Jonathan threw open the street-door. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. Jonathan looked in that direction, and beheld the fugitives riding off in triumph.
"To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. "To-morrow it will be mine."
CHAPTER VI.
Winifred receives two Proposals.
The tragical affair at Dollis Hill, it need scarcely be said, was a dreadful blow to the family. Mr. Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions.
The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,—the presence of the mangled corpse,—the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required,—all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl's imagination. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. As to Thames, though deeply and painfully affected by the horrible occurrence that had marked his return to his old friends, he was yet able to control his feelings, and devote himself to the alleviation of the distress of the more immediate sufferers by the calamity.
It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. All these things spoke of peace;—but there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. These persons were Mr. Kneebone and Winifred.
The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. Amongst others who attended the sad ceremony was Mr. Kneebone. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. Overcome by his affliction, Mr. Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. Much to her annoyance, therefore, Winifred was left alone with the woollen-draper, who following up a maxim of his own, "that nothing was gained by too much bashfulness," determined to profit by the opportunity. He had only been prevented, indeed, by a fear of Mrs. Wood from pressing his suit long ago. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position.
"We have had a sad loss, my dear Winifred," he began,—"for I must use the privilege of an old friend, and address you by that familiar name,—we have had a sad loss in the death of your lamented parent, whose memory I shall for ever revere."
Winifred's eyes filled with tears. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. So he resolved to try another tack.
"What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. Strange, I shouldn't know him when he called on me."
"It is strange," replied Winifred, artlessly. "I knew him at once."
"Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for. May I be permitted, as a very old and very dear friend of your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore, to ask you one question?"
"Undoubtedly," replied Winifred.
"And you will answer it frankly?"
"Certainly."
"Now for it," thought the woollen-draper, "I shall, at least, ascertain how the land lies.—Well, then, my dear," he added aloud, "do you still entertain the strong attachment you did to Captain Darrell?"
Winifred's cheeks glowed with blushes, and fixing her eyes, which flashed with resentment, upon the questioner, she said:
"I have promised to answer your question, and I will do so. I love him as a brother."
"Only as a brother?" persisted Kneebone.
If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper.
"If you knew how much importance I attach to your answer," he continued passionately, "you would not refuse me one. Were Captain Darrell to offer you his hand, would you accept it?"
"Your impertinence deserves very different treatment, Sir," said Winifred; "but, to put an end to this annoyance, I will tell you—I would not."
"And why not?" asked Kneebone, eagerly.
"I will not submit to be thus interrogated," said Winifred, angrily.
"In the name of your lamented parent, whose memory I shall for ever revere, I implore you to answer me," urged Kneebone, "why—why would you not accept him?"
"Because our positions are different," replied Winifred, who could not resist this appeal to her feelings.
"You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. "Disparity of rank is ever productive of unhappiness in the married state. When Captain Darrell's birth is ascertained, I've no doubt he'll turn out a nobleman's son. At least, I hope so for his sake as well as my own," he added, mentally. "He has quite the air of one. And now, my angel, that I am acquainted with your sentiments on this subject, I shall readily fulfil a promise which I made to your lamented parent, whose loss I shall ever deplore."
"A promise to my mother?" said Winifred, unsuspiciously.
"Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it."
"Oh! name it."
"You are a party concerned. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere. Promise me."
"If in my power—certainly. But, what is it! What did you promise?"
"To offer you my heart, my hand, my life," replied Kneebone, falling at her feet.
"Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising.
"Inequality of rank can be no bar to our union," continued Kneebone. "Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman."
In spite of her displeasure, Winifred could not help smiling at the absurdity of this address. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor proceeded still more extravagantly. Seizing her hand he covered it with kisses.
"Adorable girl!" he cried, in the most impassioned tone, and with the most impassioned look he could command. "Adorable girl, I have long loved you to desperation. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. Would she were alive to back my suit!"
"This is beyond all endurance," said Winifred, striving to withdraw her hand. "Leave me, Sir; I insist."
"Never!" rejoined Kneebone, with increased ardour,—"never, till I receive from your own lips the answer which is to make me the happiest or the most miserable of mankind. Hear me, adorable girl! You know not the extent of my devotion. No mercenary consideration influences me. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. I care not. Possessed of you, I shall have a treasure such as kings could not boast."
"Pray cease this nonsense," said Winifred, "and quit the room, or I will call for assistance."
At this juncture, the door opened, and Thames entered the room. As the woollen-draper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses.
"Call as you please, beloved girl," he cried, "I will not stir till I am answered. You say that you only love Captain Darrell as a brother—"
"Mr. Kneebone!"
"That you would not accept him were he to offer—"
"Be silent, Sir."
