He stood among the mossy rocksBeside a Highland waterfall,And wrung his hands and tore his locks,And cursed the gaugers one and all.Behind him was a ruined hut,Its walls were levell'd with the ground,And broken rafters black with soot,And staves of tubs, were scatter'd round.With streaming eyes adown the glenHe fix'd his gaze—I look'd, and lo!Along the road a band of men,With horse and cart, were moving slow.Upon my life, it made me shiverTo hear him shriek with frantic yell,"Fare-thee-well,—and if for ever.Still, for ever fare-thee-well!"Sholto.
He stood among the mossy rocksBeside a Highland waterfall,And wrung his hands and tore his locks,And cursed the gaugers one and all.Behind him was a ruined hut,Its walls were levell'd with the ground,And broken rafters black with soot,And staves of tubs, were scatter'd round.With streaming eyes adown the glenHe fix'd his gaze—I look'd, and lo!Along the road a band of men,With horse and cart, were moving slow.Upon my life, it made me shiverTo hear him shriek with frantic yell,"Fare-thee-well,—and if for ever.Still, for ever fare-thee-well!"Sholto.
He stood among the mossy rocksBeside a Highland waterfall,And wrung his hands and tore his locks,And cursed the gaugers one and all.
He stood among the mossy rocks
Beside a Highland waterfall,
And wrung his hands and tore his locks,
And cursed the gaugers one and all.
Behind him was a ruined hut,Its walls were levell'd with the ground,And broken rafters black with soot,And staves of tubs, were scatter'd round.
Behind him was a ruined hut,
Its walls were levell'd with the ground,
And broken rafters black with soot,
And staves of tubs, were scatter'd round.
With streaming eyes adown the glenHe fix'd his gaze—I look'd, and lo!Along the road a band of men,With horse and cart, were moving slow.
With streaming eyes adown the glen
He fix'd his gaze—I look'd, and lo!
Along the road a band of men,
With horse and cart, were moving slow.
Upon my life, it made me shiverTo hear him shriek with frantic yell,"Fare-thee-well,—and if for ever.Still, for ever fare-thee-well!"
Upon my life, it made me shiver
To hear him shriek with frantic yell,
"Fare-thee-well,—and if for ever.
Still, for ever fare-thee-well!"
Sholto.
Sholto.
"Uncommon high the wind be tonight, sure-ly," remarked the occupier of the seat of honour on the left side of the fire-place in the Jolly Drummer, on the night of a boisterous 31st of March—"uncommon;" and as he spoke he uncrossed his legs, and resting his left hand which held his long pipe upon his knee, stretched out his right to a little triangular table that stood before the fire, stirred a more than half-finished tumbler of warm rum-and-water which was standing on one of the corners, shook the drops off the spoon, and having placed it on the table, raised the tumbler to his mouth, and in another minute set it down again empty, save the thin slice of lemon which had been floating about in the liquor. Having done this, he threw himself back in his seat, tucked his feet under it, and there crossed them, wriggled his right hand into his breeches' pocket, and resting his left elbow on the arm of the high-backed form or "settle" on which he was seated, puffed away in quiet enjoyment of his pipe.
Per—per—per. "It do blow above a bit, and that's all about it," returned a little man who was seated in an old Windsor chair opposite, as, having filled his pipe, he commenced lighting it with a piece of half-burnt paper that he had taken from the hob, and spoke between the strong puffs of smoke which curled upwards from his mouth during the operation. "I never—per—per—remember—per—sich a night—per—per—as this here—per—leastways for the time o'year—per—per—per—but once, per—and that was," said he, having now got his pipe well lighted, and letting himself gradually sink back in his chair, "and that was in the year—'37, when, as you remember, Master Tyler," looking at his friend opposite, "the mails was all snow'd up; but that was a trifle earlier in the year too, that was—let me see—oh ay, werry little tho'; why it was on the—yes, it was, on the 24th of this very month, and so it was."
"Ay, ay," replied Tyler, "I remember it, be sure I do; and, bless you, I thought ve vas all a-going to be fruz up in our beds, as sure as I'm a-sitting here. But now, vhat I vas a-thinking of, vas, that this here night never comes round but what I thinks of what happened to me vun blowing 31st o' March. It makes me shake a'most, too, a-thinking on it," continued he, looking up at a large tadpole-looking clock, which, with its octangular face, assured all the company that it wanted but a quarter of an hour of midnight.
"What was that?" exclaimed all the circle; "give us that tale, Master Tyler, a-fore we parts."
"Vell, then," said Tyler, touching his empty glass, "let's prepare for it." Upon this hint, one of the party, the host of the Jolly Drummer himself, rapped the table with his broad fist and shouted "Hollo there," which process brought upon the scene "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," whom Master Tyler requested to fill his glass, and "do the same for that gem'man opposite." She accordingly retired with the empty glasses, and as she is now out of the room, which we know to be the case from the whir-r-r-r bang! of the weighted door, we will take the opportunity before she comes back of describing the house and company.
The Jolly Drummer was a small public-house at the extreme end of a little scattered village; its situation on the verge of an extensive heath, and detached from the other cottages, would have given it a lonely appearance but for its background of a few trees, and two or three old stunted oaks before the door, between two of which was the horse-trough, and from the branches of the third swang the old and weather-beaten sign, creaking to and fro in the wind; the hay scattered about the trough, or whirled in air by the wind, and the wicker crate which stood at the door by the side of the mounting steps, together with a pail and mop, gave indications of a pretty-well frequented house. If anything more was wanting to establish the fact, on this night, besides two or three light carts, a heavy stage-waggon might be seen rearing its giant bulk against the dark sky with its shafts erect, and the unlit stable-lantern still skewered in the front.
The interior presented a more lively and comfortable appearance, at least in the room with which we are principally concerned. Here a fire of a few coals, overlaidwith large logs, crackled and spluttered in the grate round which the party was assembled, two of whom we have already introduced. Upon the same high-backed form or settle, on which Master Tyler sat, were seated three other men, two of whom belonged to the waggon without, and the third was a small short man, who said little, but seemed to imbibe all Master Tyler uttered with great reverence. On the opposite side of the fire, besides the little man in the Windsor chair, were two others, the one the blacksmith, and the other the cobbler of the village. Sitting opposite to the fire, and so as to complete the circle round it, sat the stout landlord himself, looking round at his guests and attending to their wants (as we have seen) with the consciousness of being "well-to-do" in the world. On the little triangular table stood a quart mug "imperial measure;" a brass candlestick, bent through age, holding a thin tallow candle: a large pair of snuffers, lying by their side bottom upwards, was scored with the marks of a bit of chalk, half-crushed among the tobacco ashes, and a dirty pack of cards, gave the observer every proof that the two waggoners had but lately been engaged in the favourite game of "all-fours."
