“Ah! my dear sir, the discipline of the Army and that of the Church are two very different things,” said Mr. Scales. “We’re eighty Poor Brothers in this establishment; and every night the curfew rings—eighty strokes of the bell! When one dies, there are only seventy-nine strokes until the vacancy is filled up;—and you may believe me when I tell you that there is something horrid in sitting in one’s lonely room of a dark wintry night, and counting the bell to see whether a Brother has not died since we all met in the common hall in the afternoon. For there are some very, very old men here; and old men go off, you know, like the snuff of a candle. Then, when one does die, and we hear the bell stop at seventy-nine, it sends the blood all cold and icelike to the heart—and a shudder creeps over the frame, from head to foot,—for there’s no saying whose turn it may be next. Ah! captain, it may seem but a trifling thing to you—a very trifling and paltry thing, this tolling of the curfew-bell: but I can assure you that to us, who are pent up here, it is no such trivial matter. For, in the deep, deep silence of this cloistral building, the dreary, dull, monotonous tolling of that bell suddenly arouses the most painful thoughts,—thoughts of approaching death, and coffins, and shrouds, and new-made graves, and all the sombre ceremony of funerals. But to hear that bell toll one less,—to know that a Brother has succumbed to the icy hand of the destroyer—to feel that there is a gap in our fraternity—a vacancy in our association,—even though we may not have loved—perhaps not even respected the individual who is gone,—still to have forced open us, by the deep-toned monitor, the conviction that he is gone,—this—this is terrible in our cloistral loneliness!”
The captain made no observation; but he evidently listened with profound attention;—and Mr. Scales, warming in his subject, went on.
“I told you just now that I am naturally of a gay and cheerful disposition, and that I can make myself happy under most circumstances. But when I am alone here of an evening, and listen to the curfew-bell, I—yes, I also am seized with a cold shuddering, and my blood creeps with an ice-chill in my veins. And if I hear the strokes stop at seventy-nine, it suddenly appears to me that a shape, dim, shadowy, and wrapped in a shroud, flits past me;—and I cast my eyes around—almost dreading lest the pale and ghastly spectre of the deceased Brother should be standing behind my chair. And, when there is one lying dead in the Charter House, I feel afraid at night—and sleep visits not my pillow. I do not believe in ghosts—at least, I do not believe in them when it is day-time; but in the deep, silent, and dark night,—yes, then I believe in them—and I tremble! Oh! you can form no idea of the horrors endured in this place while the curfew-bell tolls: for if it give forth a single note less than the eighty, then every one shudderingly says within himself—aye, and in the solitude of his own chamber—‘Who knows but that it may be my turn next?’ Is it not cruel, then, to maintain that monastic custom of ringing the nightly bell,—to alarm weak and trembling old men, whose intellects are attenuated by the weight of years, and whose imaginations are so susceptible of all influences likely to engender the gloomiest forebodings: for such is the case with the great majority of the Poor Brothers of the Charter House.”
The captain made a brief remark to show that he was listening with deep attention—as indeed he was; and Mr. Scales proceeded in the following manner:—
“Yes—the greater portion of the Poor Brothers are very infirm old men, who need companionship to enliven them, and little attentions to cheer them, and indulgences to render their existence tolerable. But every morning,—summer and winter—hot or cold—sunshine above, or snow knee-deep below,—they must all turn out at an early hour from their warm beds; and while still fasting, must repair to the chapel to attend prayers. And in the performance of this duty, which is rigidly enforced by fine, we are compelled to wear long, dark cloaks, so that when thus muffled up we appear to be a procession of monks, each wrapped in his cowl! Here again you may observe that there is no harm in the custom;—but you must remember that there is a vast difference between what one does spontaneously, and what he is forced by a rigid, inexorable discipline to do. The fact that these poor old men are thus compelled to wear the badge of monastic pauperism is the iron that enters into their souls. They have been compelled by their necessities to accept an asylum in this place—and they feel that they are treated as paupers. Their old age, which the world without believes to be passing in a serene and tranquil happiness here, unruffled by mundane cares, is rendered miserable and wretched by a thousand little vexatious points of discipline which make up an aggregate sum of tremendous ecclesiastical oppression. In the deep silence of the night—the awful silence that reigns throughout this pile,—and in the solitude of his gloomy apartment,—each of those poor old creatures broods upon what he deems to be his wrongs;—and you need not be surprised when I tell you that they are often driven to the very verge of despair—or to the threshold of madness! Ah! and it is not only the curfew-bell—nor the compulsory attendance at chapel—nor the long, dark cowls,—it is not all this alone,” continued the Brother, now speaking with solemn earnestness;—“but it is that we are watched by spies—watched in all our movements within or without the walls,—watched to be caught tripping, be it never so lightly—in order that we may be punished—or perhaps expelled, to make room for some one whom the Master or any other authority is anxious to provide for. The surgeon is a spy upon us—the porter is a spy upon us—all the nurses are spies upon us; and what is worse,” added Mr. Scales, now sinking his voice to an ominous whisper, and bending his head forward so as almost to reach the captain’s ear with his lips,—“and what is worse,” he repeated, bitterly but still in that low tone,—“we are spies upon each other!”
Captain O’Blunderbuss started, and surveyed his new friend with astonishment.