"He then," continued the woollen-draper, "is no longer considered—"
"How, Sir?" cried Thames, advancing, "what is the meaning of your reference to my name? Have you dared to insult this lady? If so—"
"Insult her!" replied Kneebone, rising, and endeavouring to hide his embarrassment under a look of defiance. "Far from, it, Sir. I have made her an honourable proposal of marriage, in compliance with the request of her lamented parent, whose memory—"
"Dare to utter that falsehood in my hearing again, scoundrel," interrupted Thames fiercely, "and I will put it out of your power to repeat the offence. Leave the room! leave the house, Sir! and enter it again at your peril."
"I shall do neither, Sir," replied Kneebone, "unless I am requested by this lady to withdraw,—in which case I shall comply with her request. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I do not chastise your insolence as it deserves."
"Go, Mr. Kneebone,—pray go!" implored Winifred. "Thames, I entreat—"
"Your wishes are my laws, beloved, girl," replied Kneebone, bowing profoundly. "Captain Darren," he added, sternly, "you shall hear from me."
"When you please, Sir," said Thames, coldly.
And the woollen-draper departed.
"What is all this, dear Winny?" inquired Thames, as soon as they were alone.
"Nothing—nothing," she answered, bursting into tears. "Don't ask me about it now."
"Winny," said Thames, tenderly, "something which that self-sufficient fool has said has so far done me a service in enabling me to speak upon a subject which I have long had upon my lips, but have not had courage to utter."
"Thames!"
"You seem to doubt my love," he continued,—"you seem to think that change of circumstances may produce some change in my affections. Hear me then, now, before I take one step to establish my origin, or secure my rights. Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my heart is yours. Do you accept it?"
"Dear Thames!"
"Forgive this ill-timed avowal of my love. But, answer me. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?"
"It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck.
Lovers' confidences should be respected. We close the chapter.
CHAPTER VII.
Jack Sheppard warns Thames Darrell.
On the following night—namely Monday,—the family assembled together, for the first time since the fatal event, in the chamber to which Thames had been introduced on his arrival at Dollis Hill. As this had been Mrs. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. Determined, however, to conquer the feeling as soon as possible, Wood had given orders to have the evening meal served there; but, notwithstanding all his good resolutions upon his first entrance, he had much ado to maintain his self-command. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression.
Supper was over. It had been discussed in silence. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk—put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Having already expressed our determination not to betray any confidences of this sort, which, however interesting to the parties concerned, could not possibly be so to others, we shall omit also the "love passages," and proceeding to such topics as may have general interest, take up the discourse at the point when Thames Darrell expressed his determination of starting for Manchester, as soon as Jack Sheppard's examination had taken place.
"I am surprised we have received no summons for attendance to-day," he remarked; "perhaps the other robber may be secured."
"Or Jack have escaped," remarked Winny.
"I don't think that's likely. But, this sad affair disposed of, I will not rest till I have avenged my murdered parents."
"'The avenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer'," said Wood, who was culling for himself certain texts from the scriptures.
"It is the voice of inspiration," said Thames; "and I receive it as a solemn command. The villain has enjoyed his security too long."
"'Bloody and deceitful men shall not live half their days'," said Wood, reading aloud another passage.
"And yet, he has been spared thus long; perhaps with a wise purpose," rejoined Thames. "But, though the storm has spared him, I will not."
"'No doubt,'" said Wood, who had again turned over the leaves of the sacred volume—', "no doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he escaped the seas, yet vengeance suffereth not to live'."
"No feelings of consanguinity shall stay my vengeance," said Thames, sternly. "I will have no satisfaction but his life."
"'Thou shalt take no satisfaction for the life of a murderer which is guilty of death, but he shall surely be put to death'," said Wood referring to another text.
"Do not steel your heart against him, dear Thames," interposed Winifred.
"'And thine eye shall not pity,'" said her father, in a tone of rebuke, "'but, life shall be for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.'"
As these words were delivered by the carpenter with stern emphasis, a female servant entered the room, and stated that a gentleman was at the door, who wished to speak with Captain Darell on business of urgent importance.
"With me?" said Thames. "Who is it?"
"He didn't give his name, Sir," replied the maid; "but he's a young gentleman."
"Don't go near him, dear Thames," said Winifred; "he may have some ill intention."
"Pshaw!" cried Thames. "What! refuse to see a person who desires to speak with me. Say I will come to him."
"Law! Miss," observed the maid, "there's nothing mischievous in the person's appearance, I'm sure. He's as nice and civil-spoken a gentleman as need be; by the same token," she added, in an under tone, "that he gave me a span new crown piece."
"'The thief cometh in the night, and the troop of robbers spoileth without,'" said Wood, who had a text for every emergency.
"Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. I should have known at a glance if it was. He's more like a lord than—"
As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room.
The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. His appearance excited the greatest astonishment and consternation amid the group. Winifred screamed. Thames sprang to his feet, and half drew his sword, while Wood, removing his spectacles to assure himself that his eyes did not deceive him, exclaimed in a tone and with a look that betrayed the extremity of surprise—"Jack Sheppard!"
"Jack Sheppard!" echoed the maid. "Is this Jack Sheppard? Oh, la! I'm undone! We shall all have our throats cut! Oh! oh!" And she rushed, screaming, into the passage where she fell down in a fit.
