Project Gutenberg's The Mysteries of London, v. 2/4, by George W. M. Reynolds This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: The Mysteries of London, v. 2/4 Author: George W. M. Reynolds Release Date: February 24, 2016 [EBook #51294] [Last updated: September 30, 2016] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON, V. 2/4 *** Produced by Richard Tonsing, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.) iii THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON. BY GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS, AUTHOR OF "PICKWICK ABROAD," "THE MODERN LITERATURE OF FRANCE," "ROBERT MACAIRE," ETC. WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. STIFF. VOL. II. LONDON: GEORGE VICKERS, 3, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. MDCCCXLVI. LONDON: Printed by J. J. Wilkinson, "Bonner House," Seacoal Lane. iv CONTENTS OF VOL. II. PAGE Chapter CXXXVII.—Rat's Castle 1 CXXXVIII.—A Public Functionary 4 CXXXIX.—The Confidence 7 CXL.—Incidents in the Gipsy Palace 10 CXLI.—The Subterranean 13 CXLII.—Gibbet 15 CXLIII.—Morbid Feelings 18 CXLIV.—The unfinished Letter 20 CXLV.—Hypocrisy 23 CXLVI.—The Bath.—The Housekeeper 25 CXLVII.—The Rector's new Passion 28 CXLVIII.—The Old Hag's Intrigue 31 CXLIX.—The Masquerade 34 CL.—Mrs. Kenrick 36 CLI.—A mysterious Deed 39 CLII.—The Death-bed 42 CLIII.—Proceedings in Castelcicala 45 CLIV.—Reflections.—The New Prison 47 CLV.—Patriotism 50 CLVI.—The Decision 52 CLVII.—The Trial of Catherine Wilmot 54 CLVIII.—A happy Party 58 CLIX.—The Interview 60 CLX.—The Rector in Newgate 63 CLXI.—Lady Cecilia Harborough 66 v CLXII.—The Bequest 69 CLXIII.—The Zingarees 71 CLXIV.—The Executioner's History 75 CLXV.—The Trace 79 CLXVI.—The Thames Pirates 82 CLXVII.—An Arrival at the Wharf 84 CLXVIII.—The Plague Ship 86 CLXIX.—The Pursuit 90 CLXX.—The Black Veil 93 CLXXI.—Mr. Greenwood's Dinner-party 95 CLXXII.—The Mysteries of Holmesford House 96 CLXXIII.—The Adieux 100 CLXXIV.—Castelcicala 103 CLXXV.—Montoni 107 CLXXVI.—The Club-house 111 CLXXVII.—The History of an Unfortunate Woman 115 CLXXVIII.—The Tavern at Friuli 133 CLXXIX.—The Journey 135 CLXXX.—The "Boozing-ken" once more 138 CLXXXI.—The Resurrection Man again 142 CLXXXII.—Mr. Greenwood's Journey 144 CLXXXIII.—Kind Friends 147 CLXXXIV.—Estella 150 CLXXXV.—Another New-Year's Day 155 CLXXXVI.—The New Cut 158 CLXXXVII.—The forged Bills 162 CLXXXVIII.—The Battles of Piacere and Abrantani 165 vi CLXXXIX.—The Battle of Montoni 172 CXC.—Two of our old Acquaintances 174 CXCI.—Crankey Jem's History 176 CXCII.—The Mint.—The Forty Thieves 187 CXCIII.—Another Visit to Buckingham Palace 192 CXCIV.—The Royal Breakfast 197 CXCV.—The Aristocratic Villain and the low Miscreant 200 CXCVI.—The old Hag and the Resurrection Man 203 CXCVII.—Ellen and Catherine 206 CXCVIII.—A gloomy Visitor 208 CXCIX.—The Orphan's filial Love 211 CC.—A Maiden's Love 214 CCI.—The handsome Stranger.—Disappointment 218 CCII.—The Princess Isabella 220 CCIII.—Ravensworth Hall 223 CCIV.—The Bride and Bridegroom 226 CCV.—The Breakfast 228 CCVI.—The Patrician Lady and the Unfortunate Woman 231 CCVII.—The Husband, the Wife, and the Unfortunate Woman 235 CCVIII.—The Resurrection Man's House in Globe Town 238 CCIX.—Alderman Sniff.—Tomlinson and Greenwood 240 CCX.—Holford's Duties 245 CCXI.—The Deed 248 CCXII.—The Examination at the Home Office 251 CCXIII.—The Tortures of Lady Ravensworth 253 CCXIV.—The Duellists 255 vii CCXV.—The Voices in the Ruins 259 CCXVI.—The Progress of Lydia Hutchinson's Vengeance 262 CCXVII.—The Prisoner in the Subterranean 267 CCXVIII.—The veiled Visitor 269 CCXIX.—The Murder 272 CCXX.—The Effect of the Oriental Tobacco 275 CCXXI.—The Return to England 277 CCXXII.—The Arrival at Home 281 CCXXIII.—The Marriage 285 CCXXIV.—Mr. Banks's House in Globe Lane 288 CCXXV.—The Old Hag's History 292 CCXXVI.—The Marquis of Holmesford 299 CCXXVII.—Coldbath Fields' Prison 303 CCXXVIII.—A desperate Achievement 306 CCXXIX.—The Widow 309 CCXXX.—Bethlem Hospital 314 CCXXXI.—Mr. Greenwood and Mr. Vernon 317 CCXXXII.—Scenes at Ravensworth Hall 319 CCXXXIII.—A welcome Friend 322 CCXXXIV.—A Midnight Scene of Mystery 324 CCXXXV.—Plots and Counterplots 327 CCXXXVI.—Woman as she ought to be 332 CCXXXVII.—The Jugglers 335 CCXXXVIII.—The Performance 339 CCXXXIX.—The Resurrection Man's Return Home 345 CCXL.—A new Epoch 347 CCXLI.—Crockford's 350 CCXLII.—The Aunt 355 CCXLIII.—The Fight.—The ruined Gamester 358 CCXLIV.