of his wife, avouched, too, as it was by Mrs. Wilton. He had t}Tanmsed over his heart that it should give credence to what he fain would hojie ! And so, he would leave home, a happy husband, convinced, assured ' pa^st all susjjiciou, 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 phght, it was impossible that Clarissa could deny liira hospitable usage. And with this thought, a load was lifted from the old man's heart, and he would — yes, he would be hajjpy. Snipeton was wandering iu this Paradise of Fools, when the name of Justice "Wattles called him home. " Good morning, i\Ir. 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 a;id so excellent a man," were the first words of the Justice. ■ " Very ten-ible," answered Snipeton. " I have already heai'd all the particulars," and he pulled on his glove. " Not all, sii-— I 'm afraid not all," said XVattlos. ' Tliat young pentleman who was brought to your house — " VOL. L ' litf ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. " Woll ? " " lie 's a young nobleman, to be sure ; buf. .<;till it 's orM, Mr. SuJfX'ton ; 1 say, it 'a oet(in, that young nobleman ha« been seen lurking about here very much of late. That's odd. Do ynu know what business brings him to these paris ? " " How should I know ?" exclaimed Snipeton, looking fiercely at the Justice, as at one who wuuld reail the secrets of his .soul. "To be sure; perhaps not," said Wattles, " ninl 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 .stnin it is tijHin tlie family I — the very night he met his fate. You didn't know, then, that the young nobleman tisetl to hang about these quarters f " " Justice Wattles," replied Snipeton, " if as a magistrate you •woidil ex.imine me, I must attend your summons. My house is Dot a court." " Certaiidy not — certainly not," answered the Ju.stice, suildenly taking uj» his dignity. " I a.sk your pardon ; of course, thi.s matter •will l>e siftef course, he can l>e made to explain everN"thing — lenl as he is. Still, being a fincnd of youi-s — I mean of your wife's — I intended to show him some consideration. Nevertheless, as you say your house is not a court, why good uioming, Mr. Snij>oton — irood 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 ; hnt now they were floating about him in a sunny sky, :md now they were Viroken, vanished ! As Justice Wattles, with a flushed countenance, crossed the threshold of Dovesnest, he was encounterey Nicholas, the sole s<:r\'ing-man of Snipeton. " Bless me ! your worship," cried Nicholas, " here's luck in meeting you — ^here 's a s^miething a^ 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 tis ! " cried Wattles, and he trembled %iolently— " where did this come from ? ** ST. GILKS AXD ST. JA31E3. 147 " I found it in a hedtfe — just ]xs 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 nee«l s.ay nt)thing of the matter." Nichola.s, well ple;vsed to sell his silence on such terms, pocketeti the guinea, and with a knowing nod at the Justice, went his way. Wattles walked hurriedly on, turning down a lane that skir(ed tlie Devil's Elbow. The old UKin trembled from head to foot ; his eyes wandereil, and his lips moved with unspoken woi-ds. Now he ran, ami now staggered and tottered down the lane ; and at length jiaused midway and looked cautif>usly about him. He then drew forth the pocket-book, and with dee|>est misery in his face, proceedetl to search it. It cont.'iined n denounce the liouiiiiile : and then hia jdide wiLS ti»uchcd ; he thmj^ht of tlie .shiiiiio. tlie liiatiiii^ ii,'noinuiy, &H he dcenu'd it, that would cUng to tlie taniily, juid thus helil in doubt, sus|)eu8e — he would in Lis weakness weep and J*ray of lieaven to l)e supported and directed. " Koln-rt 's a nion.ster that jiullulcs the earth," he would cry — " he must, he shall l)e hanged." And then the stem Justice would cbiflp liis hands, and moan, and mutter — " l>ut the di.-^irniee ton the idle .and the pri)fligate thnnighnut the coimtry. The old man h;ul returned from Canterbury f;ur, as his as«i.Hsin thought, with a large sum of money in his poBseHsion. The njurderer, ready dres-sed for the village fe.>4tival, hnee«l, made for the Lamb and Star, to join in the revelry of the merry-makers. More of this, however, as we proci-eil in our history. And now old Snii^eti^i must s.