“Yes, sir—totally blind; led by a dog, and with a placard upon his chest. He keeps his eyes fast shut, and colours the lids with carmine and vermilion. But that is nothing. That feller next to him, who uses his knife and fork so well, will to-morrow have lost his right arm at the battle of Salamanca.”
“But how can that imposture be effected?”
“His right arm is concealed under his clothes, and the coat-sleeve hangs down loose,” replied the constable. “That tall stout man who has just jumped so nimbly over the form in his way back to his place, has walked on crutches in the streets for the last twenty years; and when you see him so, you would think he could hardly drag himself along. The feller over there is a frozen-out gardener in winter, and a poor Spitalfields’ weaver in summer. The one next to him will have a black patch over his left eye to-morrow; and yet you may see that it is as good as his right. The short man opposite to him bends his left leg back, and has a wooden one to support the knee, when he is in the street. That woman there has been dressed in widows’ weeds for the last fifteen years, and always has a troop of six children with her; but the children never grow any bigger, for she hires fresh ones every year or so.”
“This is the most extraordinarily combined mass of contradictions and deceptions I ever gazed upon,” whispered Markham.
“You may well say that, sir,” said the policeman. “The ragged feller down at the bottom of the second table sits as upright as you or me: well, in the streets he crawls along the ground with two iron supporters in his hands. He is the most insolent feller in London. The man next to him goes about on a sort of van, or chaise, and the world believes that he has no legs at all; but they are all the time concealed in the body of the vehicle, and the stumps of the thighs which are seen are false. Those three hulking chaps over there, sitting with the three women that laugh so much, are begging-letter impostors. The eldest of the three men has been seventeen years at the business, and has been in prison twenty-eight times. One day he is a brick-layer who has fallen from a scaffold, and broken his leg, and has a wife and eleven young children dependent on him: another day he is a licensed clergyman of the Church of England, but unemployed for two years—wife and six children totally dependent on him. Then he changes into a stanch Tory, ruined by his attachment to the cause, and proscribed by all his friends on account of his principles: in this shape he addresses himself to the old Tory noblemen, and makes a good harvest. The very next day he becomes a determined and stanch Reformer, who lost his employment through giving his vote for the Tower Hamlets to the liberal candidate at the last election, and has since met with an uninterrupted series of misfortunes—sold up by a Tory landlord,—his wife been dead only a fortnight, and seven motherless children left dependent on him. This kind of letter always draws well. Then he becomes a paralytic with an execution in his house; or a Spitalfields’ weaver, with nine children, two of which are cripples, and one blind; or else a poor Scotch schoolmaster, come to London on business, and robbed by designing knaves of the means of returning to his own country. The women are just as bad. They are either wives with husbands in hospitals and bedridden mothers; or daughters with helpless parents and sick brothers and sisters dependent on them;—and so on.”
“But if you be aware of all these monstrous impositions, why do you not interfere to protect the public?” inquired Markham.
“Lord, sir!” said the constable, “if we took up all persons that we know to be impostors, we should have half London in custody. We only interfere when specially called upon, or when we see cases so very flagrant that we can’t help taking notice of them. Some of these chaps that are eating here so hearty now, will seem to be dying in the streets to-morrow.”
“Merciful heavens, what a city of deceit and imposture is this!” observed Richard, painfully excited by the strange details which he had just heard. “Were the interior of this den but once exposed to general view, charity would be at an end, and the deserving poor would suffer for the unprincipled impostor.”
“True enough, sir. And now look—the cloth is removed, and every one is ordering in something strong to wash down the supper. There goes a crown-bowl of punch—that’s for the begging-letter impostors: and there’s glasses of punch, and cold spirits and water, and shrub, and negus. That’s the way they do it, you see, sir.”
Markham did indeed see, and wondered more and more at what he so saw—until his feelings of surprise changed into sentiments of ineffable abhorrence and disgust; and he longed to leave that odious den.
“The person whom we seek does not appear to come,” he said, after a long interval of silence. “Two hours have elapsed—and we are only wasting time here.”
“He must have taken refuge in some other crib, sir,” returned the constable. “Let us leave this one, and make the round of the other lodging-houses in this street.”
Markham was glad to hurry away from Rats’ Castle, the mysteries of which had so painfully shocked his generous feelings.
CHAPTER CXXXVIII.
A PUBLIC FUNCTIONARY.
Urged by that sense of duty to which we have before alluded, and which prompted him to neglect no step that might lead to the discovery of a great criminal’s lurking-place, Richard accompanied the police officer to various houses where the dregs of the population herded together.
The inspection of a plague-hospital could not have been more appalling: the scrutiny of a lazar-house could not have produced deeper disgust.
In some the inmates were engaged in drunken broils, the women enacting the part of furies: in others the females sang obscene songs, the men joining in the chorus.
Here a mother waited until her daughter should return with the wages of prostitution, to purchase the evening meal: there a husband boasted that his wife was enabled, by the liberality of a paramour, to supply him with ample means for his night’s debauchery.