—The History of a Gamester 360 CCXLV.—The Excursion 372 CCXLVI.—The Party at Ravensworth Hall 378 CCXLVII.—The Stranger who discovered the Corpse 382 CCXLVIII.—An unpleasant Exposure 384 CCXLIX.—The Resurrection Man's last Feat at Ravensworth Hall 388 CCL.—Egerton's last Dinner-party 391 CCLI.—The obstinate Patient 397 CCLII.—Death of the Marquis of Holmesford 400 CCLIII.—The Ex-Member for Rottenborough 403 CCLIV.—Further Misfortunes 407 CCLV.—Gibbet at Markham Place 410 CCLVI.—Eliza Sydney and Ellen.—The Hospital 412 CCLVII.—The Revenge 415 CCLVIII.—The Appointment kept 419 CCLIX.—Conclusion 423 Epilogue 424 viii ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II. For Woodcut on page 1 see page 2 For Woodcut on page 9 see page 6 For Woodcut on page 17 see page 20 For Woodcut on page 25 see page 26 For Woodcut on page 33 see page 36 For Woodcut on page 41 see page 41 For Woodcut on page 49 see page 50 For Woodcut on page 57 see page 58 For Woodcut on page 65 see page 67 For Woodcut on page 73 see page 72 For Woodcut on page 81 see page 88 For Woodcut on page 80 see page 94 For Woodcut on page 97 see page 104 For Woodcut on page 105 see page 110 For Woodcut on page 113 see page 114 For Woodcut on page 121 see page 122 For Woodcut on page 129 see page 133 For Woodcut on page 137 see page 138 For Woodcut on page 145 see page 147 For Woodcut on page 153 see page 154 For Woodcut on page 161 see page 164 For Woodcut on page 169 see page 173 For Woodcut on page 177 see page 176 For Woodcut on page 185 see page 182 For Woodcut on page 193 see page 198 For Woodcut on page 201 see page 207 For Woodcut on page 209 see page 211 For Woodcut on page 217 see page 218 For Woodcut on page 225 see page 228 For Woodcut on page 233 see page 235 For Woodcut on page 241 see page 240 For Woodcut on page 249 see page 250 For Woodcut on page 257 see page 258 For Woodcut on page 265 see page 265 For Woodcut on page 273 see page 274 For Woodcut on page 281 see page 281 For Woodcut on page 289 see page 291 For Woodcut on page 297 see page 298 For Woodcut on page 305 see page 310 For Woodcut on page 313 see page 313 For Woodcut on page 321 see page 326 For Woodcut on page 329 see page 330 For Woodcut on page 337 see page 344 For Woodcut on page 345 see page 346 For Woodcut on page 353 see page 359 For Woodcut on page 361 see page 368 For Woodcut on page 369 see page 376 For Woodcut on page 377 see page 381 For Woodcut on page 385 see page 390 For Woodcut on page 393 see page 400 For Woodcut on page 401 see page 403 For Woodcut on page 409 see page 418 For Woodcut on page 417 see page 421 THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON. 1 CHAPTER CXXXVII. RATS' CASTLE. Richard Markham, though perfectly unpretending in manner and somewhat reserved or even sedate in disposition, possessed the most undaunted courage. Thus was it that, almost immediately recovering himself from the sudden check which he had experienced at the hands of the Resurrection Man, he hurried in pursuit of the miscreant, followed by the policeman and the people whom the alarm which he had given had called to his aid. The people were, however, soon tired of running gratuitously for an object which they could scarcely comprehend; but the police-officer kept close to Markham; and they were speedily reinforced by two other constables, who, seeing that something was the matter, and with characteristic officiousness, immediately joined them. From an inquiry put to the waterman of the adjacent cab-stand, who had seen a person running furiously along a moment or two before, Markham felt convinced that the object of his pursuit had plunged into the maze of Saint Giles's; and, though well aware of the desperate character of that individual, and conscious that should he encounter him alone in some dark alley or gloomy court, a fearful struggle must ensue between them, he did not hesitate, unarmed as he was, to dash into that thicket of dangerous habitations. Soon outstripping the officers, who vainly begged him to keep with them, as they were unacquainted with the person of whom he was in pursuit,—forgetting every measure of precaution in the ardour of the chase, Richard rushed headlong through the dark and ill-paved streets, following the echo of every retreating footstep which he heard, and stopping only to scrutinise the countenances of those who, in the obscurity of the hour and place, seemed at first sight to resemble the exterior of the Resurrection Man. Vain