-\y farewell to his young wife. How beautiful she looked ! Wliat an air of truth and purity was around her I How her mute meekness rebukef : I am kept such a pri.soner here'" — and Claris.sa 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 >Tsit the Cathedrjd ; I hear it is so beautiful — so awful." " I would you had spoken of this to ^Ir. Suipetuu," 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, Jis you would say — therefore, if I would go at all, I must go unknown to ray 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. " "VMienever you will, I will be .ready to accompany you." 150 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. « " Oh no ; I will not take you from the liouse : it i.s neceamry liiat you bIiduIiI rvniaiu. Dorothy is so ihil! ainl sltiw, I should not feel haj)py to leave her alone. Let Nicholas onler a diaise, aneton," added the housekeeptr, "when do you po ? " " Oh, to-morrow," an.nwered Clariswa, with forcwl \'ivacity. Mrs. Wilton ItM>keok comniandin;.'. '' ! ; to play the mUtn-sa to the presumptuous menial. ''Mi ^ n, l>v what riu'ht do vou thus ipiestiou n»y wonl?" " ]W the ri;,'ht of lovo ; yen, by the love I U-ar you, lady," ftiiswere«l the houseke»'|KT. " I know your hrart ; can see the Wound within it. 1 know the grief tliat daily wears you ; but, with the knowlttlge of a deeper wound — of grief more terrible — a grief made of remorse and shaiue — I implore you, leave not your home." " And why not ? Since you know the bondage I endure — the loathsomeneiw of life II ' it me — the cnnt-er of tlie heart that tortun«8 me — thed<- u of ever\'thin;r that mak»-s life good and holy, — wherefore should I not break the chain that IxmIv and soul en.slavi-s me ? Tell me this," cxclainu-d CIari.'<-sa ; and lier face grew deathly |vile ; and her whole fonn rose and dilated with the jia^wion that, fury-like, {> «siiej«kKl her. '• I have t'lM you," said Mrs. Wilton, — " for the more terrible grief that follows." " C^n it Ik; .sliarjx^r, more consummg, than that I now endure ?" asked Clarissa, smiling bitterly. " Yes — yes I " was the answer, solemnly uttered. " IIow know you this ? " asked the young wife ; and she looked with new anect of her housekeeper. " You ask me, huw I know thi.s. It is a brief tale : and I will ST. GILES AND ST. JAMKS. 151 t*;ll you. I knew a maid sold like voui-self — suld is the word — in lawful wedli)ines3 uj>on the pretty jK-rjurer ; and ttnik her to his bosom .-us the treasure of the world. True, at times he had his doubts — his sad misiri\"in'rs. He would look in his wife's face — would meet her cold, obedient eye.s — and sometimes wonder when a heart would grow wifliin her. He had marTieeated C'lai-iiwa, as the woman ptiused iu the fulness of her emotion. " Auil then the mother dare«l not reveal herself As 8er\'ant, she entereed hands, lookek toUl all: Clarissa, with a scream, leapt to her feet, and hung at her mother's mx-k. " Bo warucil — be wanieil,'' ciiid tin- wi.ni:ui, jiud like a dead thing, she souk iu a chair. CIIAITER XV. To the a.<>tonishment, the rage, and indignation of the neighbour- hood, Robert Willis ha«l liecn apprehended, cluirged with the Djunler of his >in<'Ie. After such autl.nrityon the jvirt of th«» law, ii'j man held himself safe. The whole couutrj' rang with tlie charge ; the whole country more or leas symjiathised with the innocent victim of the tyranny of justice. It v,n» impossible to as.-HX'iato the jovijd, wann-heart*-*!, merr}--maker with any wrong; s'< wholly had he won the hearts of all by his many feats of rustic skill, his many qualities of g- buhility fur one so rciii»ectal>ly Ix.ni juul bred, to shed tlio blutxl of iiis own lehition, — Kobert Willis wjus conuuitte the worM the innocence, and, al»>vc all, the resj notability of his kinsman. Vet were there jwople who womlereti at the change so suddenly workol in tlie Justice. His face, before so iMund and reond St. ( Jiles juid the g;iy aiid gcnciMus I{olx?rt Willis were brouglit together. In the very goose very gooect ; again placed the jirisoner in a taveni ; again sun>juudeU him with the best of fellows ; hearts of gold ! It was yet early morning, and WillLs, flushese silver tonj^je the world owed the lilx-rty of many a nill'i.iu. Happy wa.s the evil-lifpherd with the l>l'M>m and fr.ijTrinoe of Anaily u|Km him. Worthy ukui ! What a constitution had JMr. Montecute Crawley, to stand the wear and tear of his own feeliiiijs, rackear ! Happily, his emotion Mas always so very natural, and so very intense, that a^n ami