“I do not mean to say that I am a spy upon the rest,—nor will I assert that we are all spies with regard to each other,” resumed Mr. Scales: “but this I declare—that there are many inmates of the place who do enact the part of spies against their fellows. Some wish to curry favour with the Master, Archdeacon Hale—others carry their tittle-tattle to the surgeon;—some gossip of their Brethren to the manciple, or steward—others endeavour to worm themselves into the good graces of even the cook;—and all the nurses, with scarcely an exception, are the spies of the matron. I tell you, sir, that there is a monstrous system of supervision and espionnage in existence within these walls;—and one Brother cannot talk as a friend to another—because he is afraid that he may be all the time making revelations to an individual who will betray him! We have no confidence in each other—we are all afraid of one another. There is not such a thing as a good-natured chat and harmless conversation in the Charter House. If you make the most common-place observation upon things the most indifferent, Brother Gray, or Brother Jones, or Brother Jenkins will shake his head knowingly, as if he saw something covert and mysteriously significant at the bottom of the remark. But wherefore does such a state of things prevail in the Charter House, you will enquire;—and perhaps you will observe that if the Brethren enact the part of spies upon each other, they alone are to blame for making themselves miserable. Pause, however—and reflect that it is all the fault of the authorities. They encourage this contemptible tittle-tattle—they show favour to the poor silly old dotards who carry them tidings of all the complaints, expressions of discontent, or occasional instances of convivial excess which occur on the part of the rest. These spies are favoured by the authorities: the others know it, and become spies themselves;—and thus they all spy upon each other, even as the Jesuits do in obedience to the rules of their Order. Oh! the mean and contemptible littleness of mind which such a state of things engenders! I am sick—disgusted, Captain O’Blunderbuss, when I think of it.”
“Be Jasus! and well you may be, my dear frind!” cried the gallant gentleman. “But who is the governor, d’ye say?”
“Archdeacon Hale is the Master, as he is called—Archdeacon Hale, the notorious pluralist who fattens upon the loaves and fishes of the Church, without ever having done a single thing to render him deserving of such fine preferment and such large emoluments. He it is who presides over this Protestant monkery,—who enforces in the nineteenth century the grinding discipline of the sixteenth,—who moves the whole machinery of espionnage, and rules us as a mitred abbot was wont to sway his Romish brotherhood. If a gentleman, reduced by adversity, once enters those walls as an inmate, he must resign himself to the treatment of a pauper. The authorities look upon us in that light; and the servants behave to us accordingly. The very porter will sometimes call us by our Christian or surnames, without the prefatory Mister. If the surgeon visit us, it is evident that he considers himself to be doing us a great favour—just as you may suppose that the medical man belonging to an Union of Parishes behaves towards the pauper invalids requiring his services. Should the Matron have occasion to call upon us, it is with all the airs of a fine lady—she who curtseys and does not dare sit down in the presence of the Archdeacon’s wife! The manciple, or steward, is likewise a great man;—and woe to the Poor Brother who does not receive him with all possible respect. The nurses attend upon us in a slovenly, negligent manner; and we dare not complain nor remonstrate—for we know that they are spies ready to report us for every incautious word that we may utter, or even to invent charges against us. It was but the other day that one of the inmates—a poor old man of nearly seventy—did venture to complain of the shameful neglect which he experienced at the hands of his nurse. What was the consequence? She made a counter-charge, to the effect that he had taken liberties with her! The woman’s statement—her unsupported statement was believed in preference to the denial and the complaint of the old man, and he was expelled the Charter House for six months—turned out upon the wide world to live how he could, or die as he might!10 Oh! you have no idea of the tremendous tyranny that is perpetrated within these walls, where all is so silent and all appears to be so serene and tranquil! A short time ago a Brother, driven to despair by the horrors of the place, went away—took an obscure lodging—and put an end to his life by means of poison. The authorities hushed up the matter as well as they could—prevented the interference of the Coroner—and had the man buried within three days from the moment of his self-destruction.11 These are all facts, sir—stubborn facts; and the public should know them. Yes—the public should learn that there are eighty old men dwelling in a monastic institution in the very heart of London—enduring a discipline as severe, and subject to a system as despotic and oppressive as in the olden times and in those very cloistral establishments which Henry the Eighth destroyed! The public should be informed that then eighty old men are the victims of ecclesiastical tyranny, and that they are compelled to endure neglect and even insult at the hands of the very servants who are so liberally paid to attend upon them.”
“Be the power-r-s! it’s a bur-r-ning shame!” cried Captain O’Blunderbuss: “and what’s worse of all, is that it’s the parsons who are your governors and by consequence your opprissors in this establisment. Bad luck to ’em, say I!”