was his search. At length, exhausted, he sate down on the steps of a door-way to recover his breath, after having expended an hour in his fruitless search up one street, down another, and in every nook and corner of that district which we have before described as the Holy Land. Accident shortly led the officers, who had originally entered upon the chase with him, to the spot where he was seated. "Here is the gentleman himself," said one, turning the glare of his bull's-eye full upon our hero. "No luck, I suppose, sir?" observed another. "You had much better have remained with us and given us some idea of the person that you want." "Fool that I was!" exclaimed Markham, now perceiving his imprudence in that respect: "I have left you to pursue a shadow, instead of depicting to you the substance. But surely the name of Anthony Tidkins——" "The Resurrection Man, as they call him," hastily remarked one of the constables. "The same," answered Markham. "Why—he blew himself up, along with some others and a number of our men, last year, down in Bethnal Green," said the constable who had last spoken. "No—he lives, he lives," exclaimed Richard, impatiently. "My God! I know him but too well." "And it was after him that you gave the alarm just now in Tottenham Court Road?" "It was. I knew him at once—I could not be mistaken: his voice, laden with a curse, still rings in my ears." "Well, since the gentleman's so positive, I 'spose it must be so," said the constable: "we musn't sleep upon it, mates. Ten to one that Tidkins has taken to burrow in one of the low cribs about here; and he means to lie quiet for two or three days till the alarm's blown over. I know the dodges of these fellers. You two go the round of Plumptre Street; and me and this gentleman will just take a promiscuous look into the kens about here." The two constables to whom these words were addressed, immediately departed upon the mission proposed to them, and Richard signified his readiness to accompany the officer who had thus settled the plan of proceedings. "We'll go first to Rats' Castle, sir, if you please," said the policeman: "that is the most likely place for a run-away to take refuge in at random." "What is Rats' Castle?" asked Markham, as he walked by the officer's side down a wretched alley, almost as dark as pitch, and over the broken pavement of which he stumbled at every step. "The night-house where all kind of low people meet to sup and lodge," was the reply. "But here we are—and you'll see all about it in an instant." They had stopped at the door of a house with an area protected by thick wooden palings. All the upper part of the dwelling appeared to be involved in total darkness: but lights streamed through the chinks of the rude shutters of the area- windows; and from the same direction emanated boisterous merriment, coarse laughter, and wild hurrahs. "You knock at the door, sir, if you please," said the policeman, "while I stand aside. I'll slip in after you; for if they twig my coat, and Tidkins really happens to be there, they'd give him the office to bolt before we could get in." "Well thought of," returned Markham. "But upon what plea am I to claim admittance?" "As a stranger, impelled by curiosity. You carry the silver key in your pocket." The policeman withdrew a few paces; and our hero knocked boldly at the door. A gruff voice challenged the visitor from the area. "Who's here?" "No one that will do you any harm," replied Richard. "I am anxious to witness the interior of this establishment; and here is half-a-crown for you if you can gratify my curiosity." "That's English, any how," said the voice, softening in its tone. "Stop a minute." Markham heard a door close in the area below; and in a few moments the bolts were drawn back inside the one at 2 which he was standing. "Now then, my ben-cull—in with you," said a man, as he opened the front door, and held a candle high up above his head at the same time. Markham stepped into a narrow passage, and placed his foot against the door in such a way as to keep it open. But the precaution was unnecessary, for the policeman had glided in almost simultaneously with himself. "Now, no noise, old feller," said the constable, in a hasty whisper to the man who had opened the door: "our business isn't with any of your set." "Wery good," returned the porter of Rats' Castle: "you know best—it isn't for me to say nothink." "Go first, sir," whispered the officer to Markham. "You seem to