The room in which this company had met was low and square, boasting as furniture a few Windsor chairs, a square deal table edged with iron, and supported by trussel-like legs, in addition to the before-mentioned little triangular one, another of which latter description was seen in a distant corner, a dresser standing against the wall opposite the fire, and a tall cupboard by its side; the window on the left side of the room was shaded by a checked curtain, which waved mournfully under the influence of the gusts of wind that managed to find their way through the closed lattice. A few such pictures as "the lovely florist," and the "happy fruiterer," with rounded limbs and flowing drapery, painted with bright colours on glass, decorated the walls, and the mantel-shelf was decked with the usual ornaments of peacocks' feathers, brass candlesticks, tin stands for pipe-lighters, flour and pepper-boxes, a coffee-pot, and two lines painted on the wall recording, with the day and date, how "Thomas Swipes, Jacob Swillby, and James Piper, drank at one sitting in this room twelve quarts of ale."
Such was the room and its contents on the 31st March, 18—, and a blowing night it was. The whir-r-r-bang again of the door announces Mary to have returned with the replenished glasses, and as she is retiring she is arrested by the voice of Master Tyler, who calls out to her—"Vait a bit, Mary, I knows you're fond of a tale; you may as vell sit down and listen, for I dare say you never heerd a better, tho' I says it, and that's a fact—that's to say, if the company has no objections," added Tyler. They all seemed to agree with Master Tyler in admitting Mary into the circle, and accordingly made room for her next to her master, the host. All these preliminaries being arranged, Master Tyler having just tasted his new glass of grog, thus began:—
"Let me see, it vas about the year 1817 ven I fust vent to be ostler at the Vite Swan, Stevenage, for Ivasa ostler vonce, gem'men, that I vas; you remember the time, Juggles?" continued he, addressing the little man opposite (who answered with an "ay," and a nod of the head). "Old Dick Styles used to vork the Old Highflier thro' Stevenage at that time, andhevos as good a coachman as here and there vun; but howsumever, that ain't got nothink to do vith my story. I vas a-saying it was my fust night in the yard, and in course I had to pay my footin'. Vell, old Tom Martin was the boots; he as come arterwards to our place, you know, Juggles?" ("Ay," answered the little man again, as he looked meditatingly at the fire;) "and me and him," continued Tyler, "sat up in the tap a-drinking and smoking and that, and a precious jolly night of it ve had, I can tell you! There vas Peter Scraggs, and as good a chap he vos as ever stepped, and vun or two more good jolly coves as you'd vish to see; vell, ve got a chaffin, and that like, ven Tom says to me, says he, 'Tyler,' ses he, 'you arn't been here long,' ses he, 'but maybe you've a heerd o' that old chap up yonder.' 'Vot old chap?' ses I. 'Vhy him on his beam-ends,' ses he a-laughing, and all the t'others laughed too, for I heerd arterwards that that vas his joke. 'Veil,' ses I, 'as I vas never here afore, t'aintwerrylikely as I have heerd of 'un; but who is he?' 'Vhy,' ses he, 'he vas an old grocer as lived in this here town o' Stevenage,' ses he, 'years and yearsago,' ses he; 'and left in his vill[23]vhen he died,' ses he, 'that he vouldn't be buried, not he, but be box'd up in his coffin and highsted up a-top o' the beams of his "hovel," ashecalled it; but a barn it is, that's sartain,' ses he. 'Nonsense,' ses I; 'you ain't a-going to come over me in that there style vith your gammon,' ses I. 'Gammon or no,' ses Tom, 'if you've a mind you may see him yourself,' ses he; leastvays you may see his oak coffin,' ses he. 'Seein's believin',' ses I, 'all over the world,' ses I, 'so here goes;' and up I gets, and Tom, he gets up too, and vun or two others, and ve goes out; and Tom, he catches holdt of a stable lantern, and picks up vun o' them poles with a fork at the end—them things vot the vashervomen hangs their lines upon ven they dries the clothes—and ve valks into a stable-like place as had been a barn, and Tom he hooks the lantern on to the pole, and holds it up, and there sure enoughvosthe coffin, a stuck up in the roof a top o' two beams.
"It's as true as I'm a-sitting here," continued Tyler, as he observed symptoms of incredulity in some of his auditors; "it's as true as I'm a-sitting here; and vot's more, you may see it there yourselves in that werry place to this werry day if you like to go as far. Vel, as I vos a saying, I looks up, and ses I, 'I'm blessed if it ain't a coffin,' ses I. 'Ay,' says Tom and the others, 'now you'll believe it, von't you?' 'Sartainly I vill,' ses I, 'now I sees it; but I'm blow'd if I didn't think you had been a-going on with some game or another,' ses I.
"Vell, ve come back agen to the tap, and ve sat there a-talking over that there old man and his rum fancy of being cocked up there, and vot not, till ve'd had enough, and thought it time to be off; it was then about half-past eleven. So Tom says, ses he, 'I'll show you vhere you are to hang out, Tyler,' ses he; so he takes me out in the yard and shows me my nest over the stable, and I'm blessed if it warn't the wery next to the vun with the old man. 'Pretty close company,' ses I to myself, 'anyhow;' but howsumdever I neversaidnothink, not I, in case he should think that I was afeerd arter vot he'd a' been saying and that; so up I goes vith the lantern, up the ladder, but I couldn't for the life of me help a-thinking of old Harry Trigg, (that vos the old feller's name, him in the coffin.) Vel, however, I turns in at last, and I hadn't been in bed more nor ten minutes at most, ven I heerd a kind of a——"
"Mercy! what's that!" exclaimed Mary, as the sign-board outside seemed to take part in the tale, and groan uneasily in the wind. "Don't be foolish, Mary," said my host, scarcely less frightened; "what should it be but the old sign? Don't interrupt Master Tyler again, there's a good lass."
