St Katherine's by the Tower : a novel

Front matter

J FOR INFANTS AND INVALIDS.

" Dear Sir,— My boy Cedric, till three weeks old, did not get on at all well with his food. I then gave him ' Mellin's,' and he improved at once, and has had your Food and Biscuits ever since. He is so good-tempered, bright and healthy, his flesh being firm and without any flabby fataltogether a credit to your preparations. I enclose photo, taken at ten months, weight being 23 lbs. — Yours faithfully,

"H. C. Fenton."

Part 1 Chapter

I. THE BEGINNING OP IT . . , . . . . 7 II. THE HAPLESS LOVER . . „ . . . .17

III. THE GRAVE PHYSICIAN 30

IV. THE WISE WOMAN 36

V. THE VOICE OF THE CHURCH 43

VI. IN THE PRECINCT 56

VII. WAS SHE FAITHLESS 1 69

VIII. EVIL EYE AND EVIL HEART 83

Part II

I. THE SUBLIME SOCIETY OP SNUGS 95

II. EQUALITY AND FRATERNITY 108

III. THE CHURCH SERVICE 123

IV. THE FAMILY COUNCIL 132

V. THE ONLY QUESTION LEFT 137

VI. THE PRESS-GANG 144

VII. FIRE AND WATER 151

VIII. AT LAST 159

IX. THE AMENDMENT CARRIED 166

X. AN ANXIOUS SUNDAY .,,,,., 180 iv ST. CATHERINE'S BY THE TOWER

CHATTER PAGS

XI. THE INSURRECTION 188

XII. OAK AITLE DOCK— SURRENDER 195

XIII. COMMITTED FOE G.R1AL 210

XIV. NEWGATE PRISON 22o

XV. ON THE MASTER'S SIDE 210

XVI. A TRUE BILL - . : 248

XVII. THE TRIAL 255

XVIII. THE CONDEMNED CELL 270

XIX. SATURDAY . 278

XX. THE KING'S CLEMENCY 286

XXI. RICHARD ARCHER'S GOOD FORTUNE 293

XXII. A SUDDEN CHANGE 300

XXIII. GEORGE GIVES WAY 307

XXIV. LORD ALDEBUEGH 314

XXV. SISTER KATHERINE FINDS OUT 325

XXVI. PARAMATTA 330

XXVII. LETTERS FROM HOME 338

XXVIII. THE DEVIL'S LUCK . . . . . . . . 346

XXIX. THE VENGEANCE OP THE LORD 358

XXX. EVIL HEART AND EVIL EVE ..... 363

XXXI. CONCLUSION 373

Prologue

Great and mighty events happened in the year 1793 — yea, and continued to happen for twenty years and more to follow. These events have already, though so recent, engaged the attention of the historian, the biographer, and of those humbler writers who collect the crumbs, so to speak — the anecdotes, stories, whispers, and scandals concerning all the great men engaged, so that the curious world shall learn to its complete satisfaction how the Corsican Usurper — to instance the greatest man concerned — behaved in respect to his eating, his drinking, his amours, and his dress. If we cannot understand statesmanship and high policy, we can at least understand these lesser things.

It has been a privilege to be born into such a time and to have lived through these stupendous events. Certain I am that no event in ancient history, not the battle of Marathon, not the Peloponnesian War, not the fall of Rome itself, can compare for present awfulness and future consequences with the great French Revolution and the upsetting of the French Monarchy. To me it appeared at the outset, what I have never since ceased to consider it, nothing short of the emancipation of the whole world from the bonds of king, priest, and noble. Its course was stained with blood and marred with cruelty ; a thousand extravagances were committed ; a thousand things were done the memory of which should make Frenchmen hang their heads in shame — witness the insults heaped upon the innocent and unfortunate queen ; her murder ; the slow doing to death of the guiltless boy, her son ; and the massacres of those whose only fault was that they were nobles and royalists. Let us acknowledge these things. Yet let us als0 acknowledge that the hand of the Lord has fallen upon

