“The English papers are always full of such accounts,” observed the Prince.
“And yet I would have you know that England is the richest, most prosperous, and happiest country on the face of the earth,” returned the Queen, somewhat impatiently. “You must not take these accounts literally as you read them. My Ministers assure me that they are greatly exaggerated. It appears—as the matter has been explained to me—that the persons who furnish these narratives are remunerated according to quantity; and they therefore amplify the details as much as possible.”
“Still those accounts must be, to a certain extent, based on truth?” said Prince Albert, half inquiringly.
“Not nearly so much as you imagine. My Ministers have satisfied me on that head; and they must know better than you. Take, for instance, the article headed ‘Dreadful Condition of the Spitalfields’ Weavers.’ You may there read that the weavers are in an actual state of starvation. This is only newspaper metaphor: the writer means his readers to understand that the weavers are not so well off as they would wish to be. Perhaps they have not meat every day—perhaps only three or four times a week: but they assuredly have plenty of bread and potatoes—because bread and potatoes are so cheap!”
“I thought that you intended to discountenance the importation of foreign silks, by ordering all the ladies of the Court to wear dresses of English material?” observed Prince Albert, after a pause.
“Such was my intention,” answered the Queen; “but the ladies about me dropped so many hints on the subject, that I was compelled to rescind the command. I must confess that I was not sorry to find an excuse for so doing; for I greatly prefer French silks and French dressmakers. But let me make an observation upon this article which is headed ‘Suicide through Dread of the Workhouse.’ I spoke to the Secretary of State a few days ago upon the subject of workhouses; and he assured me that they are very comfortable places. He declared that the people do not know when they are well off, and that they require to be managed like refractory children. He quite convinced me that all he said was perfectly correct; and I really begin to think that the people are very obstinate, dissatisfied, and insolent.”
“They are most enthusiastic in their demonstrations towards their sovereign,” remarked the Prince.
“And naturally so,” exclaimed Victoria. “Am I not their Queen? are they not my subjects? do I not rule over them? All the happiness, prosperity, and enjoyments which they possess emanate from the throne. They would be very ungrateful if they did not reverence—nay, adore their sovereign.”
“Oh, of course!” said Prince Albert. “In Germany, any individual who exhibits the least coldness towards his sovereign is immediately marked as a traitor.”
“And in this country the Home Secretary keeps a list of disaffected persons,” observed the Queen; “but, thank God! their number is very limited—at least, so I am assured. My Ministers are constantly informing me of the proofs of loyalty and devotion which the people manifest towards me. If this were a Roman Catholic nation, they would no doubt place my image next to the Virgin in their chapels; and if it were an idolatrous country, my effigy would assuredly stand amongst the gods and goddesses. It is very pleasant, Albert, to be so much loved by my subjects—to be positively worshipped by them.”
The Prince replied with a compliment which it is not worth while to record.
The Queen smiled, and continued:—
“You remember the paragraph which the Secretary of State pointed out a few days ago: it was in the Morning Post, if you recollect. That journal—which, by the bye, circulates entirely amongst the upper servants of the aristocracy, and nowhere else—declared ‘that so great is the devotion of my loyal subjects that, were such a sacrifice necessary, they would joyfully throw themselves beneath the wheels of my stage-carriage, even as the Indians cast themselves under the car of Juggernaut.’[1] I never in my life saw but that one number of the Post: its circulation, I am told, is confined entirely to the servants of the aristocracy; still it seems in that instance to express the sentiments of the entire nation. You smile, Albert?”
[1] Such a disgustingly fulsome, and really atrocious paragraph did actually appear in the Morning Post three or four years ago.
“I was only thinking whether the paragraph to which you have alluded, was another specimen of newspaper metaphor,” answered the Prince, with some degree of hesitation.
“Not at all,” returned the Queen, quickly; “the Editor wrote precisely as he thought. He must know the real sentiments of the people, since he is a man of the people himself. I have been assured that he was once the head-butler in a nobleman’s family: hence his success in conducting a daily newspaper exclusively devoted to the interests and capacities of upper-servants.”
“I thought that English Editors were generally a better class of men?” observed the Prince.
“So they are for the most part,” replied the Queen: “graduates at the Universities—barristers—and highly accomplished gentlemen. But in the case of the Morning Post there seems to be an exception. We were, however, conversing upon the distress in the country—for there certainly is some little distress here and there; although the idea of people actually dying of starvation in a Christian land is of course absurd. I am really bewildered, at times, with the reasons of, and the remedies proposed for, that distress. If I ask the Home Secretary, he declares that the people are too obstinate to understand what comfortable places the workhouses are;—if I ask the Colonial Secretary, he assures me that the people are most wilfully blind to the blessings of emigration: if I ask the Foreign Secretary, he labours to convince me that the distracted state of the East reacts upon this country; and if I ask the Bishop of London he expresses his conviction that the people require more churches.”