"Vell, I heerd a kind of a creak," resumed the speaker, with a scarcely perceptible smile, "and I listened, and presently I thought I heerd a groan. Vell, I didn't much like it, I can tell you; however, I thought as it vos all imaginairy like, and vos jist a turning round in my bed to get a more comfortabler position—"
"Snuff the candle," suggested Juggles to the blacksmith in a low tone, who did it mechanically, scarcely taking his eyes off the speaker the while.
"Vhen I heerd a woice," (here there was a breathless silence among the auditors,) "I heerd a woice, a low woice it vere, say, wery slowly, 'I don't like it.' Vell, ven I heerd the woice, I gets a bit more plucky like; 'for,' thinks I, 'arter all it may be some vun in difficulties.' So I ses, ses I, 'Vot's the row, sir?' 'Tyler,' ses the woice, a'-calling me by name, 'Tyler,' ses he, 'I vish I hadn't done it.' 'Done vot?' ses I; for since he culled me by my name I vos a little quieter. 'Vy,' ses the woice, 'a' got myself cocked up here,' ses he. Ses I, 'Vhy don't you get down then?' ses I. ''Cause I can't,' ses he. 'Vhy not?' ses I. ''Cause I'm screwed down in my coffin,' ses he." Here a scream, half-suppressed, broke from Mary. "'My eye!' ses I to myself, and I shook all over—'it's the old man hisself,' and I pops my head under the bed-clothes precious quick, I can tell you; for I vos in a bit of a stew, as you may guess. Vell, presently I heerd the old man a calling out again; but I never answered a vord, not I. Vell, arter that I hears a kind of a rustling and scratching on the t'other side o' the planks close to vhere I vos a-laying. 'That's him,' thinks I; 'but he can't come here, that's clear.' 'Can't I tho'!' says the werry same woice close to my feet, this time. Oh crickey,how I did shake sure-ly at that there. 'Tyler!' ses he, calling out loud. 'Tyler,' ses he, 'look up;' but bless you, I never spoke nor moved. 'Tyler,' ses he agen, a-hollering for all the vorld as loud as thunder, 'John Tyler look up! or it'll be the vurse for you.' So at that I puts the werry top o' my eyes over the bed-clothes, and there I saw——"
"What?" exclaimed the blacksmith and cobbler, under their breath at the same instant.
The narrator looked around; Juggles was leaning forward in his chair, his open hand scarce holding his pipe, which, in the eagerness of his curiosity he had let out; the blacksmith and cobbler were, with eyes and mouth wide open, intently watching the speaker's face; mine host, with both fists on the table, was not a whit less anxious; Mary was leaning on the shoulder of one of the waggoners, with outstretched neck towards Tyler, drinking in every word he uttered; and the two waggoners, perfectly wrapped up in the tale, stared vacantly at the opposite wall.
"What?" repeated the anxious hearers.
Master Tyler took his pipe from his mouth, and puffing out a long wreath of smoke, at the same time pointing with his pipe to the clock, which was just on the quarter past twelve, said—"Nothink! and you're all April Fools!"Ali.
Once Venus, deeming Love too fat,Stopp'd all his rich ambrosial dishes,Dooming the boy to live on chat,To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—The starveling now no beauty boasted—He could have munch'd Minerva's owl,Or Juno's peacock, boil'd or roasted.At last, half famish'd, almost dead,He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;Young Lillie, passing, shook her head—Cried Love, "A shot at you, young sinner!""Oh not at me!"—she urged her flight—"I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!""No"—fainting Cupid cried—"not quite;But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!"L. B.
Once Venus, deeming Love too fat,Stopp'd all his rich ambrosial dishes,Dooming the boy to live on chat,To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—The starveling now no beauty boasted—He could have munch'd Minerva's owl,Or Juno's peacock, boil'd or roasted.At last, half famish'd, almost dead,He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;Young Lillie, passing, shook her head—Cried Love, "A shot at you, young sinner!""Oh not at me!"—she urged her flight—"I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!""No"—fainting Cupid cried—"not quite;But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!"L. B.
Once Venus, deeming Love too fat,Stopp'd all his rich ambrosial dishes,Dooming the boy to live on chat,To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—The starveling now no beauty boasted—He could have munch'd Minerva's owl,Or Juno's peacock, boil'd or roasted.
Once Venus, deeming Love too fat,
Stopp'd all his rich ambrosial dishes,
Dooming the boy to live on chat,
To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.
Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—
The starveling now no beauty boasted—
He could have munch'd Minerva's owl,
Or Juno's peacock, boil'd or roasted.
At last, half famish'd, almost dead,He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;Young Lillie, passing, shook her head—Cried Love, "A shot at you, young sinner!""Oh not at me!"—she urged her flight—"I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!""No"—fainting Cupid cried—"not quite;But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!"
At last, half famish'd, almost dead,
He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;
Young Lillie, passing, shook her head—
Cried Love, "A shot at you, young sinner!"
"Oh not at me!"—she urged her flight—
"I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!"
"No"—fainting Cupid cried—"not quite;
But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!"
L. B.
L. B.
BY BOWMAN TILLER.
CHAPTER XI.
An awful but instructive scene is the death-bed of the guilty. Shipkins experienced, by anticipation, the agonizing terrors of a future state. Despair took possession of his mind; but it was the despair of the coward who trembles to meet his judge, and not that of the penitent, who, prompted by hope, implores for mercy. He had lived a desperate life of crime, and his hearers shuddered as vivid recollection of the past seemed to flash upon him like sudden visions forcing him to reveal the enormities he had perpetrated.
His account, as far as it went, of Lieutenant Heartwell, was briefly this,—that Brady coveted his wealth for the double purpose of enriching himself, and carrying on those treasonable practices in which he was deeply involved—on the day of the lieutenant's disappearance, he had, after the departure of the bank agent, been encouraged to drink—the wine was drugged, and took its full effect. Shipkins had himself personated Heartwell in the hackney-coach affair, having previously stripped the lieutenant, and substituted the naval uniform for his own apparel,—and the evidence given by the coachman was perfectly correct. After alighting in Ormond Street, Shipkins crossed over into Great Ormond Yard, where he concealed himself in one of the stables which had been taken for the occasion, having a light cart and horse in readiness to further their schemes. Here he was shortly afterwards joined by Brady with his clothes, for which the lieutenant's were immediately exchanged, the horse was put into the cart, they drove to Lincoln's Inn, and having deposited Mr. Heartwell in it, they conveyed him—still in an insensible state—as well as the notes, gold, and documents, to the very cottage they were then in.