“A good parson is a most estimable, as well as a most necessary character in society,” said Mr. Scales; “and this every sensible man must admit. But an intolerant, illiberal, tyrannical parson is the greatest curse that can be inflicted upon a community. Such is our case—such is our misfortune. We have half-a-dozen parsons belonging to the institution; and their main object is to get all the loaves and fishes to themselves. Though they rule us with a rod of iron, they do not mind breaking the regulations themselves. For instance, if a Poor Brother remains away from chapel without the surgeon’s leave, or returns home a little after hours in the evening, he is reported and fined—fined out of the beggarly pittance of seven pounds ten shillings a quarter allowed him to purchase tea, sugar, milk, and the many other necessaries which the establishment does not supply. But though the regulations specify in distinct terms that the Master is to reside constantly upon the premises, he laughs at the enactments, and passes weeks or months together in the country. No fine—no punishment for him! Who would dare to talk of calling the Very Reverend Archdeacon Hale over the coals? But who does not hesitate to kick Poor Brother Gray, or Poor Brother Jones, or Poor Brother Scales from pillar to post, and from post to pillar, if he be caught tripping in the slightest degree?”
“Jist now, me frind,” exclaimed Captain O’Blunderbuss, looking particularly fierce, “ye assured me that ye hadn’t an inimy in the wor-r-ld: but it sames pritty clare to me that I must be afther punching the head of your Archdeacon—or manciple—or porter—or some one, jist to revinge your wrongs and create a little sinsation for the Poor Brothers, as ye call yourselves.”
“My dear fellow, do nothing mad or rash!” cried Mr. Scales, positively believing at the moment that the formidable Irishman was about to declare war against the authorities of the institution, and that he would experimentalise with his fists upon the first of those functionaries who might chance to come in his way. “All that I have been telling you is sacred between you and me;—and as a man of honour, I must appeal to you——”
“Be Jasus! and if it’s to me honour-r-r ye appale,” interrupted the captain, slapping his left breast with the palm of his right hand, “I’ll not brathe a wor-rd to a sowl that I’m acquainted with any gravances at all, at all. But, remember, if the time should come when ye may feel inclined to administher a thrilling dhrubbing or so to any of thim spalpeens of whom we’ve been talking——”
“Hush!” cried Mr. Scale?, suddenly: “some one is ascending the stairs. Let us pretend to be speaking on matters quite indifferent.”
“With all my heart!” said the captain: and, elevating his voice for the behoof of the person who was approaching the room from the stairs, he exclaimed, “Yes—’tis a very fine mornin’, Misther Scales—a very fine mornin’ indeed!”—just as if, in the natural course of things, he would have made, after a visit of nearly three hours, the remark with which a conversation is usually commenced.
Mr. Scales burst out laughing at this display of his new friend’s ingenuity; and the captain laughed heartily likewise—though he knew not precisely at what.
In the midst of this cachinnation, the door opened, and the nurse, or charwoman, entered to lay the cloth for dinner.
The nurse was a tall, middle-aged, powerfully-built woman, with brawny arms, and a countenance that indicated a slight affection for an occasional drop of “something short.” In fact, it was observed by the Brethren on whom she waited, that she never looked sulky when requested to repair to the public-house to order any thing in the shape of beer or spirits; but if entrusted with an errand of another kind—such as the purchase of half a quire of writing-paper or a stick of sealing-wax—it was a very great chance if she would be seen any more until the next day. Her manners were of the free-and-easy school; and she was accustomed to address the Poor Brothers in a half-pitying, half-patronising style, as if they were patients in a hospital or in the infirmary of a debtors’ gaol. If wearied, she would unhesitatingly seat herself without being asked, and glide imperceptibly into a familiar kind of discourse, while wiping the perspiration from her rubicund face with her blue checked cotton apron; and if it were in the cold weather, she would wait upon her masters with a black bonnet, like an inverted japan coal scuttle, on her head—the propriety of leaving the tegumentary article in the passage outside, never for a moment striking the ingenuous and simple-minded creature.
If this excellent woman had any special failing,—besides such little faults as drunkenness, inattention, slovenliness, cool impudence, and deep hypocrisy,—it was a propensity to gossip and a love of scandal. If she were only carrying a pail down the stairs, and met another nurse with a pail coming up the stairs, they must both set down their pails on the landing, and stop to have a quarter of an hour’s chat on the affairs of their respective masters. Then one would whisper how Poor Brother Smith was the meanest skin-flint on the face of the earth; and the other would declare that it was impossible for him to be worse than Poor Brother Webb, who was always complaining and yet never gave her even so much as a drop of gin;—and in this manner the two women would unburthen their minds, to the sad waste of their time and the neglect of those whom they were well paid to render comfortable. But Mrs. Pitkin—for that was the name of the nurse who waited on Mr. Scales and the other gentlemen living in the chambers opening from the same staircase,—Mrs. Pitkin, we say, was a more inveterate gossip than any other charwoman in the place; and, as a matter of course, when she had no trifling truths to retail or make much of, she deliberately and coolly invented a pack of lies, purporting to be the most recent sayings and doings of her masters. The consequence was, that a great deal of mischief resulted at times from these playful exercises of Mrs. Pitkin’s imaginative qualities; and more than one poor Brother was looked upon as an habitual drunkard, or as a sad old fellow amongst the women, without any other ground for the entertainment of such an opinion than the mysterious whispers of Mrs. Pitkin.
Well, it was this same Mrs. Pitkin who made her appearance, as already described, to lay Mr. Scales’s cloth and get the dinner ready.
“What o’clock is it, nurse?” asked Mr. Scales suspiciously.