The occasion of all this confusion and dismay, meanwhile, remained perfectly motionless; his figure erect, and with somewhat of dignity in his demeanour. He kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed.
"Your audacity passes belief," cried the latter, as soon as his surprise would allow him utterance. "If you have contrived to break out of your confinement, villain, this is the last place where you ought to show yourself."
"And, therefore, the first I would visit," replied Jack, boldly. "But, pardon my intrusion. I was resolved to see you. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends."
"Well, villain!" replied Thames, "I know not the motive of your visit. But, if you have come to surrender yourself to justice, it is well. You cannot depart hence."
"Cannot?" echoed Jack, a slight smile crossing his features. "But, let that pass. My motive in coming hither is to serve you, and save your life. If you choose to requite me by detaining me, you are at liberty to do so. I shall make no defence. That I am not ignorant of the reward offered for my capture this will show," he added, taking a large placard headed 'Murder' from his pocket, and throwing it on the floor. "My demeanour ought to convince you that I came with no hostile intention. And, to show you that I have no intention of flying, I will myself close and lock the door. There is the key. Are you now satisfied?"
"No," interposed Wood, furiously, "I shall never be satisfied till I see you hanged on the highest gibbet at Tyburn."
"A time may come when you will be gratified, Mr. Wood," replied Jack, calmly.
"May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. "I have some difficulty in preventing myself from becoming your executioner. Oh! that I should have nursed such a viper!"
"Hear me, Sir," said Jack.
"No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood.
"I am no murderer," replied Sheppard. "I had no thought of injuring your wife, and would have died rather than commit so foul a crime."
"Think not to delude me, audacious wretch," cried the carpenter. "Even if you are not a principal, you are an accessory. If you had not brought your companion here, it would not have happened. But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing."
"My conscience acquits me of all share in the offence," replied Jack, humbly. "But the past is irremediable, and I did not come hither to exculpate myself, I came to save your life," he added, turning to Thames.
"I was not aware it was in danger," rejoined Darrell.
"Then you ought to be thankful to me for the warning. You are in danger."
"From some of your associates?"
"From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard."
"What means this idle boasting, villain?" said Thames. "Your uncle, Sir Rowland?"
"It is no idle boasting," replied the other. "You are cousin to the housebreaker, Jack Sheppard."
"If it were so, he would have great reason to be proud of the relationship, truly," observed Wood, shrugging his shoulders.
"It is easy to make an assertion like this," said Thames, contemptuously.
"And equally easy to prove it," replied Jack, giving him the paper he had abstracted from Wild. "Read that."
Thames hastily cast his eyes over it, and transferred it, with a look of incredulity, to Wood.
"Gracious Heavens! this is more wonderful than all the rest," cried the carpenter, rubbing his eyes. "Thames, this is no forgery."
"You believe it, father?"
"From the bottom of my heart. I always thought Mrs. Sheppard superior to her station."
"So did I," said Winifred. "Let me look at the paper."
"Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. "Well, I'm glad she's spared this. Oh! Jack, Jack, you've much to answer for!"
"I have, indeed," replied Sheppard, in a tone of contrition.
"If this document is correct," continued Wood, "and I am persuaded it is so,—you are as unfortunate as wicked. See what your misconduct has deprived you of—see what you might have been. This is retribution."
"I feel it," replied Jack, in a tone of agony, "and I feel it more on my poor mother's account than my own."
"She has suffered enough for you," said Wood.
"She has, she has," said Jack, in a broken voice.
"Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. "Those tears will do you good."
"Do not distress him, dear father," said Winifred; "he suffers deeply. Oh, Jack! repent, while it is yet time, of your evil conduct. I will pray for you."
"I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. "I should never have been what I am, but for you."
"How so?" inquired Winifred.
"I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. hopelessly, and it made me desperate. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. I have said your life is in danger, Thames. Do not slight my warning. Sir Rowland Trenchard is aware of your return to England. I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild's, after my escape from the New Prison. He had just arrived from Manchester, whence he had been summoned by that treacherous thief-taker. I overheard them planning your assassination. It is to take place to-night."
"O Heavens!" screamed Winifred, while her father lifted up his hands in silent horror.
"And when I further tell you," continued Jack, "that, after yourself and my mother, I am the next heir to the estates of my grandfather, Sir Montacute Trenchard, you will perhaps own that my caution is sufficiently disinterested."
"Could I credit your wild story, I might do so," returned Thames, with a look of perplexity.
"Here are Jonathan Wild's written instructions to Quilt Arnold," rejoined Sheppard, producing the pocket-book he had found in the janizary's clothes. "This letter will vouch for me that a communication has taken place between your enemies."
Thames glanced at the despatch, and, after a moment's reflection, inquired, "In what way is the attempt upon my life to be made?"
"That I couldn't ascertain," replied Jack; "but I advise you to be upon your guard. For aught I know, they may be in the neighbourhood at this moment."