Here a sudden spasm seized the dying man—he gasped convulsively—an internal hemorrhage was going on, that threatened suffocation,—and it may readily be supposed, that intense anxiety pervaded every one present. Mrs. Heartwell had listened almost breathlessly,—every word that was uttered made its due and deep impression on her heart—she sat like a statue—no relieving tear started to her eye, for the fever of agonised expectation had dried the source of tears—no sigh, no groan escaped her, till the expiring Shipkins stopped, and then extending her hands, as she looked at the contorted and ghastly features of the clerk, her voice found utterance, and clasping her hands in earnest entreaty, she exclaimed,—
"Oh, let him not die—hold—hold—yet, a little longer life that he may tell us all. Heavenly Father, in pity spare him, till his conscience is unburthened, and then in mercy pardon his offences."
Frank supported his mother, and tried to calm her perturbation, though his own spirit was on the rack, as he now concluded that his conjectures were correct, and beneath the same roof which they were then under, his gallant father had been murdered. It was a moment of tryingsuspense to all, and eagerly they watched the surgeon exercise his skill, as, raised up by Ben, the close of Shipkins' career seemed fast approaching—they had as yet heard nothing of the lieutenant's fate, nor had any information been rendered relative to Brady's place of concealment, and what had been communicated served rather to excite greater agitation than to allay that which had already been caused.
The surgeon had requested every one to remain silent, and the stillness was only broken by himself as he gave directions to Ben, (but even these were given in whispers,) and the struggles of the dying man, who, grasping at the air, as if he would clutch another victim, muttered unconnected sentences. It was an appalling spectacle—loud and piercing was his shriek as he caught Ben's arm, and grasped it with a desperate grasp, as the only stay in life,—wild and imploring was his look as he tried to speak, but the words could not find utterance. It was only for a moment—a yell of agony succeeded, and in a few minutes his limbs were stiffening in the rigidity of death.
But what language can picture the distress of Mrs. Heartwell and her son, at the disclosure's being so prematurely cut off, and that too in so fearful a manner! Frank tried to lessen the disappointment and grief of his parent; but she who had all along cherished hope, now enfeebled by circumstances that had preyed upon her mind, and weighed down by the pressure of the evidence which Shipkins had given, seemed sinking into despair.
It was past midnight when the wretched man ceased to exist. No one thought of repose, except the surgeon, who accustomed to witness the flight of the departed spirit, retired to his home; but Mr. Wendover remained at the cottage, endeavouring to tranquillise the lady's mind. Morning had not yet broke, when the sound of horses' hoofs were heard upon the common; but they suddenly ceased at the garden-gate, and the bell was violently rung. Frank and Ben grasped their pistols, and immediately went out to answer the summons. The horseman had dismounted, and being questioned, said "he was the bearer of a letter to Lieutenant Heartwell that required instant attention." The letter was handed through the bars—Frank saw that the superscription was addressed to himself, and breaking the seal, he ascertained that the signature was that of Mr. Unity Peach. The letter was characteristic of the writer, and ran thus:—
"Sir,—Strange doings—caught sight of Brady last night—pursued (chased, you would call it)—followed him to a house in Hoxton—madhouse—sent for the constables, and put them on watch—cannot enter without a warrant—they will not open the doors.—Hasten hither (bear a hand, you would say)—let us have no delays—the badger is trapped at last, and it will require a good dog to draw him.—The bearer of this will tell you whereabouts to find me.Yours,Unity Peach."
"Sir,—Strange doings—caught sight of Brady last night—pursued (chased, you would call it)—followed him to a house in Hoxton—madhouse—sent for the constables, and put them on watch—cannot enter without a warrant—they will not open the doors.—Hasten hither (bear a hand, you would say)—let us have no delays—the badger is trapped at last, and it will require a good dog to draw him.—The bearer of this will tell you whereabouts to find me.Yours,Unity Peach."
There was nothing in this curious epistle that might not be communicated to Mrs. Heartwell, and Frank at once related the occurrence, and urged the necessity of his immediate compliance. His mother not only acquiesced, but wished to accompany him, and probably would have doneso, had not Mr. Wendover dissuaded her from it. The pony-chaise was put in requisition, but the merchant sent to the Hall for his own post-chariot, in which himself and Frank departed, the messenger riding on before as conductor. A gloomy daylight had opened on them when they reached their destination—a small public-house—where they found Mr. Peach, who was impatiently awaiting their arrival. From him they learned that he had on the previous afternoon been to a lunatic asylum in the neighbourhood of Hoxton, for the purpose of visiting "Brothers the Prophet" (who had been removed thither during some temporary repairs at Fisher's), and did not leave that place till late in the evening, when on passing out at the gates, a man alighted from horseback, his face ashy pale, with a small stream of blood running down it; he was much bespattered with mud, as if he had fallen, and was evidently in a state of great excitement; the horse, too, appeared to have been ridden hard. Mr. Peach had to draw himself up on one side to allow of his passing, and the porter holding up his lantern in order to ascertain who the visitor was, revealed to Mr. Peach the features of Brady—especially as on observing him there was the strange and peculiar expression of the eye. The first impulse of the detector was to seize the lawyer, but his usual caution arrested his hand, and he suffered him to pass onward, which as soon as he had done, the porter led in the horse, and Mr. Peach having walked out, the gates were closed behind him.
Certain of the personal identity, and pondering the circumstance in his mind, the old gentleman determined to watch till some one should pass whom he might employ in sending for a constable, but it was long before any one approached that lonely and dreary abode. At length the horn of the night-patrol (who volunteered for recompense to conduct passengers across the fields) was heard, and Mr. Peach ran towards him and communicated his earnest request that an efficient force might be immediately sent to apprehend a felon who had taken shelter at a residence in the neighbourhood. This was accompanied by a present of money, with the promise of still greater reward, both public and private, if the villain was apprehended. The patrol performed his duty, and in a short time several peace-officers were in attendance, and an attempt was made to gain admission into the house, but without avail; its iron-barred windows and strong doors set attack at defiance. The constables had consequently been placed upon the watch round the building all night, to prevent escape.