“Only a little after two,” she replied: but scarcely were the words uttered, when the Charter House bell proclaimed the hour of three. “Well, I’m sure!” she cried, affecting the profoundest astonishment; “I never could have believed it were so late. Deary me! deary me! But it’s all through that disagreeable Mr. Yapp, who would have his cupboard washed out this morning—though I told him it wasn’t near six months since he had it done last.”
“Well—where have you put the potatoes to boil?” demanded Mr. Scales.
“The taturs, sir? Lor, sir—did you order taturs?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, now pretending to seem more astounded than ever. “Well, I’m sure I thought as how you said you’d have your chops without any weggitables at all!”
“Chops!” repeated Mr. Scales, now waxing positively wroth: “I ordered steaks——”
“Steeks!” cried the woman, holding up her hands as if in amazement. “Why—how could I ever have misunderstood you so? But it’s no matter—I can just as well get steeks as chops; and one don’t take much longer cooking than another.”
“Then, am I to understand that you have as yet got neither chops nor steaks?” asked Mr. Scales, subduing his anger as much as possible.
“Lor, sir! how could I go to the butcher’s when there’s three of my masters is inwalids and dines in their own rooms to-day? But I’ll be off at once—and you shall have dinner in a jiffey, I can promise you!”
Thus speaking, the woman walked lazily out of the room; and when the door was closed behind her, Mr. Scales, turning to the captain, said; “Now you perceive how we Poor Brothers are waited upon by these nurses. You heard me give her specific orders to have a steak and potatoes ready for us at two. She comes in at three, and has totally forgotten all about the dinner—for that is the English of it. And yet I dare not complain against her: I dare not even speak harshly to the woman’s face. But should you not imagine that, after her neglectful conduct, she would make all possible haste to get the meal ready? No such thing! Look there,” continued Mr. Scales, motioning Captain O’Blunderbuss to the window: “she has fallen in with another nurse, and they are stopping to have a gossip. Now they are going out together; and before we shall see Mrs. Pitkin again, she will have paid a tolerably long visit with her companion to the bar of the Fox and Anchor.”
“Be Jasus! and shall I be afther her, my dear frind?” demanded Captain O’Blunderbuss, rushing towards the door.
“It is useless,” said Mr. Scales, holding him back: “we must have patience. But do you see that old man, standing apart from the rest——”
“And laning on a stick?” cried the captain.
“The same,” returned the good-natured and communicative Brother. “Observe how pensive—how melancholy he seems! That is Brother Johnson—late Alderman and once Lord Mayor of London.”
“Be Jasus! and I ricollict!” exclaimed the captain: “’tis the hero of the Romford Bank affair.”
“Precisely so,” responded Mr. Scales. “And now do you perceive that short, stout, elderly gentleman, leaning on the arm of a friend from outside——”
“He walks as if he was blind,” interrupted the captain.
“And blind he unfortunately is,” said Mr. Scales: “but not irremediably so. There is every prospect that, with care and good medical advice, he will recover his sight. He is a man who has made some noise in the world—but with high honour to himself: in a word, he is Valcrieff, the celebrated dramatic author.”
“And a most rispictable-looking gintleman he is,” observed the captain. “I’ve laughed many times at his farces, and little thought I should iver have the pleasure of seeing the writer-r himself, even at a disthance.”
“There is one inmate of this establishment,” said Mr. Scales, quitting the window and returning to his seat—an example followed by the gallant officer,—“there is one inmate whose early history is very peculiar; and the most extraordinary circumstance connected with the matter is that he believes the events of his younger days to be entirely unknown and unsuspected within these walls. I should not point him out to you, even were he amongst the loungers in the court at this moment: neither shall I mention his name—or rather the name by which he is here known. But I may state that thirty years ago I knew him by the name of Macpherson. We met in Paris, shortly after the peace—and he was living, with a beautiful French woman as his mistress, in very handsome apartments. Her name was Augustine; and she certainly was the most lovely creature I ever saw in my life. Macpherson adored her; and while he believed that she worshipped him in return, her infidelity was notorious amongst all his friends. He had succeeded to a small fortune, by the death of an uncle; and, on visiting Paris, had fallen in with this young lady, whose charms immediately enthralled him. She was a banker’s cast-off mistress, and was glad to ensnare a handsome English gentleman in her meshes. Her extravagance was unbounded; and in less than a year Macpherson’s resources were completely exhausted. It would appear that Augustine at that period introduced to him a Frenchman whose real name was Legrand, but whom she passed off as her brother. This Legrand was elegant in manners and agreeable in conversation, as well as handsome in person; but he was unprincipled, dissipated, and of broken fortunes. From all I subsequently learnt, and from the knowledge I had of Macpherson’s character, I feel convinced that Legrand made my English friend his dupe and victim; and that Macpherson was entirely innocent of any intentional complicity. Certain however it is that one morning I was thunder-struck by the tidings that Macpherson had been arrested on a charge of forgery. I hastened to him in prison; and he declared most solemnly that he was guiltless. It was true that he had negotiated the instrument which was discovered to be fictitious: but he assured me that Legrand