B

2 .ST. R'A TH BRINE'S BY THE TOWER

the murderers. Those who ordered these things have perished by the same way. They have all died upon the scaffold, or miserably in other ways. These things, I know, have turned away many, who at first welcomed the Revolution, in disgust and horror, making them cling to the old things. As for me, T ^tand still by the first ardent zeal of my youth. The old system fell for ever ; the people of France regained their freedom : through France the spirit of freedom has everywhere been awakened, and now flies from race to race, from nation to nation. The wheels of the revolutionary car passed over me, and well-nigh crushed me to death beneath them. Yet still I rejoice : I give thanks : I can never cease to count myself fortunate ; I praise, laud, and magnify the Lord who hath suffered me to live at this great day, and to mark the advent of a new and better time. The French king is back again. That is most true. He is back with his priests and his nobles. But he has lost his ancient power. There is a spectral scaffold visible from his palace where lies the body of a beheaded king. The people see this as well as the king. He has lost his power — and the priests and nobles have lost their wealth as well as their power. Let n.s wait. Great things have happened. Greater things shall come to pass. Let us who believe in the majesty and might and glory of the people take courage, and look to the future as well as the past. This cannot be destroyed, nor shall that be delayed.

Amid these great events happened many others — for the small events and accidents of human life are not stayed or stopped by the great. Louis the Sixteenth mounts the scaffold : on the same day Mr. Alderman Pepper goes bankrupt and is ruined. The Queen of France is foully murdered : on the same day Amyntas the shepherd swain declares his love to Chloe, fairest nymph of Stepney Green. Certain events, quorum prrs magna fid, in which I took a part, happened at that time in a part of London little known by the fashionable world— I wonder how many people west of Temple Bar have ever visited the ancient Hospital of St. Katherine by the Tower ? The chief cause or mainspring of these events, whereby two respectable families were plunged for a time in the deepest anxiety, shame, and humiliation, is still wrapped in mystery. I piopose to narrate them in order, beginning with the leading or caj ital event. I will show you, not the cause of it (which I cannot), but what was considered by this person or by that to have been its cause. Y< u may then judge and deride for

PROLOGUE 3

yourselves if you can. Or if, like me, you cannot form a conclusion satisfactory at once to your reason and to your religion, you will set it down as one of those things which have been allowed to happen in the inscrutable Wisdom that rules the universe.

I hope that this history may be found to afford instruction rather than amusement to those who read it. If, as is noto riously the case, fictitious adventures are able to arrest the attention and to divert the thoughts, how much more should those which are no invention, but hard and even cruel reality ! I say nothing about the lesson to be learned from every true history, because it is evident that whoever depicts scenes of truth must, even unconsciously, inculcate lessons, point to an unspoken moral, and make of the sufferings or joys of his characters warnings or encouragement for his readers. This is true of all history, but the lessons become much more effective when the historian has to tell of passions suffered to grow beyond control until they govern and sway the whole man, mind and body, so that he no longer has any power over his own actions, or any thought of consequences, or any fear of the future. I was myself, I say, a witness of these events. I was from certain causes a sharer in the adventures which followed. I have been an actor in them. It is my part — my duty — to relate these events and these adventures with their origin and their consequences. I have deferred the accomplishment of this duty too long already. Let me lose no more time, lest the thread of life be snapped before this plain duty has been performed.

The strange and wonderful story which follows was, I always think, designed especially, and with a larger purpose than belongs to most human lives. It must have been intended as an example and a warning. Otherwise I should not take the trouble to write it down. It is altogether strange : it is strange as to the first fact — sudden, unexpected, like a thunderbolt falling out of a cloudless sky : it is strange as to the causes or cause of that event ; it is strange as to the consequences of that event : it is still more strange how Providence overruled everything for restoration and forgiveness. When I begin to write about these things, I am overawed with terror and with admiration.

Another thing I must record. "Whenever I recall these events, certain words come back to me. A certain evening returns - -I see a certain group, and I hear those words again.

d 2

They are words uttered in feeble and trembling accents— the words of an old woman :

' Tis man's madness, child. So men are made. Thee must lie have, and none other will content him. If thou still wilt say him nay, I doubt he will clo some mischief either to himself or to thee. He is mad, child. He is mad with love.'