Such was the position of affairs when Frank and Mr. Wendover arrived. The merchant resolved to act in his official capacity, and demand an entrance. They were soon at the doors, and a summons being given, Mr. Wendover explained the object of their visit. The porter, in reply, declared that no person of the name of Brady was there, nor was he at all acquainted with the individual alluded to.
"False!" exclaimed Mr. Unity Peach, "saw him myself—went in as I came out last night—muddy, dirty—cut face—know him well."
"That gentleman, sir," replied the porter, "that was Mr. Bartlett, the principal proprietor of this establishment."
Looks of doubt and perplexity passed between Frank and Mr. Wendover; and the latter, after a short hesitation, remarked, "If that is the case he can have no objection to grant us an interview."
"I fear," returned the man, "that you cannot see him; he had a severe fall last night from his horse, and is much injured in the head—indeed is now almost insensible."
Mr. Wendover once more questioned Peach, and the latter persisted in the most positive manner that it was Brady whom he had seen go in. "Well, then, it is utterly useless delaying," said the merchant; "and I now as a magistrate demand an entrance: if it is not complied with, I will upon my own responsibility force the doors."
"I will consult my superior," said the porter, returning from the gate. In a few minutes he returned, and stated that he was directed to give free admission to the magistrate, and a few whom he might select to accompany him. A strange feeling came over Frank as he entered this abode of tortured spirits; for the mad-houses of those days were seldom inspected, and many a victim to avarice and villany had been confined within their walls[24]. The secrets of the "prison-house" were never disclosed, for the unhappy creatures were incarcerated for life; sometimes they would indeed be driven mad, but death alone gave them release from torment.
A respectable-looking elderly man met the party, and after apologies and explanations, announced that "Mr. Bartlett's injuries from his fall were very serious, and throughout the night he had been labouring under an attack of brain-fever, which he hoped was subsiding, though he was still subject to restraint."
"I have only the furtherance of justice in view," said Mr. Wendover; "he has been sworn to in the most positive manner, and I must see him."
"The appearance of so many persons may be hazardous to his existence," replied the other submissively; "if it is a mere matter of identity, more than two or three will not be required."
The arrangement was made, and Mr. Wendover, Mr. Peach, and Frank, were conducted through several passages, till they arrived in a part of the building where the most violent maniacs were confined; here in an apartment, whose entrance might have almost defied detection, they beheld a man in a strait-waistcoat, stretched upon a mattress upon the ground with two keepers in attendance to awe him into subjection. His countenance was haggard and flushed, and there was a tiger-like ferocity in his look, that claimed but little semblance to humanity; he was still raving, and his wild unnatural laugh thrilled with horror through the frames of the visitors. Mr. Wendover and Unity Peach were the first to enter, but he took no notice of them. Frank followed; and the moment he was visible, the individual whom they had come to see drew himself up as if his whole frame were withering with sudden blight, and he convulsively and hissingly drew his breath, like one who has suddenly been plunged into cold water.
"What! there again?" muttered he, as he fixed his gaze on Frank, whose strong likeness to his father, and in the naval uniform too, had induced a belief that the spirit of his victim stood in his presence; whilst the peculiarrolling of the man's eyes instantly betrayed that Brady was before them; "but," and he laughed wildly, "I defy you—the judge cannot take the evidence of the dead." He raised his voice—"Hence—depart, I say—no earthly tribunal can take cognizance of your oath, and so far I am safe." He turned to Peach and demanded—"Who and what are you?—how came you here?—who has dared to let you in?—speak—who are you?"
Slowly Mr. Peach removed his hat and wig, and the patch from his eye. "I knew I was right," said he: "Brady, do you know me now?"
"Well, well," returned the lawyer quietly, "this is kind of you, too—more than I expected—but how did you find me out—come, come, friend Shaft, sit down; we will not heed yon spectre," his aberration took another turn. "Ha," he shouted, "it is you who have betrayed me, old man; traitor! monster! it is you who have denounced your friend. Acteon Shaft, I defy you to the very teeth."
"It is enough that you now recognise me," responded the other; and turning to Mr. Wendover, added, "You may perceive, sir, that my information was correct."
Brady's ravings and struggles became dreadful; the attendants could with difficulty hold him down till overwrought nature brought a crisis, and he sank in strong convulsions. The young lieutenant's feelings it would be impossible to describe, as he looked upon the supposed murderer of his father, and fears began to arise that he should again be deprived of the information he so earnestly desired.
An hour elapsed before Brady was recovered from his fit, which left him weak and exhausted, but restored to consciousness and to a sense of his perilous situation: still the inveterate and hardened criminal was unsubdued, and retained all the craftiness of his character. Mr. Wendover addressed him in energetic language. Frank earnestly implored him to reveal all he knew of the fate of his parent, but the wily man "denied all knowledge of the lieutenant beyond placing him in the hackney-coach."
"Shipkins has been taken," said Mr. Wendover, "and he has confessed—?"
"What, what has he confessed?" eagerly demanded the lawyer; and then slowly added, "His confessions are worth nothing; I do not fear them; leave me to myself, and let the law take its course."
"Brady! Brady!" exclaimed Unity Peach, now revealed as the celebrated Acteon Shaft, through whose means government had been enabled to defeat the treasonable designs of the disaffected, "do not, do not go into the presence of your Maker with a lie upon your tongue. Tell us what became of Lieutenant Heartwell. You have not long to live, why should you refuse this act of justice to those whom you have so deeply injured—they have discovered the concealed property?"
"Ha," uttered Brady, like one struck with mortal agony, "question me no further; I will not answer you." He looked towards one of the attendants inquiringly, and the man made some sign in return, but both were scarcely perceptible.
"Is there nothing will prevail with you," said the young officer in deep distress; "will not a mother's tears—the supplications of a son—"
The Death of Brady and discovery of Frank's Father.London. Tilt & Bogue. 86. Fleet Street.
The Death of Brady and discovery of Frank's Father.London. Tilt & Bogue. 86. Fleet Street.
The Death of Brady and discovery of Frank's Father.
London. Tilt & Bogue. 86. Fleet Street.
"Nothing, nothing," doggedly returned Brady, "you have the property; your father you will see no more. Hah!" he shrieked and started, fixing his blood-shot but rolling eyes at an aged-looking man, who was standing in the door-way. "Hah! what! again betrayed?—'tis he—'tis he himself, and no delusion."