a^n it toucheuld not — simple cn-atures I — but l»elieve8o eloquent, so earnest a pentleni:m, when he not only vouclied for the innocence of the unfortunate accused, but wept a shower of tears in testi- mony thereof. Teaix in fact, were Mr. Montectite Crawley's ^Teat weai>ons : but he had ter price. His coarse and stony-heartee. " That 's enough," said Mr. Crawley, abiiiptly stojtpint; the jirisoner: "I've maile uji my mind ; yes, 1 Kee it at once ; an alibi, of cour»e ; an alil>i. Yuu were at the dance at the Lamb and Star : you 've witnesses — ^yes, I know — Mr. Swag, your attorney, ha-s told me all, and " " And you think I shall get over it I" iuskeaba.shed face at his defender. Mr. Montecut« Crawley BJightly nodded his heas8est fkiuili;irity, otr< reil his hand. ilr. Crawley knew what was due to the ilignity of his j>rofe}i.sion ; he, therefore, lixiked frozenly at the ])risouer, rebuking him by that look into a proper sense of his inCiJiiy, and :it the .same time asserting his own foreii.-ic conse- quence. " Meant no olfence, sir," s;iid the reprobate, '* but aa I tliought we met as friends, and as Master Wattles has promised to Come down well if you get me utf, why I thought we might aa well shake Inuiila on the bargain." '* It is not necessary," said Mr. Cniwley, with a new stock of dignity. " And now I think you have told me all ? I hope so, bei-ause I can give no further time to see you ; and therefore I Lope, for your sake, I now know all ? You undei-stantl me i " Innocent munierer — unsttphisticated assassin! He did not undei-stand his l^est defender. Deceived bv what he thought a co"-liality of voice, a look of interest, in !Mr. Montecute Crawley — and suddenly feeling that it would doubtless be for his own especial l)enetit if he laid bare his heart — tliat black, bad thing — before so able, so excellent a gentlem.ui, Kobert Willis thought that he owed hiiu ever)' confidence, and woidd, therefore, without further ceremony, discharge the debt. " Why, no, sir," he said, with the air of a man prepared to be praises, — " no, sir, I havnt told you all. You see, uncle — I must s;iy it — had been a good sort of a fellow to me in his time . but S(.«mehow, 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." Il" vLitue could have peeped into that prison, could at that 75« ST. tJlI.KS AN'B ST. JAMES. moment have In-lulii the face of Mr. MuiitocMite ("mwley, wonM pile iKit liave embracwl — liave wept over her chain|iii)n — evi-n as he hail often wept on her accmmt ? He 8tarteassion, that must bAve been genuine, it was so violent. " llless me ! " crietl the prisoner. " I hoj>e you 're not offended. You want«-u to your fate : I '11 not stain my hands with such a brie£ Ho — never — never." " You '11 not do that, sir, I 'm sure," said the murderer. " Too much of a gentleman for that. 'Sj>ecially when the Justice haa come down so haiulsomelv. And 1 know him ; that 's not all he'll do, if you pet me off." ** Get you off I " cried Mr. M'intecute Crawley with a disgust that dill the very hii;he8t and deej^-st honour to bin heart. — *' What ! let loorte a wild In-a-st — a man-liijer into the world. Monster — miscrt.-ant — miscreant ! " With all Mr. Crawley's envi- able command of abus^, he l.u-ked vitii|Hration wherewith to express the inten-sity of his loathing ; and he therefore quitted the munlerer with a lk of inexpressible sconi ; Rol>ert Willis having, in bis imairiuatiun, the ven.' clearest view of the gallows, with himself in the cart, wending to his inevital>le destination. He Wiw given up by that miracle of an orator, Mr M"Utecute Crawley, and there was nothing left him but the hangman. Ingenuous liobert Willis — unsophisticated homicide ! Little knew that simple munlerer the magnanimity of the lawyer, who would forget the imprudence of the bliKif the public, could not consent \Ai deprive a crowded court of his expectetl speech : an oration that, as he knew, would impart very considerable enjoyment to his auditors, juid, jw-ssibly achieve a lasting glor)' for himself. There- fore, possessed of the knowledge of the prisoner's crime, it would liC the business, the pride of Mr. Crawley to anay him in a garb of innocence: thousjli, everlastiuf'lv staineil with blooil, it would be the fame of the orator to purity the asaas-siu. returning him back to the world snow-white and sweetened. And, with this detennina- tion, when the day of trial came, Mr. Montecute Cniwlcv entered the cuurt, amidst the tlattering admiration of all a>ked from the jiriHoiiir to the prisoner's couu.sel, and Kiii-ld in his sweet gravity, his bt*autifid composure, an a.ssunin<-e th;it he, th.at eluipient and syni|>athttic ]iIoadir. w;ls jxi.s.ses.scil ,'u* with the con- seiuusness of his own sciul, of the guiltlessness of that i«pjiif;*iH-il, that handsome young miui ; and would therefore pleml with the Voice and sublime fervour of a suiK-rior spirit for the .