had induced him to do so. The examination before the Judge of Instruction led to the arrest of Legrand; and it was confidently hoped by Macpherson and his friends that the real truth would transpire at the trial. But when the case came on, Augustine—the faithless, treacherous, ungrateful Augustine—gave such evidence as entirely to exonerate Legrand and fix all the guilt upon Macpherson. She committed perjury; but her tale was believed,—for it was consistent, though false—delivered with plausibility, though based on the most damnable deceit. In fact, the vile woman sacrificed the Englishman whom she had ruined and never loved, to the French paramour whom she had passed off as her brother; and Macpherson, being pronounced guilty, was condemned to be exposed and branded upon a scaffold on the Place de Grêve, and to be afterwards imprisoned for a period of five years at the galleys at Brest. Myself and another English gentleman drew up a memorial to the King, setting forth a variety of circumstances in favour of Macpherson, and imploring the royal mercy on behalf of our unhappy fellow-countryman. Louis the Eighteenth referred the petition to the Judges who had condemned Macpherson, and as they stated that they had taken every thing into consideration when they pronounced his punishment, the Minister of Justice and Grace could not hold out to the petitioners any hopes of a commutation of the sentence. We had endeavoured to obtain the remission of that portion of the sentence which condemned Macpherson to be publicly exposed and marked with a red hot iron—but, alas! this indignity could not be spared the unhappy sufferer. Well, the fatal morning arrived, when this dread public ceremony was to take place. Macpherson rose early, and devoted unusual care to his toilet. His countenance was ghastly pale—his eyes were fixed,—his lips compressed. He did all he could to appear calm, and endeavoured to meet his punishment with firmness. But to be condemned for an offence of which he was innocent;—to see the fairest years of his youth destined to be passed in a horrible state of servitude;—to know that he was about to be branded with an infamous mark, which he would carry with him to the grave,—all this must have been beyond human endurance. Had he been really guilty, his sufferings would not have been so acute;—had he deserved his punishment, he would have bowed to those destinies which he would have thus prepared for himself. But he was innocent—innocent; and the world did not know it:—only a few faithful friends consoled him by the assurance that they believed in his innocence. On the fatal morning which was to consummate his disgrace, I visited him early; but when I found him so apparently resigned and calm, I did not offer those consolations which I would otherwise have tendered, and which were all I had now to offer.
“It was about eleven o’clock, in the forenoon,” continued Mr. Scales, “when Macpherson was summoned to the lobby of the prison. Two gendarmes were waiting there to conduct him to the Place de Grêve, where he was to remain exposed for two hours, and then be marked. He resigned himself to their custody, and, accompanied by myself, proceeded towards the great square where the hideous ceremony was to be performed. Immense crowds were collected in all the avenues leading to the Place, which was itself thronged to excess. Two lines of soldiers kept a pathway clear for the march of the prisoner up to the foot of the scaffold. He did not cast his eyes downwards:—nor did he glance to the right or to the left; but he kept them fixed upon the scaffold towards which he was advancing. He ascended the ladder with a firm step, accompanied only by the gendarmes; for I was compelled to remain below. The moment he appeared upon the platform, a tremendous shout arose from the thousands and thousands of spectators assembled to witness his punishment; but no indignity of a violent nature was offered to him. He cast a hurried and anxious glance around: the whole square seemed literally paved with human faces, which were continued up every street communicating with the Grêve, as far as he could see. The quay behind him, the bridges, the windows and roofs of all the houses, and even the towers of Nôtre Dame and the parapet of the Hotel-de-Ville were crowded with human countenances. Macpherson remained exposed for two hours, seated upon a chair on the scaffold, while the populace, with hyena-yells and laughter, were contemplating him as if he were a wild beast which they delighted to see, but of which they were afraid. The idea, whether this penalty were deserved or not, never entered the head of one single individual in that vast multitude;—all that they cared about was the man and his punishment—and both were there! At the expiration of the two hours, the crowd suddenly opened, and the public executioner, attended by his two sons, appeared at the foot of the scaffold. One of the lads carried a small iron pot, at the bottom of which there was a grating: in this vessel was a bright fire of red hot cinders and charcoal. The other boy carried an iron implement in his hand. It was like a very small shovel, with a tolerably long handle. The three wretches ascended the ladder, and the shouts and the hootings of the mob recommenced with increased violence as the public functionary bowed jocosely to Macpherson. A horrible laugh issued from those who stood nearest, and who comprehended the fashion of the executioner’s salute. This individual then arranged his paraphernalia in a convenient manner. He placed the brazier close to the convict’s chair, and put the shovel-looking implement into the fire. He next proceeded to inform Macpherson that he must take off his coat and other vestments from his left shoulder. The prisoner obeyed mechanically. He doffed his coat and his waistcoat on the left side; and the executioner instantly cut a large square piece out of his shirt, just above the left shoulder-blade, immediately above the curve of the shoulder. The most breathless suspense now prevailed; and not a cry—not a murmur was heard throughout the dense masses of people wedged together around. ‘Take courage, my boy,’ said the executioner, half ironically and half in pity; ‘it will only be the affair of a few moments.’ I heard him make these remarks—for I was close by the scaffold. He then proceeded to strap the convict tightly down in his chair, confined his arms and legs, and twisted the cords in such a manner around his body and the back of the seat that he was rendered as motionless and powerless as if he were a statue. Ten minutes elapsed, and the thick part of the iron was by that time red hot. This was the crowning moment of the whole day’s amusement—an amusement provided by the law that forbade bull-baits and punishes cruelty to animals! The executioner stooped down, seized the iron, and applied it to Macpherson’s flesh—to that bare part which the square cut out of the shirt had left exposed. The iron hissed on the young man’s shoulder; and a fearful yell escaped his lips. The iron remained upon the flesh for two or three instants: the sufferer writhed in agony; but only that one loud, long, and piercing cry escaped his lips. The implement was withdrawn;—one of the executioner’s sons placed a cup-full of water to the convict’s lips, and thus saved him from fainting in the chair. The cords were then unbound,—the young man’s dress was adjusted,—and the gendarmes told him that they were ready to convey him back to prison. As he passed through the dense multitude that had witnessed his punishment, he now hung down his head—abashed and ashamed. Even had he not felt the smart of the burn upon his back, the knowledge that he was branded with the mark of infamy would have been sufficient thus to humble and subdue him. Women held up their children to gaze upon him as he passed along;—he heard an old father bid his son take warning from the example he had just witnessed; and as he emerged from the crowd, and entered a comparatively deserted street, on his way back to prison, he caught the following words which were uttered, with a laugh, by one spectator to another,—‘Oh! there’s the man who has just been marked!’—‘Marked! eh—and with a scar that he would carry to his grave!’ thought I, shuddering from head to foot. He returned to the prison of La Force; and the moment he entered the lobby, he fell into my arms; for I had walked by his side from the Place de Grêve. The courage of the man now failed him altogether; and he burst into a violent passion of grief. The tears flowed in torrents from his eyes; his breast heaved convulsively. I endeavoured in vain to console him; and then I thought it best to allow his agony to have full vent, and he would feel relieved. The truth of this opinion was speedily confirmed; and, when Macpherson dried his tears, he exclaimed, ‘Now that the first bitterness of my career of misery is over, I feel nerved and resigned to encounter the ills which heaven has in store for me.’—‘My dear friend,’ I said, ‘you must yet hope for many happy years: the term of your incarceration will soon pass away, and you will then hasten to England, where friends will be prepared to receive you with open arms, and enable you to forget the sorrows that will then be over!’—‘Alas!’ he cried—and the words still ring in my ears,—‘how can I forget all this degradation and infamy? How can I ever again appear in the great world, every member of which will have read my trial, and many of whom have this day seen me writhing beneath the hot iron in the hands of the public executioner? Even supposing my innocence be eventually proved, and that all moral infamy be separated from my name, who will remove the scar from my shoulder? who will not remember that for five years I shall have herded with the refuse of mankind? who will believe that, even if guiltless I went to the galleys, uncontaminated I have been released from them? What father will entrust his daughter to the convict? what mother will consent to the union of her child with a man who has been publicly marked upon the scaffold? what brother would allow his sister, pure and chaste, to link herself to one whose outset in life has been so horribly characterised as mine? And lastly, lastly,’ added he, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, and clenching his fists and grinding his teeth as he spoke,—‘and lastly, who can remove the deep, deep scar from my heart, even should there be a physician skilful enough to efface the one upon my shoulder?’—I was then compelled to take leave of him; and, on the following day, he was removed to Bicêtre, and lodged with the other convicts who were about to travel the same road together. He now found that his situation was wretched indeed. Compelled to associate with men who had been guilty of the most horrible crimes, and who gloried in their infamy, his ears were offended with their obscene conversation and their fearful blasphemies; and he was ill-treated by his fellow prisoners, because he would not laugh at their jokes or join in their revolting discourse. If he threatened to complain, he was reviled and mocked. But I shall hasten to the end of my story—or at least to this part of it. The day for the departure of the Chain of Galley-Slaves arrived; and I took leave of my unfortunate friend. He was conducted to Brest, where he worked on the port for a short time; and then, on account of his good conduct, he was made a clerk in the office of the Governor. This was the last account I heard of him while he was at the Galleys; for just at that period the death of a distant relative called me to England, and the inheritance of some property was accompanied with the condition that I should change my name to that of the individual whose fortune thus devolved upon me.