know him better than me, for I never saw him but once —and then only for a minute or two." "Which way?" demanded Richard. "Straight on—and then down stairs. You keep behind us, old feller," added the policeman, turning to the porter. Markham descended a flight of narrow and precipitate steps, and at the bottom found himself in a large room formed of two kitchens thrown into one. Two long tables running parallel to each other the entire length of the place, were laid out for supper,—the preparations consisting of a number of greasy napkins spread upon either board, and decorated with knives and forks all chained to the tables. Iron plates to eat off, galley-pots and chipped tea-cups filled with salt, three or four pepper-boxes, and two small stone jars containing mustard, completed the preparations for the evening meal. The room was lighted by means of a number of candles disposed in tin shades around the walls; and as no one gave himself the trouble to snuff them, the wicks were long, and infested with what housewives denominate "thieves," while the tallow streamed down in large flakes, dripping on the floor, the seats, or the backs of the guests. Crowded together at the two tables, and anxiously watching the proceedings of an old blear-eyed woman, who was occupied at an immense fire at the farther end of the room, were about thirty or forty persons, male and female. And never did Markham's eyes glance upon a more extraordinary—a more loathsome—a more revolting spectacle than that assemblage of rags, filth, disease, deformity, and ugliness. Mendicants, vagabonds, impostors, and rogues of all kinds were gathered in that room, the fetid heat of which was stifling. The horrible language of which they made use,—their frightful curses,—their obscene jests,—their blasphemous jokes, were calculated to shock the mind of the least fastidious:—it was indeed a scene from which Markham would have fled as from a nest of vipers, had not a stern duty to society and to himself urged him to penetrate farther into that den. The appearance of himself and the policeman did not produce any remarkable degree of sensation amongst the persons assembled: they were accustomed to the occasional visits of well-dressed strangers, who repaired thither to gratify curiosity; and the presence of the officers of justice was a matter of frequent occurrence when any great robbery had been perpetrated in the metropolis, and while the culprits remained undiscovered. "He is not here," whispered Markham to his companion, after casting a hasty but penetrating glance around. "He may come: this is the most likely place in Saint Giles's for him to visit," returned the policeman. "We will wait half- an-hour." Richard would gladly have retired; but he was ashamed to exhibit a disgust which the officer might mistake for fear. He accordingly seated himself at a small side-table, in compliance with a sign from his companion. A waiter, wearing an apron which, by its colour, seemed also to do the duty of dish-cloth, now accosted them, and said, "Please to order anythink, gen'lemen?" "Two glasses of brandy-and-water," replied the constable. This command was speedily complied with; and, a few minutes afterwards, supper was served up on the two long tables before described. The old woman who presided over the culinary department of the establishment had amply catered for those present. Legs of mutton, both roasted and boiled,—rounds of beef, flanked with carrots,—huge pies,— boiled legs of pork,—immense quantities of sausages,—and sheep's heads, constituted the staple of the banquet. These viands, accompanied by piles of smoking potatoes "in their jackets" and heaps of cabbages, were all served up on iron dishes, from which no thrifty hand ever removed the rust. Then commenced the clattering of the knives and forks, the din of which upon the iron platters was strangely blended with the rattling of the chains that held them to the tables. The boisterous merriment and coarse conversation were for a time absorbed in the interest occasioned by the presence of the repast. "What a strange assembly," whispered Markham to the constable. "Strange to you, sir—no doubt," was the answer, also delivered in a tone audible only to him to whom the words were addressed. "That sturdy feller sitting at the head of the nearest table, with the great cudgel between his legs, is one of the class that don't take the trouble to clothe themselves in rags, but trust to their