Over and over again I hear these words. They echo in my brain as from wall to wall or from cliff to cliff.

' He is mad, child. He is mad with love.'

Many there are who still believe that words heard by chance may be a kind of oracle. Plutarch adduces many instances in which great captains were not ashamed to turn back when the march had actually been begun in consequence of hearing words of ill omen. Such superstitions are hard to kill : they linger in the minds of the people : nay, travellers have reported that the old beliefs in luck, fortune, the evil eye, words and sights of ill-omen, yet remain in Italy as strong and as deeply rooted in the minds of all alike — rich and poor, wise and simple — as when those great captains lived, long before the Christian religion was established for the abolition of all such superstitions.

' He is mad with love.'

These words may serve as a motto for this history. They announce, beforehand, what is to follow. It is of Love and Madness caused by Love that I have to write. Therefore, just as Addison in the Spectator would take a line from a Latin or Greek poet and prefix it to a paper, thereby indicating the nature of the paper and preparing the mind of the reader, so I may set down these words in order to show at the outset the reality, strength, and character of the passion which I aave to illustrate. In the same way, at the Theatre, the music before the play indicates the kind of piece which is to follow, prepares the mind and leads the thoughts into the right direction. For a tragedy it is grave and stately, even stormy and terrifying : for a comedy it is light, gay, and sparkling.

The time was evening and twilight. I was a boy of sixteen, an age when one is beginning to think as a man, but is as yet without knowledge or experience. I was idly walking about St. Katherino's Square — it is really an area of in ovular shape — which lies before the west end of the church, thinking of I know not what. Young men think of many things which come to nothing, just as a flower produces thou-

PROLOGUE 5

sands of seeds of which, perhaps, not one shall fall upon fertile ground and grow into a fair plant. Then I saw at the entrance of Dolphin Alley, where it opens out of the square, two women and a man. One of the women was tall and erect — clearly, therefore, she was young ; the other was bent and bowed — clearly she was old. It was too dark for me to see their faces. As for the man, he seemed to be a sailor, but he might have been a lumper or a lighterman, or anything. As I looked he threw up his arms as one carried away by wrath or by some other passion ; he broke into such cursing as these people use for all their troubles — sad it is to think how imperfect is the power of speech for these poor ignorant men— what he said cannot be set down ; everybody who has lived near poor folk, especially the poor who live by the river bank, can understand the things which he would say. Then, having in this rough way, and chiefly by his cursing, conveyed what he meant to women, almost as rough as himself, who would understand very well without words or grammatical order, he flung himself from them, and rolled, partly like a sailor, partly like one drunk with rum, partly like one overcome with passion, down Dolphin Lane, and so out of sight.

Then I heard the old woman say these words. I went home and pondered over them, as yet ignorant how love can so seize upon a man that there shall be for him no woman but one in all the world, and if he cannot get that woman for himself, he will go mad.

' 'Tis man's madness, child. So some men are made. Thee must he have, and none other will content him. If thou still wilt say him nay, I doubt he will do some mischief either to himself or else to thee. He is mad, child. He is mad with love.'

There are men so cold by nature that love itself can hardly quicken their pulses ; there are women who attract so little that no man — not even the most fiery — could go mad after them. But there are men, by nature impetuous, headlong, masterful, strong of brain as well of limb — men to whom a wish becomes a law, and an inclination becomes a rope that drags them on. These are the men whom love makes slaves, ruling them by means of their own masterful natures, subduing them by allurements of conquest and possession. And there are women who drive such men mad, even though they are ignorant of their own charms and unconscious of their own powers : it is by a kind of instinct inspired by Queen Venus that they play off their arts and graces, luring a man on, making him (they think) a slave, until he suddenly springs up and becomes a Lord and Master : all this without meaning mischief, without knowing aught, or suspecting aught, of the vehemence — the overwhelming vehemence — of the passion they have created and fed and fostered, till it has become a great and mighty giant. How can they understand a passion which they cannot feel, save in a far different form, and for the most part in far feebler force ? The love of the maiden is at first but a gentle affection— a stream flowing softly on, growing broader and deeper perhaps, but insensibly, warmed by the sun, beautified with flowery banks and hanging woods, its bright surface and clear waters strewn with water-lilies. It may in time become a great and mighty river, but it always lacks the foaming rush and headlong tumultuous violence of the man's passion.