“For my part, I do not like to interfere in these matters,” said the Prince; “and therefore I never ask any questions concerning them.”
“And you act rightly, Albert, for you certainly know nothing of English politics. I observe by the newspapers that the country praises your forbearance in this respect. You are a Field-Marshal, and Chief Judge of the Stannaries Court—and——”
“And a Knight of the Garter,” added the Prince.
“Yes—and a Learned Doctor of Laws,” continued the Queen: “any thing else?”
“Several things—but I really forget them all now,” returned the Prince.
“Never mind,” exclaimed the Queen. “I intend to obtain for you higher distinctions yet. I do not like the mere title of Prince, and the style of Royal Highness: you shall be King-Consort and Your Majesty. Then, when a vacancy occurs, you must be appointed Commander-in-Chief.”
“I feel deeply grateful for your kind intentions,” returned the Prince, with a smile; “but you are well aware that I am totally ignorant of every thing connected with the army.”
“That is of no consequence in England,” replied the Queen. “You will have subordinates to do your duty. I must speak to Melbourne about all this. And now, as I intend to take these steps in your behalf, pray be a little more cautious relative to your private amusements; and let me hear of no more burying of dogs with funeral honours. That little affair of the interment of Eos at Windsor has attracted the notice of the press, I understand. It was indiscreet.”
“If I adapt my conduct entirely according to the English notions,” returned the Prince, “I should be compelled to give up those battues to which I am so devotedly attached.”
“We must consult Melbourne on that head,” observed the Queen.
The royal pair then conversed upon a variety of topics which would afford little interest to the reader; and shortly after nine her Majesty withdrew.
Prince Albert remained in the room to read the newspaper.
Henry Holford had listened with almost breathless attention to the conversation which we have recorded.
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The Prince had drawn his chair more closely to the fire, after the Queen left the room; and he was now sitting within a couple of yards of the sofa beneath which Holford lay concealed.
The pot-boy gently drew aside the drapery which hung from the framework of the sofa to the floor, and gazed long and intently on the Prince. His look was one in which envy, animosity, and admiration were strangely blended. He thought within himself, “Why are you so exalted, and I so abased? And yet your graceful person—your intelligent countenance—your handsome features, seem to fit you for such an elevated position. Nevertheless, if I had had your advantages of education——”
The meditations of the presumptuous youth were suddenly and most disagreeably checked:—the Prince abruptly threw aside the paper, and his eyes fell on the human countenance that was gazing up at him from beneath the sofa.
His Royal Highness uttered an exclamation of surprise—not altogether unmingled with alarm; and his first impulse was to stretch out his hand towards the bell-rope. But, yielding to a second thought, he advanced to the sofa, exclaiming, “Come forth—whoever you may be.”
Then the miserable pot-boy dragged himself from his hiding-place, and in another moment stood, pale and trembling, in the presence of the Prince.
“Who are you?” demanded his Royal Highness in a stern tone: “what means this intrusion? how came you hither?”
Henry Holford fell at the feet of the Prince, and confessed that, urged by an invincible curiosity, he had entered the palace on the preceding evening; but he said nothing of his previous visits.
For a few moments Prince Albert seemed uncertain how to act: he was doubtless hesitating between the alternatives of handing the intruder over to the officers of justice, or of allowing him to depart unmolested.
After a pause, he questioned Holford more closely, and seemed satisfied by the youth’s assurance that he had really entered the palace through motives of curiosity, and not for any dishonest purpose.
The Prince accordingly determined to be merciful.
“I am willing,” he said, “to forgive the present offence; you shall be suffered to depart. But I warn you that a repetition of the act will lead to a severe punishment. Follow me.”
The Prince led the way to an ante-room where a domestic was in waiting.
“Conduct this lad as privately as you can from the palace,” said his Royal Highness. “Ask him no questions—and mention not the incident elsewhere.”
The Prince withdrew; and the lacquey led Henry Holford through various turnings in the palace to the servants’ door opening into Pimlico.
Thus was the pot-boy ignominiously expelled from the palace; and never—never in his life had he felt more thoroughly degraded—more profoundly abased—more contemptible in his own eyes, than on the present occasion!
CHAPTER CXCV.
THE ARISTOCRATIC VILLAIN AND THE LOW MISCREANT.
On the northern side of the Thames there is no continuously direct way along the bank for any great distance: to walk, for instance, from London Bridge to Vauxhall Bridge, one would be compelled to take many turnings, and deviate materially from the course shaped by the sinuosity of the stream. But on the southern side of the Thames, one may walk from the foot of London Bridge to that of Vauxhall, without scarcely losing sight of the river.
In this latter instance, the way would lie along Clink Street, Bankside, and Holland Street, to reach Blackfriars Bridge; the Commercial Road to Waterloo Bridge; the Belvidere Road, and Pedlar’s Acre, to Westminster Bridge; and Stangate, the Bishop’s Walk, and Fore Street, to reach Vauxhall Bridge.