insolence to extort alms from females walking alone in retired parts. That feller next to him, all in tatters, but who laughs louder than any one else, is one of them whining, shivering, snivelling wretches that crouch up in doorways on rainy days, and on fine ones sit down on the pavement with 'Starving, but dare not beg,' chalked on the stone before them. The man over there in sailor's clothes tumbled down an area when he was drunk, and broke his leg: he was obliged to have it cut off; and so he now passes himself off as one of Nelson's own tars, though he never saw the sea in his life. That chap almost naked who's just come in, is going to put on his coat and shoes before he sits down to supper; he always goes out begging in that state on rainy days, and is a gentleman on fine ones." "I do not understand you," said Markham, astonished at this last observation. "Why, sir," replied the policeman, "there's certain beggars that always turn out half-naked, on rainy days, or when the snow's on the ground; and people pity them so much on those occasions that the rogues get enough to keep them all through the fine weather. If they have wives and children to go out with them, so much the better: but that feller there isn't 3 married; and so he goes with a woman who frequents this place, and they hire three or four children from the poor people in this neighbourhood, at the rate of two-pence a day each child, and its grub. To see them go shivering and whining through the streets, with no shoes or stockings, you'd think they were the most miserable devils on the face of the earth; and then, to make the scene complete, the man and woman always pinch the little children that they carry in their arms, to make them cry, whenever they pass a window when several ladies are looking out." "Is this possible?" whispered Markham, his face flushing with indignation. "Possible, sir! Don't I see it all every day of my life? Look at them men and women blowing their hides out with all that good meat; and now look at the pots of porter that's coming in. Every soul there has sworn a hundred times during the day that he hasn't tasted food for forty-eight hours, and will repeat the same story to-morrow. But they all had good suppers here last night, and good breakfasts here this morning; and you see how they are faring this evening." "But there are real cases deserving of charity?" said Markham, interrogatively,—for he almost felt disposed to doubt the fact. "Certainly there are, sir," was the reply; "but it's very difficult for such as you to decide between the true and the false. Look at that man who carves at the second table: he can see well enough to cut himself the tit-bits; but to-morrow he will be totally blind in one of the fashionable squares." "Totally blind!" said Richard, more and more astonished at what he heard. "Yes, sir—totally blind; led by a dog, and with a placard upon his chest. He keeps his eyes fast shut, and colours the lids with carmine and vermilion. But that is nothing. That feller next to him, who uses his knife and fork so well, will to- morrow have lost his right arm at the battle of Salamanca." "But how can that imposture be effected?" "His right arm is concealed under his clothes, and the coat-sleeve hangs down loose," replied the constable. "That tall stout man who has just jumped so nimbly over the form in his way back to his place, has walked on crutches in the streets for the last twenty years; and when you see him so, you would think he could hardly drag himself along. The feller over there is a frozen-out gardener in winter, and a poor Spitalfields' weaver in summer. The one next to him will have a black patch over his left eye to-morrow; and yet you may see that it is as good as his right. The short man opposite to him bends his left leg back, and has a wooden one to support the knee, when he is in the street. That woman there has been dressed in widows' weeds for the last fifteen years, and always has a troop of six children with her; but the children never grow any bigger, for she hires fresh ones every year or so." "This is the most extraordinarily combined mass of contradictions and deceptions I ever gazed upon," whispered Markham. "You may well say that, sir," said the policeman. "The ragged feller down at the bottom of the second table sits as upright as you or me: well, in the streets he crawls along the ground with two iron supporters in his hands. He is the most insolent feller in