If it be objected that it may be dangerous to place this history in the hands of the young, because all kinds of phrenzy are infectious — witness the religious enthusiasm of the people called Methodists — I reply that this indeed may be the case and yet the book be in no way harmful, partly because it shows how love carried to an excess may work mischief incalculable, partly because there are few natures (happily) so constituted as to be able to feel so strong a passion, and partly because (also happily) a British maiden has generally a heart so tender that she will not suffer a young man to fall into despair, but rather, beholding his sufferings with eyes of compassion, and moved by sweet sympathy, will suffer love to awaken in her own breast, and so make him happy and herself as well. But as for this story, and as for the man of whom I write — as the old woman said :

' He is mad, child. He is mad with love.'

PART I CHAPTER I

TUB BEGINNING OP IT

' I wonder in what latitudes George's ship sails this evening,' I said, for want of anything else to say.

' Oh ! George — George ' Sylvia, who had been sitting

in silence, started and shivered. ' George ! Oh, what matters 1 ' she asked impatiently. I had never before known her to show impatience when George's name was mentioned. ' He is on board his ship. The ship is at sea.'

' He must be homeward bound. He may be even now off the Nore : his ship may be sailing up the river : he may be with us to-morrow. Think of that, Sylvia.'

Sylvia caught her breath, and shivered as if cold or in pain.

' Are you cold, sister 1 '

'No — no. I am not cold. Nevermind.'

' I say that we know not when the ship may come back. Her owners expect her daily.'

Again she caught her breatn, and again a look of pain crossed her face.

' What is the matter, Sylvia ? '

' Nothing. Yesterday and to-day I have felt it. Oh, it is nothing. Go on. He will come home, perhaps, to-morrow. Yes — he will come home. Nevill, I cannot understand it.'

' What, Sylvia 1 '

' I feel so strange. It is as if — as if — oh ! as if — I did not want him to come home.'

' Oho ! That is your little joke, sister. Not want George to come home ! '

' Megrims, Nevill,' she replied, with an attempt at gaiety.

' Oh ! it will pass. Go on talking of him. It is not natural for me to feci like this.'

I thought nothing of her megrims, and went on talking.

' lie is sailing over a smooth sea, with a fair wind aft : all sails set— ringtails, studdin' sails, t'gallants, and sky-scrapers.'

' Brother, you are not a sailor. You need not pretend to know all the sails of a ship.'

' Oh ! I know their names. The ship is flying under a cloud of canvas, and that is the only cloud visible. The dolphins play about the bows : the sailors dance the hornpipe in the fo'ksle to the scraping of the fiddle, and the watch are yawning over the bulwarks. As for George— what is it, again, Sylvia V

For again she made as if something pained her.

< it is — I don't know. I felt as if it was his name which seemed to pierce me like a knife. What is it ? '

' Nay ; it is nothing, What should it be 1 His face is homeward bound : the Precinct is his Lodestar : he is thinking — what does a sailor think about when he is homeward bound 1 He is thinking of his sweetheart.'

Something ailed George's sweetheart that evening, for she closed her eyes, turned pale, and clenched her hands just like one who is struggling against some internal pain. Again I thought nothing of a passing pain. One often has a pain somewhere, which comes and goes again, one knows not why.

' The ship may fall in with the enemy. That is what I chiefly fear. A small privateer she could fight, and to a French man-o'-war she might show a clean pair of heels. 'Twould be hard indeed if the first news of the war should be followed by being clapped into a French prison. The war has begun, however, in earnest. There has been an action off Scilly between a British brig and a French privateer. Of course British valour won the day. But, Sylvia, it is an unnatural war.'

' Brother ! ' — she held up her finger, and looked around — ' be careful what you say.'