The look of every one present was turned upon the object of the lawyer's terror. "It is, it is indeed he," uttered Acteon Shaft with deep emotion. "Frank, it is your father."
There cannot be any necessity for relating what ensued as Frank fell himself in the embrace of his long-lost and affectionately-mourned parent! Nor can it be required of me to tell the delight of Mr. Heartwell's spirit as, restored to freedom, he gazed with pride upon the handsome features and manly appearance of his son. Those who have hearts alive to nature, have already pictured the whole, and my task is spared.
Mutual recognitions and hearty greetings for several minutes drew away attention from the wretch who had caused such long-protracted misery. On again turning towards him, he was in the same position, but his glassy eyes were fixed as if bursting from their sockets—he was dead.
CHAPTER XII.
From the moment of her son's departure, Mrs. Heartwell suffered intensely from anxiety and suspense, which Helen, who had come to stay with her, endeavoured to relieve. It was about noon when the party returned, and there was upon the countenances of all a glow of satisfaction and pleasure that could not be concealed from the keen penetration of her who sought to gather facts from looks.
"What—what is it?" uttered she, as she strove to nerve herself to bear whatever intelligence they might bring; "tell me—tell me all."
"My dear mother," said Frank embracing her, "keep your mind calm—strange things have been revealed—my father's fate has been ascertained,—come, come, sit down and compose yourself. You shall know all."
"A hidden mystery has been brought to light, my dear madam," said Mr. Wendover, quietly. "Mr. Heartwell has been heard of; but are you really able to endure whatever of joy or sorrow may betide—"
"Joy?—joy?" repeated she with eagerness, "is there then hope, that you use that term? Do not keep me longer in suspense—it is becoming terrible, your countenances show no grief. Tell me, Ben, if I can learn it from no one else."
The seaman looked at his mistress—his smile of exultation could not be mistaken; but dashing the rising spray from his eyes, he uttered, "Lord love you, my lady, my heart's too full to overhaul it now; but what's the odds so as you're happy?"
"Can you bear an introduction to one who is able to explain every particular?" inquired Mr. Wendover; "exert yourself, you will stand in need of energy and strength."
"It is—it must be," said the gasping lady, "there is something whispering it to my heart—a thought I have clung to through all my trials—apresage of his existence—he lives—say that he lives—I know it, and am firm!" She arose from her seat, and the next instant was pressed to the throbbing heart of her restored and tenderly loved husband. Years of past pain enhanced the felicitous enjoyment of that moment, and it was long before composure was regained.
The absent lieutenant's history may be briefly told. His first remembrance on recovering from stupor, was of a dark and dreary room,—in fact, the very one in which Brady had expired,—here shut in from the world, and concealed from every eye but that of his keeper, he had dragged on his days a lengthened chain of galling misery, till days dwindled into nothing, and the links were extended to years. But happily for him much of it had been passed in delusion—his intellect had become impaired—and when he recovered consciousness, it was like the sudden awakening from a long and fearful dream. He remonstrated—insisted upon being set at liberty, but expressions of remonstrance, and attempts at resistance, were alike punished with severity. Books he was allowed; but he had no one to converse with, except his keeper.
When Brothers was removed from Fisher's, "the prophet" was considered so harmless, that very little restraint was laid upon him, and one of the keepers telling him, that a brother seaman was confined within the walls, he earnestly requested to be allowed an interview. After repeated solicitations, the keeper secretly complied, and it may be well supposed that the meeting was anything but sorrowful, for it afforded Heartwell a hope that through the medium of his old acquaintance, he might yet escape. As the keeper was present during this, and several subsequent interviews, they could only converse on general topics, and when the fit was on him, Brothers would prophesy. It was on one of these occasions that he gave Heartwell an intimation of his designs, by saying, "What is man that he should be cared for—here to-day, and gone to-morrow—like the light that shineth out of darkness that quickly passeth away!"
This was accompanied by significations that were readily understood, and hope revived the lieutenant's energies; but although Unity Peach, or more properly speaking, Acteon Shaft, had visited Brothers more than once, yet the latter with cunning peculiar to himself had said nothing about Heartwell, preferring to keep his intentions secret, so that they might not be frustrated, and fearing that if the slightest suspicion was excited, he should be subjected to greater restrictions.
On the evening of Brady's return with a fractured skull from the blow given him by Frank (for such was the fact, and it is worthy of remark that both villains met their doom from the much-injured young man) Brothers, who was roaming about, overheard directions and commands given by the lawyer to one of the keepers, to administer poison to Heartwell, so that he might be entirely removed, and as he hoped the secret would perish with him. Brothers, who had free access to all parts of the house, occasionally officiating as an assistant—now determined to put his scheme in practice, nor was a moment to be lost. Amidst the confusion which prevailed through Brady's mishap, Brothers contrived to get the keys, and having by an artful message removed the porter, Heartwell's cell was opened, and he passed throughthe passages unobserved to the outer gate. This was locked, and they had no key; there were however some planks on the ground, and by inclining one against the wall to a certain height, and then placing another on it, he contrived to get into the open fields, and in the darkness eluded the vigilance of the constables who had been set to watch. The glare of the atmosphere pointed out to him the direction of the metropolis, and thither he hastened, taking a straight direction for Ormond-street, where he inquired for his family, but no one could give him intelligence respecting them. Dispirited and disheartened, he went to the nearest watch-house, and informed the chief constable of the night who he was. This functionary happened to be a clever intelligent man, related to Townsend the Bow-Street officer, and to his residence he was advised to go; Heartwell went, engaged Townsend's assistance, a warrant was promptly obtained, and they hurried back to Hoxton. In the mean time, Brady became more and more outrageous, and insisted on going to Heartwell's cell to ascertain whether his orders had been executed: he found it empty; and judging from this that the lieutenant was no more, his reason became overpowered, delirium and violence ensued, and they were compelled to secure him where he then was. Townsend and Heartwell found no difficulty in gaining admission, and Brothers conducted them to the cell, which was entered as already described.
