The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  “Thank God for that blessing!”

  “I tell you what goes a good way with Old Bailey Juries—a good appearance. If a poor devil, clothed in rags and very ugly, appears at the bar, the Foreman of the Jury just says, ‘Well, gentlemen, I think we may say GUILTY; for my part I never saw such a hang-dog countenance in my life.’ But if a well-dressed and good-looking fellow is placed in the dock, the Foreman is most likely to say, ‘Well, gentlemen, for my part I never can nor will believe that the prisoner could be guilty of such meanness; so I suppose we may say NOT GUILTY, gentlemen.’”

  “Can this be true?” ejaculated Markham.

  “Certainly it is,” was the reply. “I will tell you more, too. If a prisoner’s counsel don’t tip the jury plenty of soft sawder, and tell them that they are enlightened Englishmen, and that they are the main prop, not only of justice, but also of the crown itself, they will be certain to find a verdict of Guilty.”

  “What infamy!” cried Markham, perfectly astounded at these revelations.

  “Ah! and what’s worse still,” added his informant, “is that Old Bailey juries always, as a matter of course, convict those poor devils who have no counsel.”

  “And this is the vaunted palladium of justice and liberty!” said Richard.

  In this way did the prisoners in Markham’s ward contrive to pass away an hour or two, for they were allowed no candle and no fire, and had consequently been forced to retire to their wretched couches immediately after dusk.

  The night was thus painfully long and wearisome.

  Markham found upon enquiry that there were two methods of living in Newgate. One was to subsist upon the gaol allowance: the other to provide for oneself. Those who received the allowance were not permitted to have beer, nor were their friends suffered to add the slightest comfort to their sorry meals; and those who paid for their own food, were unrestricted as to quantity and quality.

  Such is the treatment prisoners experience before they are tried;—and yet there is an old saying that every one must be deemed innocent until he be proved guilty. The old saying is a detestable mockery!

  Of course Markham determined upon paying for his own food; and when Whittingham called in the morning, he was sent to make the necessary arrangements with the coffee-house keeper in the Old Bailey who enjoyed the monopoly of supplying that compartment of the prison.

  The most painful ordeal which Richard had to undergo during his captivity in Newgate, was his first interview with Mr. Monroe. This gentleman was profoundly affected at the situation of his youthful ward, though not for one moment did he doubt his innocence.

  And here let us mention another revolting humiliation and unnecessary cruelty to which the untried prisoner is compelled to submit. In each yard is a small enclosure, or cage, of thick iron bars, covered with wire-work; and beyond this fence, at a distance of about two feet, is another row of bars similarly interwoven with wire. The visitor is compelled to stand in this cage to converse with his relative or friend, who is separated from him by the two gratings. All private discourse is consequently impossible.

  What can recompense the prisoner who is acquitted, for all the mortifications, insults, indignities, and privations he has undergone in Newgate previous to that trial which triumphantly proclaims his innocence?

  Relative to the interview between Markham and Monroe, all that it is necessary to state is that the young man’s guardian promised to adopt all possible means to prove his innocence, and spare no expense in securing the most intelligent and influential legal assistance. Mr. Monroe moreover intimated his intention of removing the case from the hands of Mac Chizzle to those of a well-known and highly respectable solicitor. Richard declared that he left himself entirely in his guardian’s hands, and expressed his deep gratitude for the interest thus demonstrated by that gentleman in his behalf.

  Thus terminated the first interview in Newgate between Markham and his late father’s confidential friend.

  He felt somewhat relieved by this visit, and entertained strong hopes of being enabled to prove his innocence upon the day of trial.

  But it then wanted a whole month to the next sessions—thirty horrible days which he would be compelled to pass in Newgate!

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  THE REPUBLICAN AND THE RESURRECTION MAN.

  AS Richard was walking up and down the yard, an hour or two after his interview with Mr. Monroe, he was attracted by the venerable appearance of an elderly gentleman who was also parading that dismal place to and fro.

  This individual was attired in a complete suit of black; and his pale countenance, and long gray hair flowing over his coat-collar, were rendered the more remarkable by the mournful nature of his garb. He stooped considerably in his gait, and walked with his hands joined together behind him. His eyes were cast upon the ground; and his meditations appeared to be of a profound and soul-absorbing nature.

  Markham immediately experienced a strange curiosity to become acquainted with this individual, and to ascertain the cause of his imprisonment. He did not, however, choose to interrupt that venerable man’s reverie. Accident presently favoured his wishes, and placed within his reach the means of introduction to the object of his curiosity. The old gentleman changed his line of walk in the spacious yard, and tripped over a loose flagstone. His head came suddenly in contact with the ground. Richard hastened to raise him up, and conducted him to a bench. The old gentleman was very grateful for these attentions; and, when he was recovered from the effects of his fall, he surveyed Markham with the utmost interest.

  “What circumstance has thrown you into this vile den?” he inquired, in a pleasant tone of voice.

  Richard instantly related, from beginning to end, those particulars with which the reader is already acquainted.

  The old man remained silent for some minutes, and then fixed his eyes upon Markham in a manner that seemed intended to read the secrets of his soul.