“Six years had passed,” continued Mr. Scales,—“six years since the events which I have just related to you, when accident enabled me to obtain a complete assurance of that which I had all along fully believed,—namely, the innocence of Macpherson respecting the forgery. I was passing down Aldersgate Street late one evening, when a sudden shower began to fall; and I entered a gate-way for protection, having no umbrella with me, and there being no hackney-coach stand near. Almost immediately afterwards, a gentleman in a cloak took refuge in the same place; but as I was standing farther in the gate-way than he, and as it was pitch dark there, we did not observe each other’s countenance. Presently he stepped out into the street to see if the rain continued; and I noticed that he was accosted by a female, dressed in gaudy attire, and who murmured something to him in French, to which he did not however pay immediate attention. But an exclamation from her lips—an exclamation of surprise, which was instantly followed by the mention of his name—aroused him from his reverie. He gazed at the female who thus appeared to recognise him; and, by the light of the adjacent lamp, the well-known but somewhat altered countenance of Augustine was revealed to him and myself at the same time. Amazement rooted me to the spot, and compelled me to become a listener. ‘What, Augustine!’ cried Macpherson—for he it was: and all the while my presence was unsuspected.—‘Yes, Augustine—that is my name!’ said the young lady, somewhat flippantly, ‘But what are you doing in London?’ she asked immediately afterwards, and in an altered tone.—‘How can you ask me, Augustine, after my present pursuits or my future prospects, when you were the principal agent in consummating my ruin in Paris?’ demanded Macpherson. ‘Oh! you know not the serious injury—the irreparable injury which you have inflicted upon me. All my hopes, all my endeavours, have one after another been defeated and destroyed by the consequences of that fatal period. My life is a series of misfortunes, of strugglings against adversity, of ups and downs, of long intervals of misery, with short and distant gleams of happiness; and this career of sorrows and disappointments, was prepared and marked out by the infernal schemes of yourself and Legrand. Oh! inauspicious was the day on which I first became acquainted with you and the miscreant whom you represented to be your brother?’—‘And will you believe me when I assure you that I have never known a moment’s peace since the fatal moment when I bore false evidence against you in the French tribunal?’ exclaimed Augustine emphatically. ‘I was compelled to take that step, although repugnant to my feelings; for I had not then lost all principle,’ she added mournfully. ‘Legrand possessed such power over me; and I also knew that he was as capable of sacrificing me as well as yourself to his own interests, if I did not fall into his views. That false step on my part has reduced me to my present state of degradation; I became reckless and ceased to sustain even the appearance of respectability which I had observed while I was living with you. Legrand was killed in a quarrel at a gambling-house; and I then became the mistress of——.’—‘Oh! distract me not with a catalogue of your vices, Augustine,’ exclaimed Macpherson, interrupting her recital. ‘Can I sympathise with you, who have caused my ruin? can I commiserate with one whom, were I vindictive, I should crush beneath my heel? Oh! could you speak to me of the means of redeeming my character, which is lost—innocent though I am, as well you know,—could you give me back my peace of mind, my self-respect, my confidence in myself, the esteem and respect of men, and the enjoyment of an unsullied name,—could you efface the mark from my shoulder, Augustine, and wipe from my memory the dread impression of the exposure in the Place de Grêve with the five long years’ sojourn at the galleys,—could you do all this, Augustine, I would throw myself at your feet, I would forgive you the wrongs I have endured, I would almost worship you!’—‘There is something which may yet be done,’ said Augustine, after a long pause, ‘which would partially remedy the evil, and which would at all events prove my contrition for the part that I enacted in the matter.’—‘And what is it that you propose?’ demanded Macpherson: ’to what do you allude?’—‘I would willingly make a confession which would establish your innocence, and so far retrieve your character in the eyes of the world,’ said Augustine.—‘But the world reviles me, and cries shame upon me, without waiting to ask itself if I am really guilty!’ returned Macpherson, bitterly.—‘The thinking portion of the community,’ began the frail woman earnestly, ‘will ever——’.—‘That is a mere idle phrase, Augustine,’ interrupted Macpherson. ‘There is no thinking portion, as a complete section, of any community. Ask any individual singly and alone, if he would scorn and shun a man who had endured an infamous punishment, but who was innocent of the crime attributed to him, and he would launch forth into an eulogium of the liberality of his own views, and indulge in a tirade against the narrow-mindedness of his neighbours. He would say, “Prove your innocence, and I will be your friend.” So would reply every one whom you thus questioned individually. But take all those persons together—assemble them in one room—invite them all to a banquet—and then introduce amongst them the man concerning whom they had singly expressed so much liberality of opinion; and collectively they would scorn—they would shun him,—they would hunt him from their company—they would expel him as if he were infected with a pestilence! Where, then, is the thinking portion of society? of what men is it composed? who can separate the section from the mass? Talk no more of proving my innocence, but let me now ask you a question relative to your own position.’—‘My position!’ repeated the young woman bitterly; ‘oh! I feel its degradation so thoroughly, that it appears to me as if every body must see and appreciate it also! My shame clings to me, like a mass of dingy cobwebs to a wall: I cannot shake it off; I cannot divest myself of the sense of its utter loathsomeness; for if I seek to brush it away with one hand, it clings to the other. I dare not go to church to seek the comforts of religion:—a prayer in my mouth would be pollution;—I dare not even implore heaven to change my condition, so thoroughly degraded am I in my own estimation! And there are some of us—and when I say of us, you will fully comprehend to what sad sisterhood I belong—who are young, beautiful, and even educated; and from their lips—their red and inviting lips—issue imprecations and blasphemies at all hours. But I am not so bad as that;—nor do I drink as they do! God only knows, however, to what abyss I may fall!’—With these words the wretched creature hurried away in one direction, while Macpherson slowly pursued his path in another. I did not think it right to follow him; for I fancied from the tenour of his bitter outpourings to Augustine, that he wished to be forgotten by the world, and pass as a stranger in the mighty city. Well, years and years elapsed; and misfortunes overtook me. I lost all my property save a very small annuity—a mere pittance insufficient to keep body and soul together;—and through the interest of a friend I obtained a berth in the Charter House. To my surprise I found, on my entrance, that Macpherson was already a Brother;—and thus, after a separation of five-and-twenty years—for it is five years ago that I came hither—our destinies cast us into the same asylum. But, though I recognised him, he knew not me. You must remember that I had changed my name, and my personal appearance had undergone an immense alteration; and therefore it was not singular that he should fail to perceive in me the friend who had consoled him in his misfortunes at Paris in 1816. I have never revealed myself to him within these walls—and never shall. It would doubtless embitter his sorrowful existence were he aware that his secret was known to a living soul in the establishment which his necessities have compelled him to make his home, and from which he will remove to no other abode—save the tomb. Here, then, we dwell—he brooding over the undying sorrow that fills his heart,—I not daring to call him friend and console him.”