"Here!" ejaculated Wood, with a look of alarm. "Oh lord! I hope not."
"This I do know," continued Jack,—"Jonathan Wild superintends the attack."
"Jonathan Wild!" repeated the carpenter, trembling. "Then it's all over with us. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. We may be all murdered in this unprotected place, and nobody be the wiser."
"There's some one in the garden at this moment," cried Jack; "I saw a face at the window."
"Where—where?" cried Thames.
"Don't stir," replied Jack. "I will at once convince you of the truth of my assertions, and ascertain whether the enemy really is at hand."
So saying, he advanced towards the window, threw open the sash, and called out in the voice of Thames Darrell, "Who's there?"
He was answered by a shot from a pistol. The ball passed over his head, and lodged in the ceiling.
"I was right," replied Jack, returning as coolly as if nothing had happened. "It is Jonathan. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. I saw them both."
"May I trust you?" cried Thames, eagerly.
"You may," replied Jack: "I'll fight for you to the last gasp."
"Follow me, then," cried Thames, drawing his sword, and springing through the window.
"To the world's end," answered Jack, darting after him.
"Thames!—Thames!" cried Winifred, rushing to the window. "He will be murdered!—Help!"
"My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back.
Two shots were fired, and presently the clashing of swords was heard below.
After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard.
Wood, meanwhile, had summoned his men-servants, and having armed them with such weapons as could be found, they proceeded to the garden, where the first object they encountered was Thames Darrell, extended on the ground, and weltering in his blood. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace.
As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild.
CHAPTER VIII.
Old Bedlam.
When Thames Darrell and Jack Sheppard sprang through the window, they were instantly assailed by Wild, Trenchard, and their attendants. Jack attacked Jonathan with such fury, that he drove him into a shrubbery, and might perhaps have come off the victor, if his foot had not slipped as he made a desperate lunge. In this state it would have been all over with him, as, being stunned by the fall, it was some moments before he could recover himself, if another party had not unexpectedly come to his rescue. This was Blueskin, who burst through the trees, and sword in hand assaulted the thief-taker. As soon as Jack gained his legs, he perceived Blueskin lying, as he thought, dead in the plantation, with a severe cut across his temples, and while he was stooping to assist him, he heard groans at a little distance. Hastening in the direction of the sound, he discovered Thames Darrell, stretched upon the ground.
"Are you hurt, Thames?" asked Jack, anxiously.
"Not dangerously, I hope," returned Thames; "but fly—save yourself."
"Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard.
"Gone," replied the wounded man. "They imagine their work is done. But I may yet live to thwart them."
"I will carry you to the house, or fetch Mr. Wood," urged Jack.
"No, no," rejoined Thames; "fly—or I will not answer for your safety. If you desire to please me, you will go."
"And leave you thus?" rejoined Jack. "I cannot do it."
"Go, I insist," cried Thames, "or take the consequences upon yourself. I cannot protect you."
Thus urged, Jack reluctantly departed. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road. Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields,—for as yet the New Road was undreamed of,—and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. His destination was the New Mint. At this place of refuge, situated in the heart of Wapping, near the river-side, he arrived in less than an hour, in a complete state of exhaustion.
In consequence of the infamous abuse of its liberties, an act for the entire suppression of the Old Mint was passed in the ninth year of the reign of George the First, not many months before the date of the present epoch of this history; and as, after the destruction of Whitefriars, which took place in the reign of Charles the Second, owing to the protection afforded by its inmates to the Levellers and Fifth-monarchy-men, when the inhabitants of Alsatia crossed the water, and settled themselves in the borough of Southwark,—so now, driven out of their fastnesses, they again migrated, and recrossing the Thames, settled in Wapping, in a miserable quarter between Artichoke Lane and Nightingale Lane, which they termed the New Mint. Ousted from his old retreat, the Cross Shovels, Baptist Kettleby opened another tavern, conducted upon the same plan as the former, which he denominated the Seven Cities of Refuge. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast. Aware that they would not be allowed to remain long unmolested, the New Minters conducted themselves so outrageously, and with such extraordinary insolence, that measures were at this time being taken for their effectual suppression.
To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bed-side, watching over him with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a blood-stained cloth bound across his brow.
"Don't disturb yourself," said his follower, motioning him to keep still; "it's all right."
"What time is it?" inquired Jack.
"Past noon," replied Blueskin. "I didn't awake you, because you seemed tired."
"How did you escape?" asked Sheppard, who, as he shook off his slumber, began to recall the events of the previous night.
"Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other. "I suppose I must have been senseless for some time; for, on coming to myself, I found this gash in my head, and the ground covered with blood. However, no one had discovered me, so I contrived to drag myself to my horse. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. I kept watch over you, for fear of a surprise on the part of Jonathan. But what's to be done?"
"The first thing I do," replied Jack, "will be to visit my poor mother in Bedlam."
"You'd better take care of your mother's son instead," rejoined Blueskin. "It's runnin' a great risk."