  Richard did not quail beneath that eagle glance; but a deep blush suffused his countenance.

  “I believe you, my boy—I believe every word you have uttered,” suddenly exclaimed the stranger—“you are the victim of circumstances; and deeply do I commiserate your situation.”

  “I thank you sincerely—most sincerely for your good opinion,” said Richard. “And now, permit me to ask you what has plunged you into a gaol? No crime, I feel convinced before you speak!”

  “Never judge hastily, young man,” returned the old gentleman. “My conviction of your innocence was principally established by the very circumstance which would have led others to pronounce in favour of your guilt. You blushed—deeply blushed, but it was not the glow of shame: it was the honest flush of conscious integrity unjustly suspected. Now with regard to myself, I know why you imagine me to be innocent of any crime; but, remember that a mild, peaceable and venerable exterior frequently covers a heart eaten up with every evil passion, and a soul stained with every crime. You were, however, right in your conjecture relative to myself. I am a person accused of a political offence—a libel upon the government, in a journal of considerable influence which I conduct. I shall be tried next session; my sentence will not be severe, perhaps; but it will not be the less unjust. I am the friend of my fellow-countrymen and my fellow-creatures: the upright and the enlightened denominate me a philanthropist: my enemies denounce me as a disturber of the public peace, a seditious agitator, and a visionary. You have undoubtedly heard of Thomas Armstrong?”

  “I have not only heard of you, sir,” said Richard, surveying the great Republican writer with profound admiration and respect, “but I have read your works and your essays with pleasure and interest.”

  “In certain quarters,” continued Armstrong, “I am represented as a character who ought to be loathed and shunned by all virtuous and honest people,—that I am a moral pestilence,—a so
cial plague; and that my writings are only deserving of being burnt by the hands of the common hangman. The organs of the rich and aristocratic classes, level every species of coarse invective against me. And yet, O God!” he added enthusiastically, “I only strive to arouse the grovelling spirit of the industrious millions to a sense of the wrongs under which they labour, and to prove to them that they were not sent into this world to lick the dust beneath the feet of majesty and aristocracy!”

  “Do you not think,” asked Richard, timidly, “that you are somewhat in advance of the age? Do you not imagine that a republic would be dangerously premature?”

  “My dear youth, let us not discuss this matter in a den where all our ideas are concentrated in the focus formed by our misfortunes. Let me rather assist you with my advice upon the mode of conduct you should preserve in this prison, so that you may not become too familiar with the common herd, nor offend by being too distant.”

  Mr. Armstrong then proffered his counsel upon this point.

  “I feel deeply indebted to you for your kindness,” exclaimed Markham: “very—very grateful!”

  “Grateful!” cried the old man, somewhat bitterly. “Oh! how I dislike that word! The enemies who persecute me now, are those who have received the greatest favours from me. But there is one—one whose treachery and base ingratitude I never can forget—although I can forgive him! Almost four years ago, I accidently learnt that a young man of pleasing appearance, genteel manners, and good acquirements, was in a state of the deepest distress, in an obscure lodging in Hoxton Old Town. I called upon him: the account which had reached my ears was too true. He was bordering upon starvation, and—although he assured me that he had relations and friends moving in a wealthy sphere—he declared that particular reasons, which he implored me not to dive into, compelled him to refrain from addressing them. I relieved his necessities; I gave him money and procured him clothes. I then took him as my private secretary, and soon put the greatest confidence in him. Alas! how was I recompensed? He betrayed all my political secrets to the government: he literally sold me! At length he absconded, taking with him a considerable sum of money, which he abstracted from my desk.”

  “How despicable!” ejaculated Richard.

  “That is not all. I met him afterwards, and forgave him!” said Armstrong.

  “Ah! you possess, sir, a noble heart,” cried Richard: “I hope that this misguided young man gave sincere proofs of repentance!”

  “Oh! he was very grateful!” ejaculated Mr. Armstrong, with a satirical smile: “when he heard that there was a warrant issued for my apprehension upon a charge of libel on the government, he secretly instructed the officers relative to my private haunts, and thus sold me again!”

  “The villain!” cried Markham, with unfeigned indignation. “Tell me his name, that I may avoid him as I would a poisonous viper!”

  “His name is George Montague,” returned Mr. Armstrong.

  “George Montague!” cried Richard.

  “Do you know him? have you heard of him before? If you happen to be aware of his present abode—”

  “You would send and have him arrested for the robbery of the money in your desk?”

  “No—write and assure him of my forgiveness once more,” replied the noble-hearted republican. “But how came you acquainted with his name?”

  “I have heard of that young man before, but not in a way to do him honour. A tale of robbery and seduction—of heartless cruelty and vile deceit—has been communicated to me relative to this George Montague. Can you forgive such a wretch as he is?”

  “From the bottom of my heart,” answered the republican.

  Markham gazed upon that venerable gentleman with profound respect. He remembered to have seen the daily Tory newspapers denounce that same old man as “an unprincipled agitator—the enemy of his country—the foe to morality—a political ruffian—a bloody-minded votary of Robespierre and Danton:”—and he now heard the sweetest and holiest sentiment of Christian morality emanate from the lips of him who had thus been fearfully represented. And that sentiment was uttered without affectation, but with unequivocal sincerity!