London. The man next to him goes about on a sort of van, or chaise, and the world believes that he has no legs at all; but they are all the time concealed in the body of the vehicle, and the stumps of the thighs which are seen are false. Those three hulking chaps over there, sitting with the three women that laugh so much, are begging-letter impostors. The eldest of the three men has been seventeen years at the business, and has been in prison twenty-eight times. One day he is a bricklayer who has fallen from a scaffold, and broken his leg, and has a wife and eleven young children dependent on him; another day he is a licensed clergyman of the Church of England, but unemployed for two years—wife and six children totally dependent on him. Then he changes into a stanch Tory, ruined by his attachment to the cause, and proscribed by all his friends on account of his principles: in this shape he addresses himself to the old Tory noblemen, and makes a good harvest. The very next day he becomes a determined and stanch Reformer, who lost his employment through giving his vote for the Tower Hamlets to the liberal candidate at the last election, and has since met with an uninterrupted series of misfortunes—sold up by a Tory landlord,—his wife been dead only a fortnight, and seven motherless children left dependent on him. This kind of letter always draws well. Then he becomes a paralytic with an execution in his house; or a Spitalfields' weaver, with nine children, two of which are cripples, and one blind; or else a poor Scotch schoolmaster, come to London on business, and robbed by designing knaves of the means of returning to his own country. The women are just as bad. They are either wives with husbands in hospitals and bed-ridden mothers; or daughters with helpless parents and sick brothers and sisters dependent on them;—and so on." "But if you be aware of all these monstrous impositions, why do you not interfere to protect the public?" inquired Markham. "Lord, sir!" said the constable, "if we took up all persons that we know to be impostors, we should have half London in custody. We only interfere when specially called upon, or when we see cases so very flagrant that we can't help taking notice of them. Some of these chaps that are eating here so hearty now, will seem to be dying in the streets to-morrow." "Merciful heavens, what a city of deceit and imposture is this!" observed Richard, painfully excited by the strange details which he had just heard. "Were the interior of this den but once exposed to general view, charity would be at an end, and the deserving poor would suffer for the unprincipled impostor." "True enough, sir. And now look—the cloth is removed, and every one is ordering in something strong to wash down the supper. There goes a crown-bowl of punch—that's for the begging-letter impostors: and there's glasses of punch, and cold spirits and water, and shrub, and negus. That's the way they do it, you see, sir." Markham did indeed see, and wondered more and more at what he so saw—until his feelings of surprise changed into sentiments of ineffable abhorrence and disgust; and he longed to leave that odious den. "The person whom we seek does not appear to come," he said, after a long interval of silence. "Two hours have elapsed —and we are only wasting time here." "He must have taken refuge in some other crib, sir," returned the constable. "Let us leave this one, and make the round of the other lodging-houses in this street." 4 Markham was glad to hurry away from Rats' Castle, the mysteries of which had so painfully shocked his generous feelings. CHAPTER CXXXVIII. A PUBLIC FUNCTIONARY. Urged by that sense of duty to which we have before alluded, and which prompted him to neglect no step that might lead to the discovery of a great criminal's lurking-place, Richard accompanied the police-officer to various houses where the dregs of the population herded together. The inspection of a plague-hospital could not have been more appalling: the scrutiny of a lazar-house could not have produced deeper disgust. In some the inmates were engaged in drunken broils, the women enacting the part of furies: in others the females sang obscene songs, the men joining in the chorus. Here a mother waited until her daughter should return with the wages of prostitution, to purchase the evening meal: there a husband boasted that his wife was enabled, by the liberality of a paramour, to supply him with ample means for