Mr. Wendover's full consent being obtained, Frank's nuptials followed soon after this joyous re-union. Youth, beauty, rank, and fashion graced the festival in the parlours and drawing-room of the hall, whilst Ben and Sambo, who had come up on purpose to the wedding, kept the kitchen guests in one continued round of merriment, till overpowered by respect for his master, veneration for his mistress, and attachment to Frank, Ben's brains began to whirl, his steps became exceedingly erratic as if his feet were mocking each other, and he was carried off to bed by Sambo, where he was snugly deposited under the lee of his nightcap.
"You for drinkee too much, massa Ben," said Sambo. "Nem mind dis time, boy, young masser young missy, all golious and sing God shabe de king."
"Hur-rah, hurrah," hiccuped Ben, as he strove to raise his head from the pillow. "Hurrah, you beautiful—beauti—piece of ebony—hurrah I say—" down dropped his head. "Wha-wats the odds so as you're happy!"
"Wo-ho-ho-ho-up—wo-ho!"—Sweet public, you are now in the yard of the Crown and Cauliflower Hotel, famous for posting, roasting, and accommodating the lieges with very lean bills of fare, and very fat bills of figures;—and you have listened to the lover-like tones, half-soliciting, half-imperative, with which our postboy brought his horses at once to a halt, at the hall-door of the Crown and Cauliflower. There he stands at your chaise-door, hand to hat, and whip couchant, soliciting your favourable notice. There stands the postboy, an important individual of the great family of the riders. He is much given to a white silk hat, with the silk worn off the rim in front, a white neckerchief, a white vest, a canary jacket, a small plaited shirt, and white corded unfit-for-finical-ladies-to-conceive-the-proper-ogativesof. The postboy is a jumble of contradictions; he is always rising in the world, yet he is as constantly finding his level; he has had more ups and downs than any other being; he is, at least, fifty-seven, but he has not yet arrived at manhood; should he complete the century, he will be as far off from it then as he is now; he is always a postboy; a boy post dated; he never reaches man's estate; he never knows its declension; he never sinks into second childishness; he lives and dies a postboy. We have heard of one, two, or three instances "down the road," where he saved one or two thousand pounds, and became a landlord. We think they are apocryphal. Perhaps they occurred in the days of the highwaymen, by whom postboys have been known to profit. But whenever they occurred, or however, they are exceptions in the great chapter of postboys, proving that the will of fate has given to the postboy
"A local habitation and a name"—
if, indeed, there can be said to be anything local about his changing and yet monotonous existence—else he had walked about the world an embodied nonentity. He is a totally different being to the cantering gemini, the letter postboy and his horse; nor does he ever become "a postman." Like Tom Moody, he radiates
"Through a country well known to him fifty miles round,"
yet little knoweth he besides the change-houses, and they, in his imagination, stand out in glorious array:—the Pig and Lapstone, the Three Leathern Corkscrews, the Manuscript and Hatchet, the Stork and Ruffles, the Waggon and Shirtpin, the Syllabub and Pump, all of which, in motley succession, dance before his dozing eyes as so many havens from his peril;—the sole green spots that ornament the desert of his life.
The postilion is a veritable centaur—a human quadruped partaking of the two natures, the stable and the bed and bolster, "three-pennorth o' brandy," and the nose-bag. He is a poet, superior to that genuine pastoral, the haymaker, if familiarity with Apollo (andifApollo be the sun) constitutes a poet. The sickle-wielder of Autumn burns not with such fervid inspiration. Look on his countenance—"that index to the soul"—and imagine how full of fire that soul must be, when the proverbial brevity of an index contains so much—"to overflowing full." Hisgenusstands out like a finger-post before him, introducing him to every circle. His soul is concentrated in the Mews. Talk of Shakspere and Owen Glendower, they never carried such lights before them; even Bardolph himself possessed not such a nasal flambeau. No! his is an inspired nose, and his nose knows it! And it loveth not, neither doth it abide, the familiarities of the aqueous element, but hisses in its ablutions, as a stable-boy hisses when he is cleaning a horse, thereby publishing its heat and its nosology. Again, mark you his freckles—whoever saw such in the face of beauty? He is a character "alone in his glory," so far as his outward indications go. Let us gauge the calibre of his understanding. We were in the tap of the Sun and Cabbage-stump when he called to "wet his whistle." A "boy" was there before him from the Hand and Placquet, drinking with "a return," said return being a runaway apprentice, and our postboy stopped withhisin the shape of a clandestine marriage. Upon meeting, the following colloquy took place:—
"Well, Tom, how goes it at the Placquet, eh? I see ye up the road pretty often lately. I 'spose the old man an' her don't agree no better? Ah! he shouldn't a married her."
"That's nither here nor there with us, you know, Bob, as long as there's plenty o' gemmen as wants our assistance; and, somehow, there's all'ays plenty on em' at the Placquet—good payers too. Th' old feller's terrible crabby, but she cocks her cap 'nation high, to be sure, an' she don't care—it suitsherbetter to look arterhercustomers, eh?"
"Mum about them things, Tom. I got a han'some young couple here going to be made one, an' we shouldn't put canker'd snaffles into young colts' chaps. There's nothin' very pleasant in rising blisters in the mouth—is there, sir?" (to our worthy self.)
"You're the rummiest feller I ever come near, Bob, to talk to the gemman athat way—you'd make a gallows good parson. But I s'pose you're comin' it feelin' like, an' Mary Scrabbles 'll soon be Mrs. Trotter?"
At this repartee there was a general "He! he! he!" the runaway apprentice taking the alto part.
"That young gemman's in a very good humour, ain't he, Tom? I s'pose his mother knowhe'sout? A regular young lord in disguise, come out to 'stonish us gulpins; but if we had him on a flinty road, o' th' off side, at one or two o'clock of a winter's mornin', we could mek him drop his cock-tail, eh, Tom? an' laugh o' th' other side o' his mouth."
"Order, order," as them parliament chaps say—"'tacking my constitent ain't nothin' about Mary, you know, Bob."
"O, stow your chaff, an' I must be off. Here's to your health, Miss, wishin' ye much happiness; and your'n, sir, all the same; an' to the young gentleman there with the mint o' goold in his pocket, an' the kiddy side locks, an' th' pertikler purty count'nance when he laughs"—(he had a mouth like a park, and teeth like its palings)—"'oping he may never have the prison crop, nor th' lock jaw, nor the Vituses dance to spile him, Tom!" and a concurrent nod and wink at Tom scarcely preceded the emptying of the glass of "brandy with," ere he departed.