  For a moment, Richard forgot his own sorrows and misfortunes, as he contemplated the benign and holy countenance of him whom a certain class loved to depict as a demon incarnate!

  The old man did not notice the interest which he had thus excited, for he had himself fallen into a profound reverie.

  Presently the conversation was resumed; and the more that Markham saw of the Republican, the more did he respect and admire him.

  In the course of the afternoon Markham was accosted by one of his fellow-prisoners, who beckoned him aside in a somewhat mysterious manner. This individual was a very short, thin, cadaverous-looking man, with coal-black hair and whiskers, and dark piercing eyes half concealed beneath shaggy brows of the deepest jet. He was apparently about five and thirty years of age. His countenance was downcast; and when he spoke, he seemed as if he could not support the glance of the person whom he addressed. He was dressed in a seedy suit of black, and wore an oil-skin cap with a large shade.

  This person, who was very reserved and retired in his habits, and seldom associated with his fellow-prisoners, drew Markham aside, and said, “I’ve taken a liberty with your name; but I know you won’t mind it. In a place like this we must help and assist each other.”

  “And in what way—” began Markham.

  “Oh! nothing very important; only it’s just as well to tell you in case the turnkey says a word about it. The fact is, I haven’t half enough to eat with this infernal gruel and soup that they give those who, like me, are forced to take the gaol allowance, and my old mother—who is known by the name of the Mummy—has promised to send me in presently a jolly good quartern loaf and three or four pound of Dutch cheese.”

  “But I thought that those who took the gaol allowance were not permitted to receive any food from outside?” said Markham.

  “That’s the very thing,” said the man: “so I have told the Mummy to direct the parcel to you, as I know that you grub yourself at your own cost.”

  “So long as it does not involve me——”

  “No—not in the least, my good fellow,” interrupted the other. “And, in return,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “if I can ever do you a service, outside or in, you may reckon upon the Resurrection Man.”

  “The Resurrection Man!” ejaculated Richard, appalled, in spite of himself, at this ominous title.

  “Yes—that’s my name and profession,” said the man. “My godfathers and godmothers called me Anthony, and my parents had previously blessed me with the honourable appellation of Tidkins: so you may know me as Anthony Tidkins, the Resurrection Man.”

  “And are you really ——” began Richard, with a partial shudder; “are you really a ——”

  “A body-snatcher?” cried Anthony; “of course I am—when there’s any work to be done; and when there isn’t, then I do a little in another line.”

  “And what may that be?” demanded Markham.

  This time the Resurrection Man did look his interlocutor full in the face; but it was only for a moment; and he again averted his glance in a sinister manner, as he jerked his thumb towards the wall of the yard, and exclaimed, “Crankey Jem on t’other side will tell you if you ask him. They would not put us together: no—no,” he added, with a species of chuckle; “they know a trick worth two of that. We shall both be tried together: fifteen years for him—freedom for me! That’s the way to do it.”

  With these words the Resurrection Man turned upon his heels, and walked away to the farther end of the yard.

  We shall now take leave of Markham for the present: when we again call the reader’s attention to his case, we shall find him standing in the dock of the Central Criminal Court, to take his
trial upon the grave accusation of passing forged notes.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  THE DUNGEON.

  RETURN we now to Bill Bolter, the murderer, who had taken refuge in the subterranean hiding-place of the Old House in Chick Lane.

  Heavily and wearily did the hours drag along. The inmate of that terrible dungeon was enabled to mark their lapse by the deep-mouthed bell of St. Sepulchre’s Church, on Snow Hill, the sound of which boomed ominously at regular intervals upon his ear.[107]

  That same bell tolls the death-note of the convict on the morning of his execution at the debtors’ door of Newgate.

  The murderer remembered this, and shuddered.

  A faint—faint light glimmered through the little grating at the end of the dungeon; and the man kept his eyes fixed upon it so long, that at length his imagination began to conjure up phantoms to appal him. That small square aperture became a frame in which hideous countenances appeared; and then, one gradually changed into another—horrible dissolving views that they were!

  But chiefly he beheld before him the tall gaunt form of his murdered wife—with one eye smashed and bleeding in her head:—the other glared fearfully upon him.

  This phantasmagoria became at length so fearful and so real in appearance, that the murderer turned his back towards the little grating through which the light struggled into the dungeon in two long, narrow, and oblique columns.

  But then he imagined that there were goblins behind him; and this idea soon grew as insupportable as the first;—so he rose, and groped his way up and down that narrow vault—a vault which might become his tomb!

  This horrible thought never left his memory. Even while he reflected upon other things,—amidst the perils which enveloped his career, and the reminiscences of the dread deeds of which he had been guilty,—amongst the reasons which he assembled together to convince himself that the hideous countenances at the grating did not exist in reality,—there was that one idea—unmixed—definite—standing boldly out from all the rest in his imagination,—that he might be left to die of starvation!