' An unnatural war. What ! one free nation fight another nation only because it has recovered its freedom ? Why, we Bft them the example. They have copied us who went before. I cannot believe that it will last. We must make peace : the Government cannot know how strong are the friends of liberty in this country ■'

'Brother — hush ! Talk to me rather of Oh ! ' — here she

THE BEGINNING OF IT 9 shuddered again — ' why cannot I think of him this eveningwhy cannot I utter his name without a pang 1 '

' 'Tis toothache, may be. Well, the sooner he comes home the better. There will be a great surprise for him.'

There was to be a surprise for him, indeed. Yet not what we expected and meant.

' From being third mate in an East Indiaman he will be a man of substance ! he may call himself a gentleman if he likes, I suppose. There are many City merchants with not half his income esteem themselves gentlemen, and even esquires. Instead of the rolling deck, he will stand on the terra firma of his own dock ; in place of the bo's'n's whistle he will have the bell that calls his men to work ; instead of the lapping and dashing of waters he will hear the tapping of the hammers ; and instead of walking the quarter-deck he shall sit in his counting-house and reckon up his money.'

' Yes.' But on her face there was a look of pain. ' I hope,' she said, with an effort, ' that he will not be changed as well.'

' Changed 1 Not he. George has always been good enough for us. He will be bigger and stronger, if possible. He will be more tender with those he loves. I am sure he will be more masterful with those he commands ; and more terrible with those he corrects. But George is one of those who can only change for the better.'

The place where we were talking was the drawing-room of the master's house in the Hospital of St. Katherine's by the Tower. It is a long low room, panelled with cedar, so old that it has become like a mirror for brightness when the light falls upon it ; it would be a dark room but for the coats of arms in red and blue and gold which are painted on the walls and over the fireplace, and for the portraits which hang round it. The shields and the portraits belong to former masters, brethren, commissaries, and distinguished men who have shed lustre upon this ancient and religious foundation. Here are the effigies of Sir Julius Caesar, made master in the year 1596. He was the son of Caesar Adelmar, physician to Queens Mary and Elizabeth. Here are those of Sir Charles Caesar, his son, whilom commissary to the Hospital ; of Lord Bruncker ; of George and Henry Montague ; of George Berkeley — all masters ; of the great antiquarian, Dr. Ducarel, commissary ; of the Earl of Dorset, sometime steward ; and of the learned Verstegan, a native of the Precinct, who wrote the ' Restitution of Decayed Intelligence.' Others there were of lesser io ST. /CATHERINE'S BY THE TOWER

note. This room stretches across the whole north side of the quadrangle c.dled the Brothers' Close. Its ceiling is painted, and divided into lozenges of wood inlaid, painted red and blue, by which the appearance of the room is greatly brightened. There are brass sconces on the wall, each for four candles, and if all were lit there would be forty or more to light up the room ; but so many have I never seen. At most we generally had but four, or for cards six, which made a strong light immediately around, and threw the rest of the room into deeper darkness, with flickerings of the light on the gold and colours of the coats of arms.

This evening the card-table was set out, provided with two silver candlesticks and the snuffers in a silver tray. Two more candles stood on the table before the fire, and on the mantelshelf there were two more. The long room was thus lit up in the middle, and the two ends were left in obscurity. But the nickering light of the fire fell upon the gilded coats of arms and the gold frames of the portraits, and the candle-light caught first one face upon the wall and then another as one looked round the room.

Beside the table sat my mother and sister Katherine. They were talking of conserves, distilled waters, the brewing of beer, the making of wine, and such household topics. At the harpsichord sat my sister Sylvia. She had been playing, but not from music, and now sat with her elbow on the closed lid of the keys, and her face towards the fire. I sat beside her, and we talked, as you have heard, whispering low.

At the card-table sat the four players. One of them was dealing : all their faces indicated the rapture which carries whist-players so much out of themselves that I suppose, if I had arisen and delivered an oration on the Rights of Man, even the Prebendary himself, to whom the Rights of Man were as odious as the doctrines of the Baptists, would not have heard or heeded what was said.