"Mind ye don't break down at the Horns, there," shouted the remaining "boy," having a sly fling at both parties as they rattled away, and dexterously conciliating his own.
Such is a specimen of his snap-dragon conversation, which partakes strongly of Christmas nonsense—short and caustic, touch and go—the blazing gin and raisins of confabulation.
The postilion seldom marries, but, in general, he does the insinuating to the cook at the inn where he tarries. The postboy has a tooth and a taste for a gastronomical relish; and though his strong stomach and long rides furnish his appetite with the best of all condiments, he can pout out his lips, and depress his eyebrows, at the plain and substantial fare which is allowed and provided for him, while his mouth waters for a portion of the luxuries preparing about him; therefore, whatever Molly can pare and make, as convenience and opportunity offer, never comes either too late or too early for him. He imagines himself to be one of those who are reputed to be "awake to the world," and sooth to say, he distinguishes at a glance the character of his fare of either gender, and deports himself accordingly. He never takes more than his legitimate fare—if he cannot get it: nor will he ever annoy you with impertinence at his departure—if you have purchased his civility. He may, and frequently does, practise a little collusion with toll-gate keepers: thus, just as you are leaving the town where you hire your post-chaise, there is invariably a toll-bar; you pay there, and the postboy receives "a ticket," which frees you from payment at other bars on your line of route, set up to intercept the cross-roads, and so on, till you must pay again, on entering another "line of trust." A lucky dog are you, if you escape so; ten to one your postboy has "an understanding" with the keeper of one of the bars, whereat arriving, he bawls out, "Pay here!"; or, if you have been very liberal "at mine inn," or to the last "boy," it varies to "Pay here, yourhonour!" in notes as dulcet as his glottis will permit him, and draws up. "Free to Flatbit!" cries the tollman, as you comply with his demand, dash goes the rowel into the left flank of the near horse, and you are pursuing your course in blissful ignorance. As the postboy returns, he receives from his "friend," his share of your mulet, and enjoys his laugh literally at your expense.
The postboy has been a person of importance—we say, has been; for, firstly, the flying stages, with their excellent accommodation, civil functionaries, and eleven miles an hour, more than decimated his "order;" then that northern leveller, Macadam, exacted a triple tithe; and lastly, the iron-ribbed troughs and viaducts, everywhere throwing out arteries from the main trunks, and every individual inch growing, like a chopped centipede, into a perfect monster,—have almost annihilated him, so much so, that the next generation will set him down as an extinct animal, and, like the present with the Dodo, will be able to find only his bill and his boots! Still doth he retain some dignity, for, at a late general election, he headed the poll gallantly for the independent and patrioticborough of Bullybribe; where the Right Honourable Florian Augustus Finglefangle offered golden reasons for the suffrages of his father's tenantry, and those real bulwarks of the British empire—the potwallopers. Notwithstanding, his glory has departed; those incorrigible dogs who rule the roast in the courts of law—cold, unyielding, unromantic civilians—have long decided not to recognise the mysteries of the Gretna smithy; they have openly denounced the votaries of Venus and Vulcan; and one great part of the postboy's occupation is no more.
Ourpostboy is not about to lead you, gentle reader, the tour of the Continent; he is not about to familiarise you with banditti; he has no forests nor horrible gorges to lead you through; you must expect little from him beside what we have prepared you for; and, as we have exposed his trifling peccadilloes, we entreat you not to let your virtuous indignation overcome your liberality nor your gentlemanly bearing. Probably, sir, you are fresh from the perpetration of rascalities which he would shrink from as being heinous crimes, but which you very complacently assure yourself were cleverly done to take in Messrs. Adderfeed and Co. You are a shrewd fellow, doubtless, and "are not to be done," as you believe in your self-sufficiency;—let him try to impose payment of a toll on you, which you have no business to pay, and you wish they may get it, that's all! Now, put it to your conscience—you have a conscience?—and compare your rascalities with his venialities: your "means and appliances" with his; and if conscience give the balance in your favour, why you are a worthy fellow, and ought not to be imposed on; but be careful; do not insist upon your bond; your memory may play truant, and, if it does not, you are certainly benevolent, nay, munificent, and will not stoop to such a paltry cavil. Remember he is ever at your beck and command, hail, rain, or shine; high-road or bye-road; at hazy morn, or fervid noon, or dreary night; you have but to intimate your pleasure, and he is your humble servitor. In the stifling heat and dust of midsummer, and in the dreary sleet and howling winds of Christmas, he is glad to administer to your business or pleasure. He never tires nor complains of his vocation. Thrice has he been out in this day's heavy rain—the whole of his wardrobe is soaked—a month ago he rose from a bed of fever, induced by the same cause—yet are you waiting, the moment you hear his wheels, to order him off for another sixteen miles, and not a murmur will escape him, although it is now six at eve, the sun setting, and the wind "turning very cold." Still will he lift his hat to you as deferentially as he did to his first fare, and comply with the same alacrity.
The thousands who pass him in his progress think not of his cares nor his sorrows, his abundance or his want. He toils and moils like the rest, unconscious that the eyes and the mind of the philosopher—bright scintillations of heaven and eternity—may rest upon him at the same moment with those of the humble individual who hath here noted his characteristics and sketched his profile.Jao.
Mr. and Mrs. Q. were discussing their financial resources—"I cannot make out," said the lady, "how it is that Mr. X. contrives to keep such a large house and so many servants, and to live in such style. You are quite as clever, my dear, in your profession—ay, that you are—cleverer too, for that matter; and yet, with all your skill and perseverance, we are living, as it were, from hand to mouth. How is it?" "Why, my love," said Mr. Q., "you see that X. has got the start: in fact, you see, my dear, he has got 'the horse by the head,' and I have only got him by thetail."
Mr. and Mrs. Q. were discussing their financial resources—"I cannot make out," said the lady, "how it is that Mr. X. contrives to keep such a large house and so many servants, and to live in such style. You are quite as clever, my dear, in your profession—ay, that you are—cleverer too, for that matter; and yet, with all your skill and perseverance, we are living, as it were, from hand to mouth. How is it?" "Why, my love," said Mr. Q., "you see that X. has got the start: in fact, you see, my dear, he has got 'the horse by the head,' and I have only got him by thetail."