•ucu.sed at the bjir. Men of every degree tluongetl the court. Tlie gentry — the yeomen — the i-ustics of the countiy ; all ])rej)osse.s»ed for the prisnner. And many were the greetings and shakings of the hand exchanged with the prisoner's kiiLsm:ui, Justice Wattles, who tried to look hojx'ful, and to t-peak of the tri.il :us nothing more than a ceremony, uecessjirv to stop the mouth of slauderoiu wickedness. And so, restless juid inwardly .sick at In-art and irembling, the Justice looked smilingly alxiut the court : but never looked at the prisoner at the bar. The prisoner gazed Bcarchingly 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 l>egan. One witness swore that on the evenhig of the murder he he.ird a gun tired ; and immediately he saw the prisoner at the bar rush from the direction of Cow Meadow. The ball had l>een extracted from the murdered man, and found to ht a gun, the prisoner's proj^erty, subsequently discoveretl in the farm- house. Every face in the court — even the face of Mr. Moutecute Crawley — fell, darkened at the direct, straightforward evidence of the witness. He was theu handed over to be dealt with by the prisoners counsel. \\ liat awful meaning possessed his features, when he rose to turn inside out iV.e witness ! "VMiat lightning in his eye — what a weight of scorn at his Up — what thunder in his voice, terrif}*'ing and confounding the simple man who had spoken a simple truth. Poor feUow I 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, tiling about, made nothing of by that tremendous man, Mr. Moutecute Crawley. 158 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. " Answer mo, sir," tliuiulorc^l the imli^niant counsel ; " wore you nevrr in ^,Tif>I fur felxny ? An.swer, sir." The man paused fur a moment. He haeen in paol for fi'lrmy — .Mr. f'mwlcy knew that Wfll enouj;li — nevertht-leas the ri.4oned: wliicli rt'ply he a^in anil a;,'ain re|H*atey the counsel- as by the tnimiHit of juiltjinent — that he wa.s ujMin his oath. " And you 've never V)een caught |x>aching — come, I shall get Bonu'thinu out of yuu ? S|H>ak up. sir! l']>on your oath — have you never been caught sotting win-s for hares I " roareion, laughed — all men in the court laugheil, and the pretty lailies gigglees s>> far ;is in a Court of ju."«tice. There, a farthing's worth of wit is ottc hojx^l, ver}' repulsive to the kindly nature of Mr. CniwIey ; but what he did, he did fur the benefit of his client. To ser^-e his client it was — he held the obligation as his forensic creed — it was liis d\ity to ]»aint eveiy witness against him the blackest black, that tlie suffering, ill-u.sed man at the bar miglit stand out in candid relief to the moral darkness frowning against ' im. Poor Mr. Crawley ! In his heart of hearts, it was to him a great sorrow that — for the interest of Ids client — he was sometimes com|>elleil to wear his gown, the solemn rol)e of the chanJi)ion of truth, as the privileged garment, holding safe the coward and the bully. He wa.s a gentleman — a most perfect gentleman — with an almost etlemijiate sense of honour when — his gown was off. But ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. I'f) wlicii he rubt'tl liiuisolf, lie knew tliut t liere might he ri.st>ner l<>uke»l aljout him with blither looks: and there wiu) an int-erehange of triumjthant glauees between liini«elf .■mil valued old cnmie.s in court that plainly said, "All 'a right ; " wlien St. tides w.-is calletl. Then the prisoner bit his lip, and impatiently struck his tist ujwn the spikes in the front of the bar, ami then with a hard .smile — as at his folly, his absence of mind — wrapt his han«lko\it his V>leetling liand. It wjus nothing — a mere moment of absmxl forget fulne.ss. How could he l>e 8o ridiculous ! St. Ciles wa.s swoni. There was something strange and solemn in that miserable faee ; nwu'ked and lined as it was with a s;ul hi.story. The man had Wen well-feke»l hnrasse