This journey would not occupy nearly so much time as might be supposed ere a second thought was devoted to the subject; and yet how large a section of the diameter of London would have been traversed!
A portion of the path just detailed is denominated Pedlar’s Acre; and it lies between Westminster and Hungerford Bridges. Adjoining the thoroughfare itself is an acre of ground, which is the property of the parish, and is let as a timber-yard. Tradition declares that it was given by a pedlar to the parish, on condition that the picture of himself and his dog be preserved, in stained glass, in one of the windows of Lambeth church; and in support of this legend, such a representation may indeed be seen in the south-east window of the middle aisle of the church just mentioned. Nevertheless, one of those antiquaries whose sesquipedelian researches are undertaken with a view to elucidate matters of this kind,—a valueless labour,—has declared that the land was bequeathed to the parish, in the year 1504, by some person totally unknown. Be the origin of the grant and the name of the donor as they may, there is such a place as Pedlar’s Acre; and it is to a public-house in this thoroughfare that we must now request our readers to accompany us.
Seated in a private room on the first floor was a gentlemanly-looking man, of about six-and-thirty years of age. His face was decidedly handsome, but it had a downcast and sinister expression little calculated to prepossess a stranger in this person’s favour. There was also a peculiar curl—more wicked than haughty—about his lip, that seemed to speak of strongly concentrated passions: the deep tones of his voice, the peculiar glance of his large grey eyes, and the occasional contraction of his brow denoted a mind resolute in carrying out any purpose it might have formed.
He was dressed with some degree of slovenliness; as if he had not leisure to waste upon the frivolity of self-adornment, or as if his means were not sufficient to permit that elegance of wardrobe which could alone stimulate his pride in the embellishment of his person.
A glass of steaming punch stood untouched near him.
It was six o’clock in the evening; and he was evidently waiting for some one.
His patience was not, however, put to a very severe test; for scarcely had five minutes elapsed after his arrival, when the door opened, and the Resurrection Man entered the room.
“Good evening, Mr. Vernon,” he said, as he carefully closed the door behind him: then, taking a seat, he observed, “I hope I have not kept you waiting.”
“Oh! never mind that,” exclaimed Vernon, impatiently. “Have you any good news to communicate?”
“I am sorry to say that I have not. I called this morning upon the clerk of the parish church where your brother was married, and tried him in all ways.”
“And he refused?” said Vernon, with an angry tone.
“He refused,” answered Tidkins. “He is timid and old; and, after having first entertained the subject, at length backed out of it altogether.”
“Because you did not offer him enough,” cried Vernon, savagely: “because you did not show him gold! You are only lukewarm in this affair: you are afraid to risk a few miserable pounds in the business. This is not the way to conduct a grand project of such a nature. It is true that I am fearfully embarrassed for funds at this moment; but if you had acted with liberality—if we eventually succeeded—you must be well aware that my generosity would know no bounds.”
“Mr. Vernon,” said the Resurrection Man, coolly, “if you have nothing better than reproaches to offer as a reward of my exertions in your behalf, we should do well to separate at once. I was not niggard in my offers to the clerk: I spread fifty golden sovereigns before him—told him to take them, and promised as much more when he had done the job. But he hesitated—reflected—and at length positively refused altogether.”
“And you really believe there is no hope in that quarter?” said Vernon, anxiously.
“None. If the old clerk would ever agree to serve us, he would have consented this morning. I know the man now: he is too timid to suit our purposes. But let us look calmly at the whole business, and devise another mode of proceeding,” added the Resurrection Man. “You are still determined, by some means or other, to get possession of the estates of your elder brother?”
“My resolution is even increased by ev
ery fresh obstacle,” replied Vernon. “I have two powerful objects to accomplish—revenge and ambition. Lord Ravensworth has treated me with a cruelty and a contempt that would goad the most meek and patient to study the means of vengeance. Our late father always intended the ready money, of which he could dispose, to come to me, because the estates were entailed upon my brother. But my father died suddenly, and intestate; and my brother, although he well knew our parent’s intentions, grasped all—gave me nothing! No—I am wrong,” added Vernon, with exceeding bitterness of tone and manner; “he agreed to allow me five hundred pounds a-year, as a recompense for the loss of as many thousands!”
“And you accepted the offer?” said the Resurrection Man.
“I accepted it as a beggar receives alms sooner than starve,” continued Vernon: “I accepted it because I had nothing: I had not the means of existence. But I accepted it also as an instalment of my just due—and not as a concession on the part of his bounty. My habits are naturally extravagant: my expenses are great—I cannot check myself in that respect. Thus am I perpetually obtaining advances from my brother’s agent; and now I have not another shilling to receive until next January.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 65