his night's debauchery. In one house which our hero and the constable visited, three sisters of the respective ages of eleven, thirteen, and fourteen, were comparing the produce of their evening's avocations,—the avocations of the daughters of crime! And then those three children, having portioned out the necessary amount for their suppers and their lodging that night, and their breakfast next morning, laughed joyously as they perceived how much they had left to purchase gin! For Gin is the deity, and Intemperance is the hand-maiden, of both sexes and nearly all ages in that district of London. What crimes, what follies have been perpetrated for Gin! A river of alcohol rolls through the land, sweeping away health, honour, and happiness with its remorseless tide. The creaking gibbet, and the prison ward—the gloomy hulk, and the far-off penal isle—the debtors' gaol, and the silent penitentiary—the tomb-like workhouse, and the loathsome hospital —the galling chain, and the spirit-breaking tread-wheel—the frightful mad-cell, and the public dissecting-room—the death- bed of despair, and the grave of the suicide, are indebted for many, many victims to thee, most potent Gin! O Gin! the Genius of Accidents and the Bad Angel of Offences worship thee! Thou art the Juggernaut beneath whose wheels millions throw themselves in blind adoration. The pawnbroker points to thee and says, "Whilst thy dominion lasts, I am sure to thrive." The medical man smiles as he marks thy progress, for he knows that thou leadest a ghastly train,—apoplexy, palsy, dropsy, delirium tremens, consumption, madness. The undertaker chuckles when he remembers thine influence, for he says within himself, "Thou art the Angel of Death." And Satan rejoices in his kingdom, well-knowing how thickly it can be populated by thee! Yes—great is thy power, O Gin: thou keepest pace with the progress of civilisation, and thou art made the companion of the Bible. For when the missionary takes the Word of God to the savage in some far distant clime, he bears the fire- water with him at the same time. While his right hand points to the paths of peace and salvation, his left scatters the seeds of misery, disease, death, and damnation! Yes—great is thy power, O Gin: a terrible instrument of evil art thou. Thou sweepest over the world with the wing of the pestilence: thy breath that of a plague:—like the poisonous garment of Dejanira on the burning limbs of the Centaur, dost thou cling around thy victims. And where the grave-yard is heaped up with mouldering bones—and where disease and death prevail in all their most hideous shapes—and where misery is most keenly felt, and poverty is most pinching—and where the wails of hapless children ascend to heaven in vain appeal against the cruelty of inhuman parents—and where crime is most diabolical,— there are thy triumphs—there are thy victories! But to continue. The clock of St. Giles's Church proclaimed the hour of midnight; and though our hero and the constable had visited many of the low dens and lodging-houses in the Holy Land, still their search was without success. "Unless my mates have been more lucky than us," observed the policeman, halting at the corner of a street, "we must conclude that the bird is flown." "And even if they should chance to enter a house where the miscreant has taken refuge, how would they be enabled to recognise him?" asked Richard. "One of them knows him well," replied the constable. At that moment a violent scream issued from the upper part of the house close to which Markham and the constable were standing. The dwelling was high, narrow, and, if possible, more gloomy, when viewed by the feeble rays of a watery moon, than the neighbouring houses. From the uppermost window streamed a strong light, which danced upon the black wall of the building opposite, making the sombre appearance of the locality the more sinister as it was the more visible. That scream, which expressed both horror and agony, caused Markham to start with momentary consternation. The constable did not, however, appear surprised; but merely observed with a strange coolness, "Ah! there's Smithers at his old tricks again." "And who is Smithers?" inquired Richard. But before the constable could reply to the question, the window, whence the light emanated, was thrown up with crashing violence, and a female voice shrieked for assistance. "Had we not bettor ascertain what is the matter here?" exclaimed Markham, hastily. 5