"Risk, or no risk, I shall go," replied Jack. "Jonathan has threatened to do her some mischief. I am resolved to see her, without delay, and ascertain if it's possible to remove her."
"It's a hopeless job," grumbled Blueskin, "and harm will come of it. What are you to do with a mad mother at a time when you need all your wits to take care of yourself?"
"Don't concern yourself further about me," returned Jack. "Once for all, I shall go."
"Won't you take me?"
"No; you must await my return here."
"Then I must wait a long time," grumbled Blueskin. "You'll never return."
"We shall see," replied Jack. "But, if I should not return, take this purse to Edgeworth Bess. You'll find her at Black Mary's Hole."
And, having partaken of a hasty breakfast, he set out. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields.
Old Bethlehem, or Bedlam,—every trace of which has been swept away, and the hospital for lunatics removed to Saint George's Field,—was a vast and magnificent structure. Erected in Moorfields in 1675, upon the model of the Tuileries, it is said that Louis the Fourteenth was so incensed at the insult offered to his palace, that he had a counterpart of St. James's built for offices of the meanest description. The size and grandeur of the edifice, indeed, drew down the ridicule of several of the wits of the age: by one of whom—the facetious Tom Brown—it was said, "Bedlam is a pleasant place, and abounds with amusements;—the first of which is the building, so stately a fabric for persons wholly insensible of the beauty and use of it: the outside being a perfect mockery of the inside, and admitting of two amusing queries,—Whether the persons that ordered the building of it, or those that inhabit it, were the maddest? and, whether the name and thing be not as disagreeable as harp and harrow." By another—the no less facetious Ned Ward—it was termed, "A costly college for a crack-brained society, raised in a mad age, when the chiefs of the city were in a great danger of losing their senses, and so contrived it the more noble for their own reception; or they would never have flung away so much money to so foolish a purpose." The cost of the building exceeded seventeen thousand pounds. However the taste of the architecture may be questioned, which was the formal French style of the period, the general effect was imposing. Including the wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet. Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the well-known lines:—
And laughs to think Monroe would take her down,
Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand,
Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand."
Internally, it was divided by two long galleries, one over the other. These galleries were separated in the middle by iron grates. The wards on the right were occupied by male patients, on the left by the female. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. There all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable inhabitants.
Entering the outer gate, and traversing the broad gravel walk before-mentioned, Jack ascended the steps, and was admitted, on feeing the porter, by another iron gate, into the hospital. Here he was almost stunned by the deafening clamour resounding on all sides. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. Altogether, it was the most dreadful noise he had ever heard. Amidst it all, however, there were several light-hearted and laughing groups walking from cell to cell to whom all this misery appeared matter of amusement. The doors of several of the wards were thrown open for these parties, and as Jack passed, he could not help glancing at the wretched inmates. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Here was a terrific figure gnashing his teeth, and howling like a wild beast;—there a lover, with hands clasped together and eyes turned passionately upward. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild."
Hastening from this heart-rending spectacle, Jack soon reached the grating that divided the men's compartment from that appropriated to the women. Inquiring for Mrs. Sheppard, a matron offered to conduct him to her cell.
"You'll find her quiet enough to-day, Sir," observed the woman, as they walked along; "but she has been very outrageous latterly. Her nurse says she may live some time; but she seems to me to be sinking fast."
"Heaven help her!" sighed Jack. "I hope not."
"Her release would be a mercy," pursued the matron. "Oh! Sir, if you'd seen her as I've seen her, you'd not wish her a continuance of misery."
As Jack made no reply, the woman proceeded.
"They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. See what crime does, Sir. Those who act wickedly bring misery on all connected with them. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. She will cry for days and nights together. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. But he has never been near her—never."
Rambling in this way, the matron at length came to a halt, and taking out a key, pointed to a door and said, "This is Mrs. Sheppard's ward, Sir."
"Leave us together, my good woman," said Jack, putting a guinea into her hand.
"As long as you please, Sir," answered the matron, dropping a curtsey. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. Don't be frightened of her. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you."
So saying, she retired, and Jack entered the cell.
Prepared as he was for a dreadful shock, and with his nerves strung to endure it, Jack absolutely recoiled before the appalling object that met his gaze. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. This smile was more harrowing even than her former rigid look.
"You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight.
"Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this."
"You are an angel, I say," continued the poor maniac; "and my Jack would have been like you, if he had lived. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago."
"Would he had done so!" cried Jack.
"Old Van told me if he grew up he would be hanged. He showed me a black mark under his ear, where the noose would be tied. And so I'll tell you what I did—"
And she burst into a laugh that froze Jack's blood in his veins.
"What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice.
"I strangled him—ha! ha! ha!—strangled him while he was at my breast—ha! ha!"—And then with a sudden and fearful change of look, she added, "That's what has driven me mad, I killed my child to save him from the gallows—oh! oh! One man hanged in a family is enough. If I'd not gone mad, they would have hanged me."