In one house which our hero and the constable visited, three sisters of the respective ages of eleven, thirteen, and fourteen, were comparing the produce of their evening’s avocations,—the avocations of the daughters of crime!
And then those three children, having portioned out the necessary amount for their suppers and their lodging that night, and their breakfast next morning, laughed joyously as they perceived how much they had left to purchase gin!
For GIN is the deity, and INTEMPERANCE is the hand-maiden, of both sexes and nearly all ages in that district of London.
What crimes, what follies have been perpetrated for Gin! A river of alcohol rolls through the land, sweeping away health, honour, and happiness with its remorseless tide. The creaking gibbet, and the prison ward—the gloomy hulk, and the far-off penal isle—the debtors’ gaol, and the silent penitentiary—the tomb-like workhouse, and the loathsome hospital—the galling chain, and the spirit-breaking tread-wheel—the frightful mad-cell, and the public dissecting-room—the death-bed of despair, and the grave of the suicide, are indebted for many, many victims to thee, most potent GIN!
O GIN! the Genius of Accidents and the Bad Angel of Offences worship thee! Thou art the Juggernaut beneath whose wheels millions throw themselves in blind adoration.
The pawnbroker points to thee and says, “Whilst thy dominion lasts, I am sure to thrive.”
The medical man smiles as he marks thy progress, for he knows that thou leadest a ghastly train,—apoplexy, palsy, dropsy, delirium tremens, consumption, madness.
The undertaker chuckles when he remembers thine influence, for he says within himself, “Thou art the Angel of Death.”
And Satan rejoices in his kingdom, well-knowing how thickly it can be populated by thee!
Yes—great is thy power, O GIN: thou keepest pace with the progress of civilisation, and thou art made the companion of the Bible. For when the missionary takes the Word of God to the savage in some far distant clime, he bears the fire-water with him at the same time. W
hile his right hand points to the paths of peace and salvation, his left scatters the seeds of misery, disease, death, and damnation!
Yes—great is thy power, O Gin: a terrible instrument of evil art thou. Thou swoopest over the world with the wing of the pestilence: thy breath is that of a plague:—like the poisonous garment of Dejanira on the burning limbs of the Centaur, dost thou cling around thy victims.
And where the grave-yard is heaped up with mouldering bones—and where disease and death prevail in all their most hideous shapes—and where misery is most keenly felt, and poverty is most pinching—and where the wails of hapless children ascend to heaven in vain appeal against the cruelty of inhuman parents—and where crime is most diabolical,—there are thy triumphs—there are thy victories!
But to continue.
The clock of St. Giles’s Church proclaimed the hour of midnight; and though our hero and the Constable had visited many of the low dens and lodging-houses in the Holy Land, still their search was without success.
“Unless my mates have been more lucky than us,” observed the policeman, halting at the corner of a street, “we must conclude that the bird is flown.”
“And even if they should chance to enter a house where the miscreant has taken refuge, how would they be enabled to recognise him?” asked Richard.
“One of them knows him well,” replied the constable.
At that moment a violent scream issued from the upper part of the house close to which Markham and the constable were stand-ing.
The dwelling was high, narrow, and, if possible, more gloomy, when viewed by the feeble rays of a watery moon, than the neighbouring houses.
From the uppermost window streamed a strong light, which danced upon the black wall of the building opposite, making the sombre appearance of the locality the more sinister as it was the more visible.
That scream, which expressed both horror and agony, caused Markham to start with momentary consternation.
The constable did not, however, appear surprised, but merely observed with a strange coolness, “Ah, there’s Smithers at his old tricks again.”
“And who is Smithers?” inquired Richard.
But before the constable could reply to the question, the window, whence the light emanated, was thrown up with crashing violence, and a female voice shrieked for assistance.
“Had we not better ascertain what is the matter here?” exclaimed Markham, hastily.
“I dare not force an entry, unless there’s a cry of ‘Murder,’ ” answered the officer.
Scarcely were these words uttered when the sound of a heavy blow, like that of a thong or leathern strap upon a person’s back, echoed along the street; and then terrific shrieks, mingled with cries of “Murder!” issued from the open window.
In another instant the female was dragged away from the casement by some one in the room where this scene occurred; then the blows were resumed with frightful severity, and the screams and cries continued in a more appalling manner than at first.
Immediately afterwards, and just as the constable was preparing to force an entry, some one was heard to rush precipitately down the stairs inside the house: the door opened, and a strange-looking being darted madly into the street.
“Now, Gibbet,” cried the policeman, catching the hump-backed lad—for such Markham perceived him to be—by the collar, “what’s all this about?”
“Oh! you are an officer!” exclaimed the hump-back, in a tone of surprise and delight: “for God’s sake come up—father’s murdering Kate!”
The screams and the sounds of the blows still continuing up stairs, the constable did not hesitate to comply with the request of the deformed lad whom he had saluted by the singular name of Gibbet; and Markham hastened after him, anxious to render any assistance that might be required at his hands.
The policeman and our hero hurried up the narrow stairs, lighted by the officer’s bull’s-eye; and speedily reached the room whence the screams had emanated.