At this moment the clock struck four, an hour had elapsed since Mrs. Pitkin had departed with a promise to return “in a jiffey;”—and she now reappeared, her countenance much flushed, and her breath exhaling the strongest perfume of the juniper berry.
She however had her excuse: the matron had sent for her on particular business!
“If so, it must have been at the Fox and Anchor,” muttered Mr. Scales: but perceiving that she had brought up a cooked steak in a covered dish, he suffered himself to be appeased by the prospect of dinner;—and it was agreed both by himself and the captain to dispense with potatoes, Mrs. Pitkin having again quite forgotten that they were ordered.
The repast was now served up; and it must be taken as a proof of contrition for previous neglect on the part of the worthy woman, that when she sallied forth for the beer and spirits she only remained a short half-hour away—it being usually calculated in the Charter House that a commission which one might perform for himself in five minutes, occupies a nurse exactly fifty-five to accomplish.
At last Mr. Scales and the captain were enabled to make themselves comfortable; and when the dinner-things were cleared away, hot-water was speedily procured by the aid of a batchelor’s kettle. The poteen was first-rate;—the two gentlemen were in excellent spirits; and the hilarity of the evening was soon increased by the arrival of Mr. Frank Curtis, who had duly received his friend’s letter at Mr. Bubbleton Styles’s office in the City.
The captain related to Frank all the numerous and varied incidents which had occurred during the forenoon of that eventful day; and the listener not unfrequently burst into shouts of laughter, as the gallant gentleman described the most ludicrous part of his adventures—we mean the little episode of the escape from the sheriff’s-officers in Mrs. Rudd’s garments.
Frank, in his turn, gave his gallant friend a hurried but significant intimation that Mr. Bubbleton Styles had “come down” with ten sovereigns—a figure of speech implying that the City gentleman had advanced that amount for the special behoof of Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis.
The first use the Irishman made of this subsidy, was then and there—fairly and cheerfully—to refund to Mr. Scales the monies advanced by the worthy Brother in the morning; and this little arrangement increased the good feelings of that gentleman towards his new friends, and enhanced the harmony of the evening.
By degrees, as the good liquor produced its exhilarating effect, the captain began to talk magniloquently of his Irish estates, “which were unfor-rtunately locked up in Chancery,”—Mr. Curtis told a great many wonderful stories of his intimacy with Princesses and Duchesses, “when he was in France,”—and Mr. Scales related a number of interesting anecdotes connected with the Charter House, and which had a signal advantage over the narratives of his companions, inasmuch as the former were all true, and the latter all false.
In the midst of the conviviality a knock at the door was heard; and on Mr. Scales exclaiming “Come in,” the invitation was obeyed by a gentleman who was immediately introduced to the captain and Frank Curtis as Colonel Tickner.
The new-comer, who was an inmate of the Charter House, was a man of middle height, and was much older than he thought fit to appear to be; for by the aid of false teeth, a handsome wig, and whiskers well dyed, he was enabled to pass himself off as “just over fifty”—whereas his years had certainly numbered a good fifteen in addition to the amount specified. He was well dressed, and had rather an imposing exterior: but there was an unpleasant expression about the eyes, and in the lines around the mouth, which gave his countenance a sinister aspect, and denoted low canning, duplicity, and artfulness.
“Sit down, colonel,” said Mr. Scales, when the ceremony of introduction had taken place; “and mix a glass for yourself. I told the captain you were sure to come—and he was most anxious to see you; for I know that military men are particularly fond of meeting each other.”
This remark was made with a sly touch of satire, Mr. Scales glancing the while at the captain, as much as to say, “Now the ice is broken, and you can unmask him;”—for as sincerely as the worthy Brother did not believe Tickner to be a military man at all, so in proportion was he convinced that O’Blunderbuss was.
The colonel looked uneasy for a moment, while the captain, whose natural impudence was increased by his potations, put a bold face upon the matter, and eyed Tickner with lurking ferocity.
“And pray, sir, in what rig’ment had you the honour-r-r to ser-r-rve?” demanded the Irishman at length, with a menacing reverberation of the ominous r’s.
“Oh! in several,” returned the colonel, mixing his toddy without raising his eyes. “Might I ask the same question of you, captain?”
“Be Jasus! and ye may ask, sure enough, my frind,” exclaimed O’Blunderbuss: “but it would be more polite on your par-r-t if you was afther answering my quaries first;—and thin it’s meself that’ll give ye my whole pidigree from the beginning to the ind of that same.”
“I should beg to observe, sir,” said the colonel, stirring up his liquor, on which he still kept his eyes fixed, “that it would be more in accordance with the rules of military etiquette if you were to give the first explanations—seeing that I have the honour to hold a higher rank than yourself in her Majesty’s service.”