"Poor soul!" ejaculated her son.
"I'll tell you a dream I had last night," continued the unfortunate being. "I was at Tyburn. There was a gallows erected, and a great mob round it—thousands of people, and all with white faces like corpses. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. I knew him in spite of his dress. And when they came to the gallows, Jack leaped out of the cart, and the hangman tied up Jonathan instead—ha! ha! How the mob shouted and huzzaed—and I shouted too—ha! ha! ha!"
"Mother!" cried Jack, unable to endure this agonizing scene longer. "Don't you know me, mother?"
"Ah!" shrieked Mrs. Sheppard. "What's that?—Jack's voice!"
"It is," replied her son.
"The ceiling is breaking! the floor is opening! he is coming to me!" cried the unhappy woman.
"He stands before you," rejoined her son.
"Where?" she cried. "I can't see him. Where is he?"
"Here," answered Jack.
"Are you his ghost, then?"
"No—no," answered Jack. "I am your most unhappy son."
"Let me touch you, then; let me feel if you are really flesh and blood," cried the poor maniac, creeping towards him on all fours.
Jack did not advance to meet her. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent.
"Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him.
Jack fell on his knees beside her.
"Who are you?" inquired Mrs. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder.
"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son."
"It is false," cried Mrs. Sheppard. "You are not. Jack was not half your age when he died. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery."
"Oh, God!" cried Jack, "she does not know me. Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again."
"Off!" she exclaimed, breaking from his embrace with a scream. "Don't touch me. I'll be quiet. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. I won't dig their graves with my nails. Don't strip me quite. Leave me my blanket! I'm very cold at night. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash cold water on my head. It throbs cruelly."
"Horror!" cried Jack.
"Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. "The lash cuts to the bone. I can't bear it. Spare me, and I'll be quiet—quiet—quiet!"
"Mother!" said Jack, advancing towards her.
"Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
"I shall kill her if I stay longer," muttered her son, completely terrified.
While he was considering what would be best to do, the poor maniac, over whose bewildered brain another change had come, raised her head from under the straw, and peeping round the room, asked in a low voice, "If they were gone?"
"Who?" inquired Jack.
"The nurses," she answered.
"Do they treat you ill?" asked her son.
"Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. "Hush!—come hither, and I'll tell you."
Jack approached her.
"Sit beside me," continued Mrs. Sheppard. "And, now I'll tell you what they do. Stop! we must shut the door, or they'll catch us. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. But they cut it all off."
"I shall go mad myself if I listen to her longer," said Jack, attempting to rise. "I must go."
"Don't stir, or they'll chain you to the wall," said his mother detaining him. "Now, tell me why they brought you here?"
"I came to see you, dear mother!" answered Jack.
"Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?"
"Because you are my mother."
"What!" she exclaimed, staring eagerly in his face. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?"
"I am," replied Jack. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last."
"Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses.
"Mother—dear mother!" said Jack, bursting into tears.
"You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast.
"Never—never!"
The words were scarcely pronounced, when the door was violently thrown open, and two men appeared at it. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold.
"Ah!" exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet.
"Just in time," said the thief-taker. "You are my prisoner, Jack."
"You shall take my life first," rejoined Sheppard.
And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms.
"They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed.
The movement was fatal to her son. Taking advantage of his embarrassed position, Jonathan and his assistant rushed upon him, and disarmed him.
"Thank you, Mrs. Sheppard," cried the thief-taker, as he slipped a pair of handcuffs over Jack's wrists, "for the help you have given us in capturing your son. Without you, we might have had some trouble."
Aware apparently in some degree, of the mistake she had committed, the poor maniac sprang towards him with frantic violence, and planted her long nails in his cheek.
"Keep off, you accursed jade!" roared Jonathan, "—off, I say, or—" And he struck her a violent blow with his clenched hand.
The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw.
"Devil!" cried Jack; "that blow shall cost you your life."
"It'll not need to be repeated, at all events," rejoined Jonathan, looking with a smile of malignant satisfaction at the body. "And, now,—to Newgate."
CHAPTER IX.
Old Newgate.
At the beginning of the twelfth century,—whether in the reign of Henry the First, or Stephen is uncertain,—a fifth gate was added to the four principal entrances of the city of London; then, it is almost needless to say, surrounded by ramparts, moats, and other defences. This gate, called Newgate, "as being latelier builded than the rest," continued, for upwards of three hundred years, to be used as a place of imprisonment for felons and trespassers; at the end of which time, having grown old, ruinous, and "horribly loathsome," it was rebuilt and enlarged by the executors of the renowned Sir Richard Whittington, the Lord Mayor of London: whence it afterwards obtained amongst a certain class of students, whose examinations were conducted with some strictness at the Old Bailey, and their highest degrees taken at Hyde-park-corner, the appellation of Whittington's College, or, more briefly, the Whit. It may here be mentioned that this gate, destined to bequeath its name—a name, which has since acquired a terrible significance,—to every successive structure erected upon its site, was granted, in 1400, by charter by Henry the Sixth to the citizens of London, in return for their royal services, and thenceforth became the common jail to that city and the county of Middlesex. Nothing material occurred to Newgate, until the memorable year 1666, when it was utterly destroyed by the Great Fire. It is with the building raised after this direful calamity that our history has to deal.
Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. The body of the edifice stood on the south side of Newgate Street, and projected at the western extremity far into the area opposite Saint Sepulchre's Church. One small wing lay at the north of the gate, where Giltspur Street Compter now stands; and the Press Yard, which was detached from the main building, was situated at the back of Phoenix Court. The south or principal front, looking, down the Old Bailey, and not upon it, as is the case of the present structure, with its massive walls of roughened freestone,—in some places darkened by the smoke, in others blanched, by exposure to the weather,—its heavy projecting cornice, its unglazed doubly-grated windows, its gloomy porch decorated with fetters, and defended by an enormous iron door, had a stern and striking effect. Over the Lodge, upon a dial was inscribed the appropriate motto, "Venio sicut fur." The Gate, which crossed Newgate Street, had a wide arch for carriages, and a postern, on the north side, for foot-passengers. Its architecture was richly ornamental, and resembled the style of a triumphal entrance to a capital, rather than a dungeon having battlements and hexagonal towers, and being adorned on the western side with a triple range of pilasters of the Tuscan order, amid the intercolumniations of which were niches embellished with statues. The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. On the right of the postern against the wall was affixed a small grating, sustaining the debtor's box; and any pleasure which the passer-by might derive from contemplating the splendid structure above described was damped at beholding the pale faces and squalid figures of the captives across the bars of its strongly-grated windows. Some years after the date of this history, an immense ventilator was placed at the top of the Gate, with the view of purifying the prison, which, owing to its insufficient space and constantly-crowded state, was never free from that dreadful and contagious disorder, now happily unknown, the jail-fever. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony.
Old Newgate was divided into three separate prisons,—the Master's Side, the Common Side, and the Press Yard. The first of these, situated a the south of the building, with the exception of one ward over the gateway, was allotted to the better class of debtors, whose funds enabled them to defray their chamber-rent, fees, and garnish. The second, comprising the bulk of the jail, and by many degrees worse in point of accommodation, having several dismal and noisome wards under ground, was common both to debtors and malefactors,—an association little favourable to the morals or comforts of the former, who, if they were brought there with any notions of honesty, seldom left with untainted principles. The last,—in all respects the best and airiest of the three, standing, as has been before observed, in Phoenix Court, at the rear of the main fabric,—was reserved for state-offenders, and such persons as chose to submit to the extortionate demands of the keeper: from twenty to five hundred pounds premium, according to the rank and means of the applicant, in addition to a high weekly rent, being required for accommodation in this quarter. Some excuse for this rapacity may perhaps be found in the fact, that five thousand pounds was paid for the purchase of the Press Yard by Mr. Pitt, the then governor of Newgate. This gentleman, tried for high treason, in 1716, on suspicion of aiding Mr. Forster, the rebel general's escape, but acquitted, reaped a golden harvest during the occupation of his premises by the Preston rebels, when a larger sum was obtained for a single chamber than (in the words of a sufferer on the occasion) "would have paid the rent of the best house in Saint James's Square or Piccadilly for several years."
Nor was this all. Other, and more serious impositions, inasmuch as they affected a poorer class of persons, were practised by the underlings of the jail. On his first entrance, a prisoner, if unable or unwilling to comply with the exactions of the turnkeys, was thrust into the Condemned Hold with the worst description of criminals, and terrified by threats into submission. By the old regulations, the free use of strong liquors not being interdicted, a tap-house was kept in the Lodge, and also in a cellar on the Common Side,—under the superintendence of Mrs. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern.
The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. Thus, the same system of plunder was everywhere carried on. The jailers robbed the prisoners: the prisoners robbed one another.
Two large wards were situated in the Gate; one of which, the Stone Ward, appropriated to the master debtors, looked towards Holborn; the other called the Stone Hall, from a huge stone standing in the middle of it, upon which the irons of criminals under sentence of death were knocked off previously to their being taken to the place of execution, faced Newgate Street. Here the prisoners took exercise; and a quaint, but striking picture has been left of their appearance when so engaged, by the author of the English Rogue. "At my first being acquainted with the place," says this writer, in the 'Miseries of a Prison,' "the prisoners, methought, walking up and down the Stone Hall, looked like so many wrecks upon the sea. Here the ribs of a thousand pounds beating against the Needles—those dangerous rocks, credulity here floated, to and fro, silks, stuffs, camlets, and velvet, without giving place to each other, according to their dignity; here rolled so many pipes of canary, whose bungholes lying open, were so damaged that the merchant may go hoop for his money," A less picturesque, but more truthful, and, therefore, more melancholy description of the same scene, is furnished by the shrewd and satirical Ned Ward, who informs us, in the "Delectable History of Whittington's College," that "When the prisoners are disposed to recreate themselves with walking, they go up into a spacious room, called the Stone Hall; where, when you see them taking a turn together, it would puzzle one to know which is the gentleman, which the mechanic, and which the beggar, for they are all suited in the same garb of squalid poverty, making a spectacle of more pity than executions; only to be out at the elbows is in fashion here, and a great indecorum not to be threadbare."