But we must pause for a moment to describe that apartment, and to give the reader some idea of the inmates of the house to which we have introduced him.
The room was situated at the top of the house, and bore the appearance of a loft, there being no ceiling to conceal the massive beams and spars which supported the angular roof.
From one of the horizontal beams hung a stuffed figure, resembling a human being, and as large as life. It was dressed in a complete suit of male attire; and a white mask gave it the real but ghastly appearance of a dead body. It was suspended by a thick cord, or halter, the knot of which being fastened beneath the left ear, made the head incline somewhat over the right shoulder; and it was waving gently backwards and forwards, as if it had been recently disturbed. The arms were pinioned behind; and the hands, which were made more or less life-like by means of dingy white kid gloves, were curled up as it were in a last convulsion. In a word, it presented the exact appearance of a man hanging.
Markham started back when his eyes first fell on this sinister object; but a second glance convinced him that the figure was only a puppet.
This second survey brought to his view other features, calculated to excite his wonder and curiosity, in that strange apartment.
The figure already described was suspended in such a way that its lower extremity was about a foot from the ground; but it was concealed nearly up to the knees by a small scaffold, or large black box, it having been suffered to fall that much through a trap-door made like a drop in the platform of that diminutive stage.
From this strange spectacle,—which, in all respects, was a perfect representation of an execution—Markham’s eyes wandered round the loft.
The walls—the rough brick-work of which was smeared over with white-wash,—were covered with rude pictures, glaringly coloured and set in common black wooden frames. These pictures were such as are sold in low neighbourhoods for a few pence each, and representing scenes in the lives of remarkable highwaymen, murderers, and other criminals who had ended their days upon the scaffold. The progress of Jack Sheppard to the gibbet at Tyburn,—the execution of Jonathan Wild,—Turpin’s ride to York,—Sawney Bean and his family feasting off human flesh in their cave,—Hunt and Thurtell throwing the body of Mr. Weare into the pond,—Corder murdering Maria Martin at the Red Barn,—James Greenacre cutting up the corpse of Hannah Brown,—such were the principal subjects of that Gallery of Human Enormity.
But as if these pictorial mementos of crime and violent death were not sufficient to gratify the strange taste of the occupants of that apartment, some hand, which was doubtless the agent of an imagination that loved to “sup full of horrors,” had scrawled with a burnt stick upon the wall various designs of an equally terrific nature. Gibbets of all forms, and criminals in all the different stages of their last minutes in this life, were there represented. The ingenuity of the draughtsman had even suggested improvements in the usual modes of execution, and had delineated drops, halters, and methods of pinioning on new principles!
Every thing in that spacious loft savoured of the scaffold!
Oh! had the advocates of capital punishment but been enabled to glance upon that scene of horrors, they would have experienced a feeling of dire regret that any system which they had supported could have led to such an exhibition!
But to proceed.
On a rude board which served as a mantel over the grate, was a miniature gibbet, about eight inches high, and suspended to the horizontal beam of which was a mouse—most scientifically hung with a strong piece of pack-thread.
The large silver watch belonging to the principal inmate of the house was suspended to a horizontal piece of wood, with an oblique supporter, projecting from the wall above the fire-place.
In one corner of the room was a bed, over which flowed curtains of a coarse yellow material; and even these were suspended to
a spar arranged and propped up like the arm of a gibbet.
A table, on which the supper things still remained, and half a dozen chairs, completed the contents of this strange room.
And now a few words relative to the inmates of that house.
The hump-backed lad who had rushed down the stairs in the manner already described, was about seventeen or eighteen years of age, and so hideously ugly that he scarcely seemed to belong to the human species. His hair was fiery red, and covered with coarse and matted curls a huge head that would not have been unsuitable for the most colossal form. His face was one mass of freckles; his eyes were of a pinkish hue; his eyebrows and lashes were white; and his large teeth glittered like dominoes between his thick and blueish lips. His arms were long like those of a baboon; but his legs were short; and he was not more than four feet and a half high. In spite of his hideous deformity and almost monstrous ugliness, there was an air of good-nature about him, combined with an evident consciousness of his own repulsive appearance, which could not do otherwise than inspire compassion—if not interest.
The moment the policeman, who entered the room first, made his appearance upon the threshold, a young female precipitated herself towards him, exclaiming, “For God’s sake protect me—but do not, do not hurt my uncle!”
This girl was about sixteen years of age, and, though not beautiful, possessed a countenance whose plaintive expression was calculated to inspire deep interest in her behalf. She was tall, and of a graceful figure: her hair was light chesnut; her eyes dark blue, and with a deep melancholy characterising their bashful glances; her teeth were small, white, and even. Though clad in humble attire, there was something genteel in her appearance,—something superior to the place and society in which we now find her.
The man from whose cruel blows she implored protection, was of middle height, rather stoutly built, with a pale countenance, and an expression of stern hard-heartedness in his large grey eyes and compressed lips. He was dressed in a suit which evidently had never been made for him,—the blue frock coat being too long in the sleeves, the waistcoat too wide round the waist, and the trousers scarcely reaching below the knees.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 3