The four players were — first, the Rev. Robert Nevill Lorrymore, who among his many titles, preferments, and offices, held that of brother in St. Katherine's Hospital. Unlike some of the brothers before him and after him, he not only took an occasional turn in the services of the church, but also came into residence every year for a month or six weeks, choosing that time of the year when the hospital is at its best with the spring of the year, and the blossoms on the trees in the orchard, the early gillyflowers, polyanthus, tulip, and lily

THE BEGINNING OF IT n

in the garden. "VYe have had many learned and illustrious brothers of the Foundation, but none more learned than this divine, who indeed shed lustre upon the hospital. His sermons, composed and delivered for various occasions ; his ' Dissertation on the Language called Aramaic ' ; his ' Observations on the Druidical Religion ' : these things alone (among many others) keep his memory green. He was, so to speak, the especial patron of our family. He was godfather to my sister Sylvia, to whom he made many rich and valuable presents : and upon me he had recently bestowed a great mark of favour in purchasing for me (it cost him no less than 300/.) a post as clerk in the Admiralty Office. This preferment, as you will presently learn, I afterwards forfeited. Yet the obligation and the gratitude remain. He was a man who looked and spoke as one accustomed to authority — a tall and corpulent man, with a large head and a great wig upon it, one who iilled up a great space in whatever room he found himself. And a man with a full, rich voice, loud yet musical.

The Lieutenant, his partner in the game, a tall, lean man of fifty-five — all four players were about that age — sat as upright in his chair as a pike. He had served many years in the gallant corps of Royal Marines, but, as he lacked family influence, he rose no higher than simple lieutenant. He wore His Majesty's scarlet. He showed signs of hard service in his face, which had a great scar straight down his left cheek. This was received in the action between the American frigate Raleigh and H.M.S. Druid. His right hand had also lost the two middle fingers — lost in a certain attack upon the coast of Rhode Island. Had he been backed by interest, the Lieutenant might have proved a great general. He possessed at least undoubted courage, and he had what we are accustomed to consider the external attributes of a general : an aquiline nose ; sharp and piercing eyes ; a firm mouth, and a strong chin. He lived with his unmarried sister, Katherine Bayssallance, of the Sisters' Close, and it was of his son George that we were talking.

The third player was a Frenchman — the Marquis de Rosnay. He came over to England in the first batch of emigres : he was old ; he was poor ; and he lived in St. Katherine's Square, where he had a lodging of a single room. At this time there were so many thousand Emigre's scattered all over England that they had ceased to attract attention or to excite suspicion. They lived among us, and except among barbers, cooks, and valets, to whom the tmit/res of the baser sort were formidable rivals, no one now minded them. The Marquis, though old, was a man of fine and courtly manners : he spoke English well ; and he preserved, though with reserve, the philosophic habit of thought and freedom of speech which, according to some, assisted powerfully to bring on the Revolution. The fourth player was my father, Mr. Edward Comines, whom the people of the Precinct called Mr. Cummins. He was high bailiff of the hospital and by virtue of this office, the master having been for many generations non-resident, he occupied the master's house. Every one, on observing him for the first time, would have remarked that he was one of those who magnify their office. This, however, is a praiseworthy disposition, from an archbishop to a barber, if only that it leads to the zealous discharge of duty. He was of dignified and lofty appearance ; he wore his hair frizzed in front, and dressed in plaits at the side, tied with a broad black ribbon, and carefully powdered. His cravat was of the finest white cambric, his coat of black silk and his ruffles of old lace. His waistcoat and his stockings were of white silk. At the first aspect of him strangers were reminded of some person unknown. On second thoughts the likeness vanished ; on the third it reappeared, especially in taking a side view of his face. The person whom he resembled was none other than the unfortunate monarch, Louis the Sixteenth of France, whose murder, with that of his unhappy and virtuous consort, and the other brutal murders, so disgusted and terrified the world, and ruined the previously fair prospects of the British friends of freedom. He had the Bourbon face — I know not how — nor has either of his children inherited that face from him. He resembled both Louis the Sixteenth and his predecessor, but the former especially in his high but receding forehead and the lofty arch of his nose.