In an angle of the Stone Hall was the Iron Hold, a chamber containing a vast assortment of fetters and handcuffs of all weights and sizes. Four prisoners, termed "The Partners," had charge of this hold. Their duty was to see who came in, or went out; to lock up, and open the different wards; to fetter such prisoners as were ordered to be placed in irons; to distribute the allowances of provision; and to maintain some show of decorum; for which latter purpose they were allowed to carry whips and truncheons. When any violent outrage was committed,—and such matters were of daily, sometimes hourly, occurrence,—a bell, the rope of which descended into the hall, brought the whole of the turnkeys to their assistance. A narrow passage at the north of the Stone Hall led to the Bluebeard's room of this enchanted castle, a place shunned even by the reckless crew who were compelled to pass it. It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. Above this revolting spot was the female debtor's ward; below it a gloomy cell, called Tangier; and, lower still, the Stone Hold, a most terrible and noisome dungeon, situated underground, and unvisited by a single ray of daylight. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. Adjoining it was the Lower Ward,—"Though, in what degree of latitude it was situated," observes Ned Ward, "I cannot positively demonstrate, unless it lay ninety degrees beyond the North Pole; for, instead of being dark there but half a year, it is dark all the year round." It was only a shade better than the Stone Hold. Here were imprisoned the fines; and, "perhaps," adds the before-cited authority, "if he behaved himself, an outlawed person might creep in among them." Ascending the gate once more on the way back, we find over the Stone Hall another large room, called Debtors' Hall, facing Newgate Street, with "very good air and light." A little too much of the former, perhaps; as the windows being unglazed, the prisoners were subjected to severe annoyance from the weather and easterly winds.
Of the women felons' rooms nothing has yet been said. There were two. One called Waterman's Hall, a horrible place adjoining the postern under the gate, whence, through a small barred aperture, they solicited alms from the passengers: the other, a large chamber, denominated My Lady's Hold, was situated in the highest part of the jail, at the northern extremity. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly. In other respects, they were equally indecorous and offensive. "It is with no small concern," writes an anonymous historian of Newgate, "that I am obliged to observe that the women in every ward of this prison are exceedingly worse than the worst of the men not only in respect to their mode of living, but more especially as to their conversation, which, to their great shame, is as profane and wicked as hell itself can possibly be."
There were two Condemned Holds,—one for each sex. That for the men lay near the Lodge, with which it was connected by a dark passage. It was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had an arched stone roof. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. The floor was planked with oak, and covered with iron staples, hooks, and ring-bolts, with heavy chains attached to them. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light.
Over the gateway towards Snow Hill, were two strong wards, called the Castle and the Red Room. They will claim particular attention hereafter.
Many other wards,—especially on the Master Debtor's side,—have been necessarily omitted in the foregoing hasty enumeration. But there were two places of punishment which merit some notice from their peculiarity. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. Into the second, denominated the Bilbowes,—also a dismal place,—refractory prisoners were thrust, and placed in a kind of stocks, whence the name.
The Chapel was situated in the south-east angle of the jail; the ordinary at the time of this history being the Reverend Thomas Purney; the deputy chaplain, Mr. Wagstaff.
Much has been advanced by modern writers respecting the demoralising effect of prison society; and it has been asserted, that a youth once confined in Newgate, is certain to come out a confirmed thief. However this may be now, it was unquestionably true of old Newgate. It was the grand nursery of vice.—"A famous university," observes Ned Ward, in the London Spy, "where, if a man has a mind to educate a hopeful child in the daring science of padding; the light-fingered subtlety of shoplifting: the excellent use of jack and crow; for the silently drawing bolts, and forcing barricades; with the knack of sweetening; or the most ingenious dexterity of picking pockets; let him but enter in this college on the Common Side, and confine him close to his study but for three months; and if he does not come out qualified to take any degree of villainy, he must be the most honest dunce that ever had the advantage of such eminent tutors."
To bring down this imperfect sketch of Newgate to the present time, it may be mentioned, that, being found inadequate to the purpose required, the old jail was pulled down in 1770. Just at the completion of the new jail, in 1780, it was assailed by the mob during the Gordon riots, fired, and greatly damaged. The devastations, however, were speedily made good, and, in two years more, it was finished.
It is a cheering reflection, that in the present prison, with its clean, well-whitewashed, and well-ventilated wards, its airy courts, its infirmary, its improved regulations, and its humane and intelligent officers, many of the miseries of the old jail are removed. For these beneficial changes society is mainly indebted to the unremitting exertions of the philanthropic HOWARD.